The magpie was almost out of sight when an arrow zipped upward, transfixing it. The bird fell to earth in an ungainly jumble of feathers, letting out a single harsh squawk. Overcome with curiosity, Yoofus rewound the rope about his waist and ran in the direction where the magpie had fallen. Acutely aware that danger was about, the volethief went cautiously. He was almost at the spot when he noted movement in a fern bed. Yoofus dropped behind a shrub, his paw going to the small dagger in his belt. Apart from a stonesling, this was the only armament he carried.
Four ermine, their fur patching from white to light tan with the lateness of the season, emerged from the grove of tall ferns. Each was armed with a short, curved bow and quiver of arrows. One of them retrieved the magpie’s limp body, remarking to another, “That leaves only thee to get a bird, Grik. So far we have taken a woodpigeon, a starling and this magpie twixt us three. Woe betide thee if Lord Gulo sees thee returning empty pawed!”
Toting their bag of dead birds, the three ermine moved off, leaving the unfortunate Grik to hunt alone. Yoofus shadowed the ermine on his quest for prey. Grik got lucky suddenly. Ignorant of the ermine’s presence close by, a song thrush trilled out its rapture from the branches of a witch hazel. Grik, who was not a proficient archer, shot the bird by pure fluke, slaying it with his first arrow. Flinging the thrush across his shoulder, the ermine set off back to camp, with Yoofus Lightpaw hot on his unsuspecting heels.
Shortly thereafter, the water vole was perched in a huge, high barberry shrub, studying the vermin camp. Other creatures may have been fearful at the sight of a hundred assorted ermine and white foxes, but not Yoofus. He saw the warriors of Gulo as a source of valuable loot. Many of them wore bracelets, pawrings and necklets of amber, gaudy shells and coral. There was also a goodly selection of weapons in evidence. Yoofus determined to bring his wife Didjety a few trinkets, bracelets and such. For himself, it was mainly a big blade he coveted, a sword. Never having owned one, the vole dreamed of roaming the woodlands, sporting a decent blade at his side.
Yoofus settled down to await the coming of darkness. When the vermin were asleep, and the camp quiet, he would go to work. The thief rubbed his paws in anticipation.
Gulo the Savage gnawed on a partly cooked dove. Close by, tied with a rope running from their necks to a stake, were the two remaining River Rats, Runneye and Bluesnout. Cringing on the ground, the pair scrabbled, fighting each other for the scraps tossed to them by the wolverine.
He eyed them disdainfully. “So then, scum, how far off lies the Redwall place?”
Runneye had to think for a moment. “On’y be notfar now, Lord—aye, notfar I t’ink.”
The wolverine frightened them badly as he leaned forward, baring his fangs, his open mouth half-filled with meat. “Tell me again, what manner of beasts be those within its walls? How many strong are they, eh?”
Bluesnout whimpered. “Jus’ woodlan’ beasters, Lord, not warriors—jus’ mouses, moles, ’edgepigs, an’ not many. Dey be peacelike, never fight you, Lord!”
Gulo leaned back on the drum where he was seated, fondling its decorated rim. He chuckled wickedly. “Woodland creatures, not many in number an’ peaceable. Methinks I like the sound of it. What say ye, Shard?”
The white fox captain reserved his judgement. “ ’Tis fortunate for us, but only if the rats speak truly, Lord.”
The savage’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Wisely spoken, Shard. I have it in mind that thou shalt take a score and scout out the Redwall place in secret. Only then shall we know the real truth.”
He leered cruelly at his two rat captives. “If ye have lied to Gulo, I have a special punishment reserved for ye—one that will last many days and nights!”
Runneye and Bluesnout wept openly, pleading with Gulo.
“No lie, no lies, us speaks true, Lord!”
“Us tellya der troo’t, pleeze don’t ’urt us, Lord!”
Gulo’s predatory eyes glittered as he stroked his captives’ heads. “Hush now, cease thy whining. Live on in misery until my Captain returns. Then we will see how to treat thee. Shard, go swiftly. We will follow on behind and await thy report. Travel by night an’ day.”
The captain bowed. “Thy wish is my command, O Mighty One!”
