when ah said that ah’d no’ kiss him,
’til he brought me some honey.
He took his club from off the shelf,
an’ said tae me so gravely,
‘Ah’ll fetch ye honey back the noo,’
an’ he marched off right bravely.
’Twas some lang time ’ere he returned,
mah poor love injured sorely.
Ah spread him wi’ some liniment,
an’ listened tae his story.
Alas, poor me tae love a fool.
Did naebeast tell this fellow,
those bees that don’t wear fuzzy shirts,
are wasps striped black an’ yellow?
Wi’ a hey an’ a hoe an’ a lacky doodle don,
midst all this shameful fuss.
’Tis not just birds who live in trees,
an’ not just bees that buzz!”
Tam was snoring before Doogy finished his ballad. The sturdy Highland squirrel glanced huffily at his companion. “Well, thank ye for those sounds of appreciation. Ah’ll bid ye a guid night, an’ hope that some sparks get blown onto yore unfeelin’ tail!”
Scraping sand together into a pillow shape, Doogy laid down his head, allowing slumber to soothe his injured dignity.
Two hours before dawn, both the friends were sound asleep, wrapped in their cloaks and warmed by the glowing embers not far away. Neither had time to wake, or even stir, when dark shapes pounced on them, swiftly cudgelling them senseless. Tam and Doogy were bundled up in their cloaks and lashed onto long spearpoles, then hurried off north along the beach.
9
Driftail and his gang of eight were all River Rats, robbers and bullies, no strangers to violence, assassins all. They scoured the rivers and streams far and wide, stopping wherever the pickings looked good. Their strategy was simple—they hid among the waterways, ambushing defenceless travellers, lone wanderers and small families. Any creature who could be easily intimidated became their victim. Of late, life had not been very lucky to the River Rats; prey was seemingly thin on the ground. They were forced to work for a living, fishing the waters and grubbing along the banks for berries, fruit and any edible vegetation. At the moment, they had camped on the inlet of a high-banked broadstream, which wended its way over the heath and flatlands, southwest of Mossflower’s vast woodlands.
Dawn was rising as Driftail climbed the sloping bankside to watch for movement amid the scrub and gorse. Behind him, the others were lighting a fire and scratching about to put together some kind of breakfast. Four were trawling the waters for stray fish whilst the others gathered wood and dug for roots. Driftail’s stomach gurgled sourly; he had not eaten for a day and a night. Rising spring dawn in all its beauty was lost on the rat leader. He had seen sunrises come and go, most of them hungry ones of late. Suddenly, his keen eye caught a stirring. Wandering about a flat rocky patch, a stone curlew strode warily in pursuit of insects. The bird pecked at something, lost it and called its soft plaintive cry. Coooooeeeee!
Driftail could not believe his good fortune. Unwinding the sling from about his lean waist, he selected a few pebbles from his pouch. Crawling stealthily along on his stomach, he tried getting closer to the curlew for an easy shot. The bird froze momentarily, then began walking again, as though it sensed it was being hunted. It paced off in the opposite direction from Driftail, not yet frightened enough to leave the flat rocks where the insects lived. Driftail moved forward a little more, loading a pebble into his sling. Then he crouched and began whirling it. The curlew, immediately hearing the disturbance, did a short hop-skip and winged off into the air. The River Rat leader let the sling wrap around his paw, mentally cursing the lost breakfast. Just then, spying a white fox, he fell flat amid the scrub and watched it approach from the west, oblivious to his presence.
Driftail swiftly backshuffled to the streambank. Sliding down the side, he hissed urgently to his gang, “T’row sand onna fire quick! Arm you’selfs, a lonebeast comes diss way!”
A moment later, all mundane activities had ceased. The rat gang—armed with a motley assortment of weaponry: broken knives, sharpened sticks and stone-topped clubs—crouched below the banktop behind their leader.
Runneye, a rat with a leaking squint, peered over the rim at their intended prey. “Worra sorta beast be that ’un, Drift?”
Driftail grabbed Runneye’s tail and pulled him down. “Dat’s a foxer, funny white ’un. Gorra curvity sword anna likkle bag o’ vikkles, too!”
One of the gang ventured a peek over the banktop. “Mebbe dat foxer be good wirra sword, an’ not frykind?”
