Mossflower (Redwall) Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Map

  Prologue

  Book One

  Kotir

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Book Two

  Salamandastron

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Book Three

  Of Water and Warriors

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  About the Author

  Also by Brian Jacques

  Copyright

  About the Book

  When the clever and greedy Wildcat Tsarmina becomes ruler of all Mossflower woods, she governs the peaceful woodlanders with an iron paw.

  But the brave mouse Martin and quick-talking mousethief Gonff escape from the dungeons of Kotir Castle and are determined to end Tsarmina’s tyrannical rule. They set off on a dangerous journey to Salamandastron, mountain of dragons, where they are convinced that their only hope, Boar the Fighter, still lives . . .

  BRIAN

  JACQUES

  A TALE OF REDWALL

  MOSSFLOWER

  Illustrated by Gary Chalk

  Late autumn winds sighed fitfully round the open gatehouse door, rustling brown gold leaves in the fading afternoon.

  Bella of Brockhall snuggled deeper into her old armchair by the fire. Through half-closed eyes she watched the small mouse peering around the doorway at her.

  ‘Come in, little one, and close the door.’

  The small mouse did as he was bidden. Encouraged by the badger’s friendly smile, he clambered up onto the arm of the chair and settled himself against a cushion.

  ‘You said that you would tell me a story, Miz Bella.’

  The badger nodded slowly.

  ‘Everything you see about you, the harvest that has been gathered, from the russet apples to the golden honey is yours to enjoy in freedom. Listen now, as the breeze sweeps the last autumn leaves off into the world of winter. I will tell you of the time long ago before Redwall Abbey was built in Mossflower. In those days there was no freedom for woodlanders; we were oppressed cruelly under the harsh rule of Verdauga Greeneyes and his daughter Tsarmina. It was a mouse like yourself who saved Mossflower. His name is known to all: Martin the Warrior.

  ‘Ah, my little friend, I am grown old. So are my comrades; their sons and daughters are fathers and mothers now. But that is life. The seasons still look new to young eyes, the food tastes fresher in the mouths of the young ones than it does in my own. As I sit here in the warmth and peace it all lives again in my memory, a strange tale of love and war, friend and foe, great happenings and mighty deeds.

  ‘Gaze into the fire, young one. Listen to me and I will tell you the story.’

  BOOK ONE

  Kotir

  1

  MOSSFLOWER LAY DEEP in the grip of midwinter beneath a sky of leaden grey that showed tinges of scarlet and orange on the horizon. A cold mantle of snow draped the landscape, covering the flatlands to the west. Snow was everywhere, filling ditches, drifting high against hedgerows, making paths invisible, smoothing the contours of earth in its white embrace. The gaunt, leafless ceiling of Mossflower Wood was penetrated by constant snowfall, which carpeted the sprawling woodland floor, building canopieson evergreen shrubs and bushes. Winter had muted the earth; the muffled stillness was broken only by a traveller’s paws.

  A sturdily built young mouse with quick dark eyes was moving confidently across the snowbound country. Looking back, he could see his tracks disappearing northward into the distance. Further south the flatlands rolled off endlessly, flanked to the west by the faint shape of distant hills, while to the east stood the long ragged fringe marking the marches of Mossflower. His nose twitched at the elusive smell of burning wood and turf from some hearthfire. Cold wind soughed from the treetops, causing whorls of snow to dance in icy spirals. The traveller gathered his ragged cloak tighter, adjusted an old rusting sword that was slung across his back and trudged steadily forward, away from the wilderness, to where other creatures lived.

  It was a forbidding place made mean by poverty. Here and there he saw signs of habitation. The dwellings, ravaged and demolished, made pitiful shapes under snowdrifts. Rearing high against the forest, a curious building dominated the ruined settlement. A fortress, crumbling, dark and brooding, it was a symbol of fear to the woodland creatures of Mossflower.

  This was how Martin the Warrior first came to Kotir, place of the wildcats.

