‘What a wondrous thing your sword is, Martin.’
The Warrior picked it up and held it lightly, testing its flawless balance. ‘Wondrous indeed, Trimp, but you must always remember what a sword is really made for. It has only one purpose, to slay. In the paws of the wrong beast it could become an awful thing, if ’twere used for evil purposes. As the Warrior who is privileged to carry the sword, I am honour bound to uphold two things: the safety of Redwall, and the memory of my father. The blade was made for me, but the hilt was always his.’
Trimp felt slightly sorry for Martin. ‘This is a long trip we’re undertaking and we have only the words of an old ballad to go on. Maybe your father never really said that he would return, or then again, he may have returned long seasons ago and sailed off once more. What I’m tryin’ to say, Martin, is this. Don’t be surprised or disappointed if there is no trace of him on the northland shores when we finally get there.’
The Warrior patted his companion’s paw fondly. ‘I’ve thought of all that, missie, don’t worry about me. I’ve decided to treat the whole thing as a summer journey with three good friends along for the walk. Right at this moment I feel lighter of heart and happier than I’ve been for quite some time. So hush now and don’t fret over me.’
Babbling streamwater, combined with distant birdsong and insects’ lazy droning, soon had the four creatures taking a short nap in the shade and serenity offered by surrounding trees. They had not been dozing long when Martin became alert. Sitting bolt upright, he reached for his blade.
Trimp opened one eye enquiringly. ‘What is it, Martin, what’s the m—’
The Warrior touched her lips lightly. ‘Quiet, miss, listen. Gonff, can you hear?’
The Mousethief had drawn his dagger and crawled forward. Crouching against the willow trunk, he strained to hear. ‘Gourds knockin’ together – sounds like little drums. Chantin’, too. Bit far off t’make it out proper, mate.’ He sniffed the air as if hoping for a breeze. ‘No smell, though, matey, mayhap just as well too.’
Martin crouched alongside him and said one word.
‘Flitchaye?’
Gonff nodded, still keeping his ears alerted for more sounds. ‘That’s what I was thinkin’, but what are Flitchaye doin’ this far south?’
Martin shrugged. ‘Raiding party maybe?’
Trimp looked from one to the other anxiously. ‘What’s a Flitchaye? Do we need to fear them?’
Martin explained.
‘Flitchaye are a tribe of runty weasels. We don’t fear them, but they’re within a day’s journey of Redwall, so we’d best go and see what they’re up to.’
As they tracked their way through silent woodlands towards the distant sound, Gonff whispered, ‘Flitchayes are a bad lot, missie. They use powerful herb smoke to stun their captives. You wouldn’t see a Flitchaye ’til he’s right on top of ye, ’cos they disguise themselves with weeds an’ shrubs an’ live underground mostly. Though if this lot are Flitchaye raiders, they’ll stay above ground, not bein’ on their own territory. Keep your head down an’ stay back with Dinny, behind me’n’Martin.’
Trimp’s heart beat faster. She was very excited, but not afraid with Martin and Gonff leading the way. Skirting a fern bed they crept up behind a fallen sycamore, and as they stooped in its shelter the sounds grew more distinct. Voices were chanting in unison with the thokking noise of gourds being struck rhythmically together.
‘We d’Flitchaye Flitchaye Flitchaye,
Worraworra gonnawinna lorralorra wars!’
Thockthockathockthock, thockathockathockthock!
Bushes rustled and a few twigs snapped. Peeping over the fungus-ridden trunk, Trimp blinked in surprise when she distinguished the shapes moving against the leafy terrain.
Close on twoscore Flitchaye came marching past, brandishing stoneheaded axes and carrying bundles of slender throwing spears. Smeared with plant dye and clad in a disguise of trailing weeds, the vermin were almost as one with their surroundings. It was a barbaric scene, heightened by the sight of a very young squirrel, paws bound and hobbled, being dragged along on a rope of vine thongs attached to his neck. Trimp’s eyes began watering as four rearguard passed close to the sycamore trunk, for they carried big earthenware pots on hangers between them, averting their heads from the smoke which wreathed from the vessels. The hedgehog maid rubbed at her eyes, swaying as the smoke fogged her senses. Dinny slapped a glob of mud in her paws, murmuring low, ‘Yurr, missie, stick this on ee nose an’ breathe through ee mouth!’