Driftail hauled the speaker down and cuffed him scornfully. “Gerraravit! On’y one foxer, they’s lots of us, we’ll lay ’im flat! Dat curvity sword an’ de nice belt wot foxer’s wearin’, dey mine, y’hear?”
He slitted his eyes, glaring fiercely at the gang until they lowered their gaze. Knowing the prizes were his without question, he loaded his sling with a rock the size of his paw. “We all shares de vikkles out.”
The white fox was close to the bankside when Driftail popped up and launched his stone, striking the fox on the side of his jaw. He did not fall but clapped a paw to his face, staggering about half stunned.
Driftail howled triumphantly, “Quicknow, gerrim!”
The gang charged out and mobbed the white fox, dragging him down. A blow from Runneye’s club finished the job, knocking the fox unconscious. They bundled him down the bank to the stream’s edge.
Driftail dashed down the slope in time to kick one of the gang who was wielding a rusty knife. “Mud’ead, not killim yet, I want words wid diss one!”
Whilst the rats fought over the fox’s small ration bag, Driftail relieved his captive of the belt and sickle sword. Grabbing some tough vines, he bound the prisoner’s paws together and slung water over the fox’s head to revive him.
It took awhile for the strange creature to come around. He struggled briefly with his bonds, then looked up at the ugly, grinning faces surrounding him.
Runneye sniggered nastily. “Heeheehee, gotcha self inna big troubles now, pretty white foxer!”
Elbowing Runneye out of the way, Driftail leaned down and drew the sickle-shaped sword. “Wot name be yer called, foxer?”
The captive glared at Driftail but maintained his silence.
The River Rat tapped the point of the blade on the fox’s chest. “Ya be dumb, or jus’ shoopid, eh? I be Chief round ’ere! When I axe question, yew answer quick, or I skin yer slow. Wherra ye commed from, foxer? Speak!”
The prisoner stared levelly, unafraid of the rat. “From the land of ice, across the great sea.”
Driftail had never heard of or seen a great sea. He kicked the fox savagely. “Ha, fibba lie! How yew comed, who yew comed wid—eh, eh?”
The white fox replied flatly, “We came in a great ship, a band of us one hundred strong, led by Gulo the Savage.”
Driftail sensed a note of contempt in his captive’s voice. He kicked the bound fox several times more. Then he strutted around the streambank, doing a bad imitation of the fox’s voice for the benefit of his gang. “Ho yes, I come onna big shippen, wid a strong band of hunnerd, an’ Glugo der Sanvage. Hah, we be scared, eh?”
Hoots of derision came from the River Rat gang, taking a cue from their chief’s disbelief of the fox’s explanation.
One of the rats began pretending that he was all of a tremble. He knelt down by the bound fox, wailing piteously, “Waaaaah, I be reel frykenned. Save me, save me!”
The fox waited for the jeering to die down before he replied, “So ye should be feared, stupid fool!”
Driftail struck him across the face with the flat of his sword. “Yew gorra smart tongue, foxer. Afore I chop it off, tell me, where be all dese hunnerd beast an’ yore big Glugo now, eh?”
For the first time since his capture, the white fox smiled. He stared over Driftail’s shoulder at the top of the bank. “Right behind you, rat!”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Driftail and his gang whirled around at the sound. White foxes and ermine, all armed to the fangs, lined the banktop. Two of them bore a large elaborate banner between them; another two were positioned on each side of an ornate drum. Standing between them, beating the drum, stood a beast straight out of nightmare—Gulo the Savage. He exuded power and ferocity. With eyes glittering insanely and saliva dripping from his bared fangs, he struck the drum one more time. Boom! As he pointed the drumstick at the rats, his army swept down on them, chanting, “Gulo! Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!”
Petrified with fright, the small River Rat gang was swiftly surrounded. This army looked more vicious and numerous than they could imagine. Gulo stalked past them disdainfully, followed by two of his captains—a white fox, Shard, and an ermine, Dirig—and four guards. Further up the bank, they set the stolen standard up and laid the drum flat, where Gulo could sit on it.
Closely guarded, the River Rats were forced to sit on the stream edge, well away from Gulo. They were left to ponder their fate in silence. Anybeast who tried to look up, or whisper, was soundly beaten with spearbutts. After a while, Zerig, the white fox whom they had held captive, came among them.