Peering steadfastly between the thorns and the yellow blossom clusters of the barberry, Yoofus saw night descend. He had seen a creature like Gulo before—in fact, he had watched it die beneath a fallen sycamore trunk. The water vole had witnessed Wandering Walt and Hitheryon Jem covering Askor.
Yoofus had not been close enough to hear what went on between Gulo, Shard and the two rats. It did not concern him unduly; he was a thief, not a spy. What otherbeasts did was no concern of his. He was interested only in himself and his wife.
Campfires burned low, and the vermin ceased eating and quarrelling. Sentries were posted at four corners of the encampment. The volethief marked their positions to ensure that the guards would be no hindrance to him. When the last of Gulo’s creatures was huddled by the fires, slumbering soundly, Yoofus left the barberry bush and drifted like a wraith into the camp. Silent as a moonshadow, he slid past two heavy-lidded foxes propped up against the bole of an elm. He heard the captive rats whimpering softly, forced to sleep sitting upright, their necks bound tight against the stake. Yoofus allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. He hated River Rats, all of whom he considered bullies and murderers.
Scanning the slumbering group for the best targets, the volethief chose four ermine who were sprawled around a small heap of glowing embers. A cauldron rested on the remains of the fire. Yoofus took a quick peep at its contents—half-stewed birds, still with their feathers on. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. What a pack of primitive beasts these vermin were!
First he lifted a tailband of blue-coloured cord, with coral beads strung on it, from an ermine. What sort of poor creature had this once belonged to? Moving on to the next vermin, he artfully unbuckled a belt of eelskin studded with amber drops. Didjety would be pleased with that! The next sleeper yielded a silver ring with a purple mussel pearl set on its shank. Very nice finding scum who had taste in other places besides their mouths, he told himself. Then he espied the banner! A white fox, sleeping apart from the rest, had it spread over him like a sheet.
Yoofus quivered with delight. What a find! Didjety would have many uses for such a fine object, perhaps as a wall curtain, a bedquilt or maybe a cloth to grace their dining table. The banner was attached by its four corners to a pair of spearpoles. The volethief drew his little knife and snipped through the hanging cords. When next he tickled the fox’s nose lightly, the creature released the banner and snuffled, scratching the offending itch. Yoofus took the opportunity to remove the flag, slowly and gracefully. Then things went awry. The fox sneezed. Though still half asleep, it sat up blinking at him, muttering, “What be ye doing with yon fla . . .”
That was the furthest the vermin got. With eye-blurring speed, Yoofus seized a flagpole and whacked him squarely between the ears. The fox sat bolt upright for a moment, staring at him. Then the whites of its eyes showed, and it fell back, poleaxed. With his paws stinging from the impact, Yoofus placed the cracked pole aside carefully.
“Ah well, me ould foxie, ye’ll sleep tight now, I’m thinkin’. Sure I’m sorry, but ’twas all I could do, y’see. Otherwise ye’d have wakened every rascal in the camp.”
The thief was bundling the banner up when he spotted the fox’s sword, thrust through the belt at its side. Yoofus raised his eyes joyfully to the sky. “Dame Fortune, me ould tatercake, may the sun always shine on ye. By all that’s good’n’grand, a sword of me very own!”
Taking the fox’s belt, he strapped it on with the sword hanging from it and struck what he fancied was a gallant stance. “Ah, well ain’t I the fine picture of a villainous vole!”
The sentries were now slumped against the elm, snoring industriously. Yoofus tippawed past them, saluting cheerfully. Away he went, with the swordpoint scraping draped down over his back
. Out on the trail once more, and clear of the camp, the irrepressible volethief broke into song.
“O, ’tis my belief that t’be a thief,
is a terrible thing t’be.
I tell ye straight that a thief I’d hate,
if he stole anythin’ from me!
Come derry fol day folero,
an’ chase me around the tree!
I’m bound to thieve though I never grieve,
when I lay me down to rest.
’Cos I love the job an’ I like to rob,
’tis the trade that I knows best!
Come derry fol day folero,
I’ll bet ye don’t catch me!
I’ve tried t’be good for I knows I should,
but ’tis hard for me ye see.
I’m more than willin’ t’be a villain,
an’ I can’t help bein’ me!
O come derry fol day foloooooooo,
now ’tis my turn to chase you!”