Trimp did as the mole advised and immediately felt better. She noticed that Martin and Gonff were doing the same thing to counteract the effect of the drugged smoke. When the column of Flitchayes had passed, the four friends sat down in the lee of the fallen trunk, and after a safe wait Gonff indicated that they clean off their noses.
Martin nodded grimly at Trimp. ‘Well, now you know what Flitchaye are like, the filthy villains. Did you see the little squirrel they’d taken?’
Trimp shuddered. ‘Poor little fellow. What’ll they do to him?’
Martin clasped his swordhilt resolutely. ‘Nothing if we can help it, miss. Dinny, see if you can gather some ramsons.’
The industrious mole was no sooner gone than he was back, carrying two of the broad-leafed plants, still with their tiny starlike flowers in bloom. Trimp took a step back from the pungent garlic-smelling things.
‘Whew! Keep away from me with that lot, Din. I can’t abide the smell of ramsons!’
Dinny chuckled as he stripped the leaves and rolled them into small solid plugs. ‘You’m bain’t goin’ to loik thiz, marm, but et could save ee loif. Yurr, take these.’
Trimp’s face was a mask of disgust as she accepted a pawful of the reeking wild garlic pellets from Dinny.
‘Gurgh! We’ll defeat the Flitchaye easily by throwing these at them. What a dreadful stink!’
Dinny passed the pellets around. Gonff chuckled gleefully.
‘We don’t chuck them at the foebeast, missie, we stuff two up our noses an’ chew the rest.’
The hedgehog maid looked horrified at the idea. ‘Stuff them up our noses and chew them? You’re joking!’
Martin was already plugging his nose with ramsons. ‘No joke, Trimp. The garlic odour will overpower the smell of any drugged herb that the Flitchaye have. Come on, miss, get on with it, we’re losing time!’
With Martin in the lead they set off trailing the Flitchayes. Both Dinny and Gonff were unaffected by the malodorous aroma of ramsons – in fact, they seemed to be enjoying it. Martin endured his in stoic silence, but Trimp felt close to vomiting at the overpowering smell. Travelling silent and fast, they soon heard the foebeast up ahead. Dropping flat amid some bushes, Martin, Dinny and Trimp waited whilst Gonff scouted ahead. Trimp sat miserably in the deep loam, her entire being swamped by ramsons. Gonff rejoined them, quiet as a shadow drifting over grass. The Mousethief made his report swiftly.
‘They’re camped in a clearin’ up ahead – some must’ve been already there. I counted fifty-one all told, all Flitchaye savages. Saw the liddle squirrel, too, they got him bound to a post in the middle o’ their camp. Fifty’s too many for us, mateys. ’Tis goin’ t’be hard gettin’ the young ’un out o’ there. Any ideas, pals?’
Martin looked from one to the other before speaking. ‘Right, here’s the plan. Listen carefully, because it all depends on pure bluff. If it works then we get out of there fast. Gonff, here’s what you’ll do, mate . . .’
* * *
4
A MESS OF bird bones and feathers mixed with squashed half-eaten fruit and vegetables littered the Flitchaye camp. Around the fire undersized weasels squabbled and fought tooth and claw over any morsel of food roasting in the flames. One, larger than the rest, his face daubed blue beneath a helmet of ivy and bugloss, grabbed a half-burnt wren carcass from a smaller Flitchaye. Snarling, the owner tried to retrieve his food from the big weasel, who booted him backward into the fire contemptuously. It was an act of
wanton cruelty that caused great hilarity among the other vermin, who sniggered evilly as their scorched companion scrambled shrieking from the blaze and rolled about, trying to extinguish his smouldering fur.
The young squirrel, who was little more than a Dibbun, was trying to shake off the effects of the drugged smoke. He shrank back fearfully against the post he was bound to. Flitchayes with sharp sticks prodded him and licked their lips meaningfully. One weasel took out a blade and was about to start cutting the squirrel’s bonds when the big Flitchaye spotted him and knocked him senseless with a well-aimed rock. He stood over the fallen weasel, baring his stained fangs at the rest and speaking in his high-pitched growl. ‘Norra yet! Feed de swiggle, fatty ’im uppa plenny!’ He thrust the remains of the dead bird at the helpless youngster, snarling into the squirrel’s terrified face: ‘You eat. Commona, eaty allup!’