  In a mean hovel on the south side of Kotir, the Stickle family crouched around a low turf fire. It gusted fitfully as the night winds pierced the slatted timbers where mud chinking had not been replaced. A timid scratch at the door caused them to jump nervously. Ben Stickle picked up a billet of firewood, motioning his wife Goody to keep their four little ones well back in the shadows.

  As the Goodwife Stickle covered her brood with coarse burlap blankets, Ben took a firmer grip on the wood and called out harshly in his gruffest voice, ‘Be off with you and leave us alone. There’s not enough food in here to go around a decent hedgehog family. You’ve already taken half of all we have to swell the larders in Kotir.’

  ‘Ben, Ben, ’tis oi, Urthclaw! Open up, burr. ’Tis freezen out yurr.’

  As Ben Stickle opened the door, a homely faced mole trundled by him and hurried across to the fire, where he stood rubbing his digging claws together in front of the flames.

  The little ones peeped out from the blankets. Ben and Goody turned anxious faces toward their visitor.

  Urthclaw rubbed warmth into his cold nose as he talked in the curious rustic molespeech.

  ‘Vurmin patrols be out, burr, weasels ’n’ stoats an’ the loik. They’m a lukken fer more vittles.’

  Goody shook her head as she wiped a little one’s snout on her apron. ‘I knew it! We should have run off and left this place, like the others. Where in the name of spikes’ll we find food to pay their tolls?’

  Ben Stickle threw down the piece of firewood despairingly. ‘Where can we run in midwinter with four little uns? They’d perish long afore spring.’

  Urthclaw produced a narrow strip of silver birch bark and held a paw to his mouth, indicating silence. Scratched on the bark in charcoal was a single word: Corim. Beneath it was a simple picture map showing a route into Mossflower Woods, far from Kotir.

  Ben studied the map, torn between the chance of escape and his family’s predicament. The frustration was clear on his face.

  Bang! Bang!

  ‘Open u
p in there! Come on, get this door open. This is an official Kotir patrol.’

  Soldiers!

  Ben took one last hasty glance at the strip of bark and threw it on the fire. As Goody lifted the latch the door was thrust forcefully inward. She was swept to one side as the soldiers packed into the room, out of the winter night chill. They pushed and shoved at each other roughly. A ferret named Blacktooth and a stoat called Splitnose seemed to be in charge of the patrol. Ben Stickle sighed with relief as they turned away from the burning strip of bark and stood with their backs to the fire.

  ‘Well now, dozyspikes, where are you hiding all the bread and cheese and October ale?’

  Ben could scarce keep the hatred from his voice as he answered the sneering Blacktooth. ‘It’s many a long season since I tasted cheese or October ale. There’s bread on the shelf, but only enough for my family.’

  Splitnose spat into the fire and reached for the bread. Ben Stickle was blocked from stopping the stoat by a barrier of spear hafts as he tried to push forward.

  Goody placed a restraining paw on her husband’s spikes. ‘Please, Ben, don’t fight ’em, the great bullies.’

  Urthclaw chimed in, ‘Yurr, baint much ’ee c’n do agin spears, Ben.’

  Blacktooth turned to the mole as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Huh, what’re you doing here, blinkeye?’

  One of the little hedgehogs threw the sacking aside and faced the stoat boldly. ‘He came in for a warm by our fire. You leave him alone!’ Splitnose burst out laughing, spraying crumbs from the bread he was eating. ‘Look out, Blackie. There’s more of ’em under that blanket. I’d watch ’em, if I were you.’

  A nearby weasel threw back the covering, exposing the other three young ones.

  Blacktooth sized them up. ‘Hmm, they look big enough to do a day’s work.’

  Goodwife Stickle sprang fiercely in front of them. ‘You let my liddle ones be. They ain’t harmed nobody.’