The following morn dawned warm but grey and misty, shrouded in fine drizzle. Captain Urfig, the white fox whom Yoofus had felled on the previous night, was wakened by an agonising pain in his head. He touched the lump between his ears, groaning as fresh pangs lanced through his skull. Then the enormity of what had happened hit him like a thunderbolt. Images of the small, dark-furred creature, standing over him and swinging forcefully at his head with the flagpole, flashed before him. Then a brilliant starburst, followed by enveloping blackness, was all he could remember. Urfig struggled upright. His paw instinctively reached for his sword, but it was gone! Something between a whine and a sob escaped the fox’s lips as he caught sight of the two poles and the severed cords on each side of him. The banner, too, was gone!
Gulo the Savage had entrusted him, as a high-ranking captain, with the flag. Urfig knew that his life was at an end. The wolverine would surely slay him for the loss of his standard—unless . . . ? Unless Urfig could think of an excuse that would satisfy his ruthless master. He tried to ignore his injured head, frantically seeking an alibi. There was no way that Gulo would accept the true explanation: his flag taken by some little woodlander? Never! Urfig wandered about distractedly until his eyes lit on the tracks Yoofus had left—scrapemarks where the swordpoint had dragged behind the vole and a blurring where the flag tassels had swept along with it. Urfig suddenly saw a ruse that might spare his life. It was a desperate chance, a wild gamble, but it had to be taken swiftly.
Gulo had becomed accustomed to the fair weather of this new land, but he was not a lover of rain, or even drizzle. On his orders, his guards had erected a canvas over a low tree limb. There he sat, gazing sourly into a smoky fire, awaiting the arrival of better conditions.
Nobeast was more surprised than the wolverine when Urfig came hurriedly staggering out of the mist. Scattering the fire, he lurched into the awning, knocking the canvas loose.
Collapsing in a heap, the captain gasped hoarsely, “Askor, it was thy brother Askor, Lord!”
Gulo sprang up. Grabbing the captain, he pulled him from the wreckage and hauled him upright. “My brother—where, when? Speak, fool!”
Urfig did not have to put on an act. Genuinely terrified, he babbled out a reply. “I was almost killed, Lord, knocked senseless. I have just awakened and come here, straight to thee! During the night, Sire, thy brother Askor came. He stole my sword and thy banner! He knocked me over the head with a pole, sire. . . .”
Gulo shook the fox like a rag, covering his face in spittle as he bellowed, “Was it really Askor? Which way did he go?”
Urfig pointed a trembling paw in the direction taken by Yoofus. “Truly, ’twas thy brother, Lord. Methinks he went that way, north.”
Dragging the captain along by his ears, Gulo yelled out orders. “Guards! Guards! To the north! Find me a trail!”
Yanking Urfig close, he brought him eye to eye. “The Walking Stone, did he have the Walking Stone?”
The hapless captain, up on tippaws, felt as though his ears were being pulled out by the roots. “Mighty One, I did not see, it happened so swiftly!”
The ermine Garfid, who was Gulo’s best tracker, was down on all fours, examining the ground. “Over here, Sire. I see marks!”
Gulo was quivering all over as he knelt beside the tracker. “What do ye see? Tell me, are they those of that brother of mine?”
Garfid glanced over the wolverine’s shoulder and caught the nod from Urfig’s frightened face. The tracker was no fool; he took the wise course, knowing death could be the result of an unfavourable answer to his ruthless chieftain. “Only mighty beasts such as thee can leave a deep clawmark, Lord. The blurring of the edges means that the creature had long-haired paws like thine. The drizzling rain has not helped this trail, but it looks very like thy brother’s marks, Sire.”
Gulo the Savage threw back his head, letting out a great screeching howl of triumph. “Yaaaaheeeeegh! I knew it, ’tis Askor! We go north, now. Now!”
14
Tam sat on the streambank with Doogy, Ferdimond and Wonwill. It was long gone dawn, and no cooking fires had been lit. They breakfasted on hard oatcakes and apples, with streamwater to wash them down.
Doogy blew rainwater off his swollen nose. “Ach, ’tis no’ much of a day tae be goin’ on with!”