He seized Driftail by the ears, dragging him free of the rest. Yanking the belt from the rat leader and retrieving his sword, he gestured upstream. “Lord Gulo will see thee now!”
Now that a fire had been lit for him, Gulo perched on the rim of the drum, holding a bulrush stalk over the flames. Spitted on it was the very curlew which had eluded Driftail but had not been so lucky when one of Gulo’s ermine had brought it down with a well-aimed arrow. Not bothering to have the bird plucked, Gulo was roasting it. A rank stench of burning feathers hung on the air. The wolverine savage glanced up as Zerig thrust Driftail into his presence. The four guards shoved the rat into a kneeling position within reach of Gulo, who continued his cooking as he eyed the trembling River Rat. Gulo the Savage was well aware that he created this effect in lesser beasts.
Driftail’s eyes began flicking back and forth. Betraying his fear, he almost leaped up at the sound of Gulo’s harsh, grating tones. “What are ye doing around here, rat? What name do ye go by?”
Driftail strove to keep the shrillness of panic out of his voice. “We lives onna water, fish an’ get roots to eat. I be called Driftail . . . Lord.”
The rat’s voice faltered as Gulo stared at him. Taking the curlew from the fire, Gulo tested it with a long, sharp claw. “Driftail, eh? Ye ever see one like me passing hereabouts?”
The rat shook his head vigourously. “No, no, never see’d one like you afore round ’ere—on me life, no!”
After pulling the bird off its spit, Gulo took a bite, his wicked fangs ripping through burning feathers and bone into the still raw meat. Without warning, he lashed out with the thick bulrush spit, whipping it into Driftail’s face as he roared, “You lie, rat! Where is the Walking Stone? Speak!”
Tears spilled from Driftail’s eyes as he nursed his stinging face. “Lord, I not lie. Wot be Walkin’ Stone?”
The bulrush whistled through the air, again and again, each time followed by Driftail’s pitiful screeching. Gulo the Savage threw aside the broken rush stalk. Digging his claws into the rat’s narrow chest, he dragged him forward. Bringing his face close to Driftail’s ear, Gulo rasped, “I’ll ask ye again, rat, an’ this time ye’d best tell me what I want to hear!”
Driftail’s face was a mask of frozen agony as his interrogator’s claws pierced his hide. Gulo hissed, “The beast who was like me—when did he pass by here?”
Driftail was not stupid; he knew he had to say something to keep himself alive, so he resorted to a lie. “Aaaaargh! T’ree, no, four night ago, diss beast pass ’ere, goin’ to d’east!”
Gulo tightened his cruel grip. “The stone he carried with him . . . of what size was it?”
Driftail quickly reckoned to himself that, if anybeast were to carry a stone on a long journey, it could not be too huge. He babbled on, hoping to buy himself some time. “Not bigga stone, only der size of, er, er, apple!”
Gulo’s voice dropped to a whisper. It sounded like a blade scraping across glass. “Those who lie are bound to die!”
Runneye and the other rats, having heard the screams, huddled together in alarm. The same white fox, Zerig, came with the four guards. He pointed to Runneye. “Bring this one next!”
Lifted clear off the ground, Runneye was borne away, whimpering, “I never did no’tink! Driftail be’s Chief!”
The River Rat was flung roughly to the ground, landing facedown, not daring to look up. However, he was compelled to obey the voice of his captor.
“Look at me, rat, I am Gulo the Savage!”
One terrified glance from Runneye told him all. The rat was staring into the face of a living nightmare. An image flashed through Runneye’s mind of an unfledged sparrow facing a serpent. Gulo’s sadistic nature revelled in tormenting those he held helpless. “What name be ye called, rat?”
Gulo watched, amused by his victim’s stammering. “R . . . R . . . Runneye.”
The wolverine spat out fragments of scorched feather. “Tell me, what do ye eat?”
It was a strange question. Runneye tried to compose himself and answer as best he could. “Fishes, bird egg, mebbe bird if’n we catch ’im. Most time jus’ der roots’n’berries.”
Gulo leaned forward. The smile that crept over his evil face was not a pleasant sight. Runneye caught a whiff of his fetid breath as the savage whispered, “Do ye know what is the best of food? Can ye tell me what Gulo and his warriors like to eat, can ye guess?”