  Blacktooth seemed to ignore her. He knocked the loaves from Splitnose’s paws, then turning to a weasel he issued orders. ‘Pick that bread up, and no sly munching. Deliver it to the stores when we get back to the garrison.’

  Waving his spear he signalled the patrol out of the hut. As Blacktooth left he called back to Ben and Goody, ‘I want to see those four hogs out in the fields tomorrow. Either that, or you can all spend the rest of the winter safe and warm in Kotir dungeons.’

  Urthclaw kept an eye to a crack in the door, watching the patrol make its way toward Kotir. Ben wasted no time; he began wrapping the young ones in all the blankets they possessed. ‘Right, that’s it! Enough is enough. We go tonight. You’re right, old girl, we should have left to live in the woods with the rest long ago. What d’you say, Urthclaw?’

  The mole stood with his eye pressed against the crack in the door. ‘Yurr, cumm ’ere, lookit thiz!’

  While Ben shared the crack with his friend, Goody carried on swathing her young ones with blankets. ‘What is it, Ben? They’re not comin’ back, are they?’

  ‘No, wife. Hohoho, lookit that, by hokey! See the punch he landed on that weasel’s nose? Go on, give it to ’em, laddo!’

  Ferdy, the little one who had spoken up, scuttled over and tugged at Ben’s paw. ‘Punch? Who punched a weasel? What’s happening?’

  Ben described the scene as he watched it. ‘It’s a mouse – big strong feller too, he is. They’re tryin’ to capture him. . . . That’s it! Now kick him again, mouse. Go on! Hahaha, you’d think a full patrol of soldiers could handle a mouse, but not this one. He must be a real trained warrior. Phew! Lookit that, he’s knocked Blacktooth flat on his back. Pity they’re hangin’ onto his sword like that. By the spikes, he’d cause some damage if he had that blade between his paws, rusty as it is.’

  Ferdy jumped up and down. ‘Let me see, I want a look!’

  Urthclaw turned slowly away from the door. ‘Baint much use, liddle ’edgepig. They’m gorrim down now, aye, an’ roped up too. Hurr, worra pity, they be too many fer ’im to foight, ee’m a gurt brave wurrier tho’.’

  Ben was momentarily crestfallen, then he clapped his paws together. ‘Now is the time, while the patrol’s busy with the fighter. They’ve got a job on their paws, draggin’ him back to the cats’ castle. Come on, let’s get a-goin’ while the goin’s good.’

  A short while later the fire was burning to embers in an empty hut as the little band trudged into the vast woodland sprawl of Mossflower, blinking water from their eyes as they kept their heads down against the keen wind. Urthclaw followed up the rear, obliterating the pawtracks from the snowy ground.

  2

  GONFF THE MOUSETHIEF padded silently along the passage from the larder and storeroom of Kotir. He was a plump little creature, clad in a green jerkin with a broad buckled belt. He was a ducker and a weaver of life, a marvellous mimic, ballad writer, singer and lockpick, and very jovial with it all. The woodlanders were immensely fond of the little thief. Gonff shrugged it all off, calling every creature his matey in imitation of the otters, whom he greatly admired. Chuckling quietly to himself, he drew the small dagger from his belt and cut off a wedge from the cheese he was carrying. Slung around his shoulder was a large flask of elderberry wine which he had also stolen from the larder. Gonff ate and drank, singing quietly to himself in a deep bass voice between mouthfuls of cheese and wine.

  ‘The Prince of Mousethieves honours you,

  To visit here this day.

  So keep your larder door shut tight,

  Lock all your food away.

  O foolish ones, go check your store

  Of food so rich and fine.

  Be sure that I’ll be back for more,

  Especially this wine.’

  At the sound of heavy paws Gonff fell silent. Melting back into the shadows, he huddled down and held his breath. Two weasels dressed in armour and carrying spears trudged past. They were arguing heatedly.

  ‘Listen, I’m not taking the blame for your stealing from the larder.’

  ‘Who, me? Be careful what you say, mate. I’m no thief.’