Martin strode nonchalantly into the camp, as if he was quite used to this sort of thing. A puzzled silence settled over the Flitchaye at the sight of the bold unarmed stranger in their midst. Pushing them out of his way he went across to the two earthenware pots, still wreathing smoke from the drugged herbs which smouldered inside them. Leaning over, Martin appeared to sniff them both and gave a hard, scornful laugh.
‘Hah! Don’t think much o’ yore cookin’, ragbags!’
A gasp of surprise rose from the vermin. The stranger had suffered no ill effects from the fearful fumes! Still shouldering weasels aside, Martin pushed his way forcefully over to the little prisoner. Picking up the knife from the fallen weasel, he made as if to cut the squirrel free.
‘Stoppima mousebeast!’
At the shout from their leader the Flitchaye surrounded Martin, hemming in on all sides. Swaggering forward, the big weasel thrust his ugly face close to that of Martin and sneered, ‘We d’Flitchaye, Flitchaye, Flitchaye!’
The crowd took up the chant, moving around the Warrior in a shuffling stamping dance. Martin waited patiently awhile, an expression of bored indifference on his face. Then he pointed a paw at his own chest and shouted, ‘I Martin the Warrior!’
Quiet fell over the vermin, and they stood still. The leader pointed a stoneheaded axe at the lone mouse, repeating Martin’s words as best he could. ‘Ma’tam de Horrya!’ He spat challengingly at the floor in front of the Warrior. Martin coolly returned the gesture, looking the weasel up and down insultingly as he spoke.
‘Fish eye, you d’Fish eye?’
The Warrior had anticipated the Flitchaye leader’s next move, and he took a pace smartly backward as the weasel swung his axe. The blow was delivered with such force that the Flitchaye could not stop it. He struck himself hard on the shin, cracking his bone audibly. Martin stretched both paws wide. Keeping his eyes on a double-topped oak at the camp’s edge, he roared, ‘Redwaaaaaalllll!’
Hidden by the foliage, Gonff held the sword like a spear and cast it accurately. To the Flitchaye it was magic! Seemingly zipping down out of the sky, the great blade thudded point first into the ground at Martin’s side.
Wrenching it from the earth, the Warrior swung it skilfully, chopping a nearby vermin’s bunch of throwing spears in half with a single swipe. It had the desired effect. Flitchaye scattered to get out of Martin’s sword range, leaving him alone by the prisoner. Turning his back on the enemy, Martin gave the little squirrel a quick reassuring smile and whispered, ‘Don’t move ’til I say, matey. Soon have y’out of here.’ The captive blinked with fright as Martin’s sword hissed within a whisker of him, severing the ropes.
Whirring bright in the late afternoon sunlight, the sword weaved a deadly pattern as its owner wielded it. Martin narrowed his eyes to a fierce intensity, glaring slowly this way and that at the vermin.
‘I Martin the Warrior, we go now!’
Gently lifting the dazed little squirrel on his shoulders, he turned and began walking from the camp. The leader, his face a mask of agony, limped forward, shouting, ‘Stoppa mousebeast, sto—’
His cry was cut short when a slingstone smashed his jaw and laid him flat. A female, obviously the leader’s mate, dashed forward, but she too was felled by a slingstone which whacked her between the eyes. She fell like a log.
Martin muttered out the side of his mouth to the little one, ‘Good old Dinny, never known him to miss yet!’ Then he turned sternly to the cowering Flitchaye. ‘I go, you stay, Fish eye, hah!’
At a nod from him, slingstones poured in from Gonff, Dinny and Trimp, causing confusion among the stunned Flitchaye.
Back among the shelter of some big trees, Martin passed his sword to Gonff.
‘Good work, mates, but if I know Flitchaye they won’t stay still for long. We’ve got to get out of here, fast!’
Trimp just had time to spit and blow, ridding herself of the hated ramsons, then she was running, paw in paw with Dinny, Martin leading and Gonff behind her, guarding the rear. Trees and bushes sped by in a green blur as the rescuers hurtled through the woodlands, with the first streaks of evening marking the sky. Breathless and quivering they paused at a wide shallow stream. Trimp stooped and sucked up mouthfuls gratefully. Gonff struck her on the back, causing her to cough out the water.
‘Don’t drink now, matey, ’twill slow you up. Martin, listen!’
‘Flitchayeeeeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeeeeee!’
The blood-curdling shouts of vermin crying for revenge rang out through the trees. Tapping the back of Martin’s head, the little squirrel, who now seemed completely recovered from the evil smoke, spoke for the first time.