Puzzled, the River Rat shook his head. “No.”
The wolverine bared his awesome fangs. “We eat anybeast that moves. Birds, fish, snakes . . . rats.”
Runneye’s good eye widened as he mouthed the word “R . . . rats!”
Gulo nodded, his savage eyes glittering insanely. Runneye gave a strangled moan and fainted with fright.
The wolverine kicked the senseless rat. “Take this weak fool and feed him to my warriors. Bring the next one here!”
The handsome white fox, Shard, who was Gulo’s leading captain, was standing behind the drum. He leaned over and spoke respectfully into his master’s ear. “Methinks we will learn nought from these creatures, Lord. Thy power over them is so terrible that they cannot talk. Soon ye will have slain them all.”
Gulo growled impatiently, but he heeded Shard’s counsel. “So, what would thy method be, Shard?”
The white fox had his answer ready. “Let me question the rats, Lord. ’Tis clear they have not seen thy brother, nor do they know what the Walking Stone is. Mayhap I will get some information from this one when he revives. Then thou can do what thou wilt with the rest. Just allow me to try, O Savage One.”
Gulo picked a fragment of feather from between his fangs. “If they know nought of Askor, or my Walking Stone, how can the brainless idiots tell thee anything?”
Shard spoke soothingly to placate his ferocious master. “One may catch more birds with honey than with stones, Lord. I have my ways. Oftimes creatures will tell me things they thought they did not know. Mayhap the rats know not thy brother or the Stone, but methinks they would know where a beast carrying such treasure would go, to hide it. ’Tis better finding out such information than merely slaying and eating them, eh?”
Gulo had always been a beast of swift action, never of deep thoughts. He paused a moment, weighing his decision before staring at his captain through narrowed eyes. “Thou art cunning, Shard, but foxes were ever cleverbeasts. Canst thou find out such things for me?”
The fox bowed. “I live only to serve the mighty Gulo!”
Throughout the remainder of the day the wolverine rested, eating and taking his ease, letting his clever captain take care of future planning and strategy. Gulo knew that if any scheme did not please him, he could change it to suit himself at a single stroke.
Shard sat with his mate, Freeta, who watched him with calculating eyes. “So then, is the Savag
e still devouring everything that moves, or has he started using his brain and not his fangs?”
Shard gave a swift glance around, making sure nobeast was party to their conversation. He tapped his forehead. “Nay, ’tis I who is Gulo’s brain. He is merely a dangerous weapon which must be controlled. I will need thy help to question the rats. We must learn more about this warm land of plenty, this place is a paradise.”
Freeta agreed. “Aye, far better than the lands of ice beyond the great sea. Tell me what I must do to aid thee, Shard.”
Eventide fell softly over the flatlands in a wash of crimson and purple. Gulo the Savage lounged by his fire, picking over the bones of a pike. He looked up expectantly as Shard approached. The white fox hunkered down, slightly out of the wolverine’s reach; it was always wise, Shard had learned through experience, to take such precautions in the presence of Gulo.
Casting aside the pike bones and licking his claws, Gulo half-closed his glittering eyes. “Well, what news do ye bring me, Captain?”
Shard made his report. “It is as ye said, O Savage One. The rats know nought of the Stone or thy brother. But in the early winter two beasts, a hedgepig and a burrower, were espied, travelling northeast into the woodlands which lie ahead. Betwixt them they pulled a cart.”
Gulo came instantly alert. “What was in this cart?”
Shard shrugged eloquently. “Who could say? They had entered the woodlands before the rats could catch up with them. Those two beasts were the only creatures who moved through this territory since the rats have been here. Mayhaps we could hazard a guess—yon cart could have contained Askor, fleeing thy wrath, hiding from view with the Walking Stone.”
Gulo yawned moodily. “I grant thee, ’tis possible, but where would they be going, and why should they be hiding Askor and taking him with them, eh?”
The white fox explained his reasoning. “Ask thyself, what resistance could two lowly creatures put up against a wolverine? As to whence they have gone, the rats all know of such a place. ’Tis a great stone fortress called Redwall. They say many great treasures are stored within its walls. The rat thou ordered slain, Runneye, he knows exactly where ’tis to be found. A good thing we did not slay him, Lord.”
Rakkety Tam Page 6