  ‘Well, you’re looking very fat lately, that’s all I say.’

  ‘Huh, not half as podgy as you, lard barrel.’

  ‘Lard barrel yourself. You’ll be accusing me next.’

  ‘Ha, you’re in charge of the key, so who else could it be?’

  ‘It could be you. You’re always down there when I am.’

  ‘I only go to keep an eye on you, mate.’

  ‘And I only go to keep an eye on you, so there.’

  ‘Right, we’ll keep an eye on each other then.’

  Gonff stuffed a paw in his mouth to stifle a giggle. The weasels stopped and looked at each other.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oho, I know what it was – you’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Arr, don’t talk stupid.’

  ‘Talking stupid, am I?’ Indignantly the weasel turned away from his companion.

  Gonff quickly called out in a passable weasel-voice imitation, ‘Big fat robber!’

  The two weasels turned furiously upon each other.

  ‘Big fat robber, eh. Take that!’

  ‘Ouch! You sneaky toad, you take this!’

  The weasels thwacked away madly at each other with their spearhandles.

  Gonff sneaked out of hiding and crept off in the opposite direction, leaving the two guards rolling upon the passage floor, their spears forgotten as they bit and scratched at each other.

  ‘Owow, leggo. Grr, take that!’

  ‘I’ll give you robber! Have some of this. Ooh, you bit my ear!’

  Sheathing his dagger and shaking with mirth, Gonff unlatched a window shutter, and slipped away through the snow toward the woodlands.

  ‘Oh fight lads fight,

  Scratch lads bite,

  Gonff will dine on cheese and wine,

  When he gets home tonight.’

  Martin dug his heels into the snow, skidding as he was dragged bodily through the outer wallgat
es of the forbidding heap he had sighted earlier that day. Armoured soldiers clanked and clattered together as they were dragged inward by the ropes that restrained the prisoner, none of them wanting to get too close to the fighting mouse.

  Blacktooth and Splitnose closed the main gates with much bad-tempered slamming. Powdery snow blew down on them from the top of the perimeter walls. The parade ground snow was hammered flat and slippery by soldiers dashing hither and thither, some carrying lighted torches – ferrets, weasels and stoats. One of them called out to Splitnose, ‘Hoi, Splittie, any sign of the fox out there?’

  The stoat shook his head. ‘What, you mean the healer? No, not a whisker. We caught a mouse, though. Look at this thing he was carrying.’

  Splitnose waved Martin’s rusted sword aloft. Blacktooth ducked. ‘Stop playing with that thing, you’ll slash somebody twirling it round like that. So, they’re waiting on the fox again, eh. Old Greeneyes doesn’t seem to be getting any better lately. Hey, you there, keep those ropes tight! Hold him still, you blockheads.’

  The entrance hall door proved doubly difficult as the warrior mouse managed to cling to one of the timber doorposts. The soldiers had practically to pry him loose with their spears. The weasel who had been given charge of the bread kept well out of it, heading directly for the storeroom and larder. As he passed through the entrance hall, he was challenged by others who cast covetous eyes upon the brown home-baked loaves. It had been a hard winter, since many creatures had deserted the settlement around Kotir after the early autumn harvest, taking with them as much produce as they could carry to the woodlands. There was not a great deal of toll or levy coming in. The weasel clutched the bread close as he padded along.

  The hall was hostile and damp, with wooden shutters across the low windows. The floor was made from a dark granite-like rock, very cold to the paws. Here and there the night-time guards had lit small fires in corners, which stained the walls black with smoke and ashes. Only captains were allowed to wear long cloaks as a mark of rank, but several soldiers had draped themselves in old sacks and blankets purloined from the settlement. The stairs down to the lower levels were a jumble of worn spirals and flights of straight stone steps in no particular sequence. Half the wall torches had burned away and not been replaced, leaving large areas of stairs dark and dangerous. Moss and fungus grew on most of the lower-level walls and stairs.