‘Chugger not wanna get eated, quick, run!’
And run they did. Martin chose the streambed, to make tracking difficult, though it slowed their pace slightly. Pebbles clacked underpaw, water splashed noisily around the runners, and sometimes trailing crowfoot weeds tried to tangle them up. Gonff turned at the sound of rapidly advancing vermin, as the Flitchaye dashed screaming into the waters upstream.
‘Flitchayeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeee!’
The Mousethief held a stone ready in his sling. ‘They’ve seen us, mates. I’ll say this for the rascals, they’re good fast runners. Should we make for the bank and head into the woods, Martin?’
Martin pressed on doggedly with Chugger clinging to his back. ‘No good, mate, they’d track wet pawprints easily. This water’s getting deeper and they can only travel the same speed as us in a stream. Keep going!’
Further downstream the watercourse took a bend, getting deeper. It was now well above waist height and flowing fast. Dinny grunted to Trimp, ‘Oi doan’t loik water, oi’m gurtly afeared of ee wet!’
The Flitchaye, who were still in the shallower water, seemed to be gaining apace on their quarry. Gonff turned and brought one of the front runners down with a well-placed slingstone, and reloaded his sling immediately.
‘They’re too close for comfort now, mates. I reckon we’ll have t’stand an’ fight it out!’
‘Gurr, no uz won’t. Lookit, we’m be saved!’
In the curve of the streambend a big old crack willow, which had collapsed into the water from the crumbling bank, lay half in, half out of the flow, swaying gently.
Tripping and stumbling wildly, Dinny and Trimp waded through the eddying swirls, coughing and gasping, the foodpacks they were carrying hampering them greatly. However, they made it over to the tree and hauled themselves on to its bushy top. Their added weight did the trick. There was a tearing of the last few roots as the willow upended and slid off into the stream.
Martin and Gonff were both slinging stones now, dodging the long thin throwing spears which the Flitchaye flung at them. The little squirrel Chugger clung. to Martin’s back, yelling hoarsely, ‘Fro’ lotsa stones, don’t lerra Fish eyes eat Chugga!’
The Warrior looked to Gonff for his sword. It was evident that ere long they would be battling paw to paw with the vermin in a life or death struggle.
‘Hurr, ’urry an’ jump on ee boat naow, mates!’
Dinny and Trimp had paddled the tree close up behind them, using
long leafy branches they had broken from the willow. Martin pushed Gonff on to the makeshift vessel, and was about to pull himself aboard when a snarling Flitchaye grabbed his paw. For a moment the Warrior was helpless, clinging with one paw to the tree whilst being held by the vermin. Chugger scrambled up on to Martin’s shoulder. Leaning over, he bit deep into the vermin’s paw. An agonised scream ripped from the weasel’s mouth as he let go of Martin’s paw. Without a backward glance Martin heaved both himself and Chugger on to the willow trunk.
‘Trimp, look after the little ’un. Gonff, you and I’ll paddle. Dinny, get your sling and give those scum what for!’
Trimp felt the current pull strongly at the tree, then they were whipped away downstream, with Martin and Gonff paddling non-stop. Wedging little Chugger in the sprouting branches up front, she went to assist Dinny. The mole was roaring gruffly as he whirled his sling and flung rocks with deadly accuracy.
‘Goo burr, oi’ll give ee billoh, you’m choild-eatin’ villyuns. Yurr be a gurt supper o’ stones for ee!’
So fierce were the volleys of rock and round pebble with which Dinny and Trimp peppered the Flitchaye that the vermin waded for the banks, unable to keep balance and throw their spears in the deepening water. Martin chanced a backward glance at their molefriend, and winked at Gonff.
‘Look at old Din there, slinging away like a good ’un!’
Watching admiringly, the Mousethief saw one of Dinny’s rocks take a Flitchaye squarely between both ears, toppling him from the bank into the water.
‘Aye, matey, that mole’s enjoyin’ himself all right!’
Dusk fell whilst the travellers made their way downstream, still harassed by Flitchaye foes running along both sides of the bank. Martin peered ahead into the darkness and bit his lip grimly at what he saw.
‘Bad luck for us ahead. The stream is dammed right across!’
Trimp gave a cry of dismay. ‘Look, some Flitchaye must’ve run ahead. I can see the shapes of ’em, waiting on the damtop for us!’
The Legend of Luke Page 3