Wonwill chuckled drily. “Wot, complaints already, Mister Plumm? Ye’ve not been with the Patrol more’n a day or two an’ lookit the fun you’ve ’ad. A nice liddle stroll of a march, a fight, an’ now yore moanin’ about the beautiful mornin’ an’ a free drizzlewash. Ye don’t know yore born, mate!”
Ferdimond gazed gloomily out at the prevailing mist and rain. “Lucky old us, wot. I say, Sarge, where’s the Brigadier got to?”
Wonwill cocked a paw behind him. “Saw ’im go up t’the top o’ the bank yonder. I’ve gotta feelin’ Brig Crumshaw’ll be wantin’ me shortly.”
As if in answer, the brigadier’s voice called from the banktop. “Sergeant Wonwill, d’ye mind attendin’ me, please?”
The hare’s tough features broke into a grin. “See, I told ye! C’mon, buckoes, let’s see wot the h’officer requires.”
Brigadier Crumshaw waved his swagger stick at the flatlands in front of them. “Y’see this, confounded mist an’ blinkin’ drizzle, too. Can’t abide the blitherin’ stuff. Right, Sergeant, quick’s the word an’ sharp’s the action, wot! Can’t mope around here waitin’ for gallopers all day, eh?”
The sergeant was aware of his officer’s plan. He saluted. “H’exactly, sah, just as y’say. H’I take it ye want the Patrol up an’ marchin’, sah. But wot about young Kersey an’ Dauncey, sah?”
Tam shouldered his shield. “We’ll prob’ly meet up with ’em on the march.”
Crumshaw pointed his stick at Tam. “Well said that, chap! Brisk march’ll get the miseries out of us, wot! Maybe the blinkin’ weather’ll buck up soon.”
The Long Patrol were glad to form ranks and march off, even though their paws squished on the damp grass.
Doogy trudged along looking thoughtful. “Suppose those wee gallopers—Kersey’n’Dauncey is it?—suppose they miss us in all this mist?”
Wonwill kept his eyes straight ahead. “That’s a thought, Mister Plumm. Mister De Mayne, sah, would ye oblige us with h’a song? Sing out good’n’loud so the gallopers will ’ear ye. That should do the trick.”
Ferdimond coughed and tried to look distressed. “Actually I’ve got a bit of a jolly old frog in me throat this mornin’, Sarge. Couldn’t some other chap do the singin’?”
Wonwill grinned mischievously. “Nah, nah, young Ferdimond, h’orders is h’orders, let the frog do the singin’, eh?”
The young hare had quite a fair tenor voice, which rang out nicely as he rendered an old barracks room ballad.
“When I joined the regiment my comrades said to me,
there is one beast we fear more than the foe.
An army marches on its stomach, so ’tis plain to see,
that fool we call the cook has got to go!
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O the cook! O the cook!
If words could kill, or just a dirty look,
he’d have snuffed it long ago, turned his paws up doncha know,
he’d be gladly written off the record book!
What a greasy fat old toad, that assassin of the road,
we tried to hire him to the enemy.
But they smelt the stew he made, mercy on us they all prayed,
we’ll surrender, you can have him back for free!
O the cook! O the cook!
He could poison a battalion with his chuck.
I’ve seen him boilin’ cabbage, an’ the filthy little savage,
takes a bath in it to wash off all the muck!
He made a batch of scones, big grey lumpy solid ones,
the Sergeant lost four teeth at just one bite.
Then an officer ordered me, sling them at the enemy,
an’ those that we don’t slay we’ll put to flight!
O the cook! O the cook!
He’s stirring porridge with his rusty hook.
Playin’ hopscotch with the toast, he’s the one that we hate most,
tonight we’re goin’ to roast that bloomin’ cook!”
A shout came from out the mist. “What ho, the Long Patrol!”
The brigadier called in reply, “Gallopers come in an’ make your report!”
Kersey and Dauncey came bounding out of the mist. Slowing to the march, they told the tale, each in turn. Kersey went first.
“Followed the vermin to the woodlands, sah! They entered Mossflower at the southwest fringe, on a track twixt some alders an’ buckthorns.”
Dauncey followed his sister with hardly a break. “We got jolly close t’the blighters, sah. Some nasty-lookin’ bits of work among that bloomin’ bunch. Guess what? We saw the Gulo beast, too. My word, what a blinkin’ horror! Hate to bump into him on a dark night, wot!”
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