Outcast Of Redwall Read online

  Click onto the Redwall website – and discover more about the legendary world of Redwall and it’s creator, Brian Jacques!

  http://www.redwall.org

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781446432327

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A Red Fox Book

  Published by Random House Children’s Books

  61-63 Uxbridge Road, London, W5 5SA

  A division of The Random House Group Ltd

  London Melbourne Sydney Auckland

  Johannesburg and agencies throughout the world

  Copyright © Text Brian Jacques 1995

  Copyright © Illustrations Allan Curless 1995

  17 19 20 18 16

  First published by Hutchinson Children’s Books 1995

  Red Fox edition 1996

  The right of Brian Jacques and Allan Curless to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  ISBN 0 09 960091 9

  Book One

  A Friendship Made

  * * *

  Book Two

  A Broken Trust

  * * *

  Book Three

  The Warrior’s Reckoning

  * * *

  ‘When blood of weak meets blood of strong,

  Reap the whirlwind you have sown,

  Beware the lightning summer mark,

  Of one whom you have known.

  To the Lord who scorns all pity,

  Open wide Dark Forest gate,

  There a little flower awaits,

  One day to seal your fate.’

  Nightshade the Seer

  It was a warm old autumn afternoon of russet and gold, a time for legends and stories of seasons long gone. Blue haze on the far horizon blended sea and sky into one. On the pale sands of a silent shore, ebbing waves had carelessly strewn a broken necklace of shells and pebbles along the tideline. Standing tall and mysterious was the mountain, like some huge beast guarding the coast. Salamandastron! Stronghold of Badger Lords and fighting hares. Once when the earth was young, it had spouted fire and molten rock. But the winds of time had long since banished smoke from the monolith, cooling its stones. Now Salamandastron was home and fortress combined, run through and honeycombed with halls, caverns, corridors, chambers, tunnels and secret places.

  Midway up the west face on a broad rocky ledge, tufted with shrubs and wildflowers, a picnic lunch was set, close to the mouth of a tunnel entrance. Half a score of leverets, young hares, attended by a fully grown harewife, sat watching an ancient otter. Stooped and greyed by many seasons, he stood leaning on an ashpole, shaking his grizzled head in disapproval, as old creatures often will when faced with the young. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong for an oldbeast.

  ‘Hmph! Wish I was at the Abbey, those young uns at Redwall have proper manners. Instead o’ layin’ about gawpin’, first thing they’d do would be help a body sit down!’

  Stifling a smile, the harewife watched the leverets scurrying around the aged otter, doing their best to show respect and concern as they assisted him.

  ‘A seat y’say, nothing simpler, old chap, er, I mean, sir.’

  ‘Pop y’self down here, sir, grass is nice an’ soft, wot!’

  ‘Whoops a daisy! Easy does it, ol’ sir!’

  ‘Lean y’back on this rock, that’s the ticket!’

  ‘Righto, ancient one, comfy enough now?’

  The venerable beast nodded slowly. ‘Well enough, thank ye. Now, are you all goin’ t’stand there watchin’ a pore creature starve?’

  There followed a further scuffle as the young hares set food and drink before their guest.

  ‘Enough tuck to kill a duck here, sir!’

  ‘Summer Salad an’ a beaker of Old Mountain Ale.’

  ‘How about freshbaked carrot’n’leek flan?’

  ‘Some scones with gooseberry jelly, very good y’know!’

  ‘Rather! Give the old chap a hot pastie!’

  When the old otter was served, the harewife beckoned the young ones back to their seats. ‘Good show, chaps, but mind y’manners or Mister Rillbrook won’t tell you a story.’

  Beneath fuzzy brows, Rillbrook’s old eyes glinted mischievously. He broke open a steaming pastie, and said, grumpily, ‘Story? Just stopped here t’rest awhile, marm, wasn’t intendin’ t’do no storytellin’.’

  A fat, cheeky leveret piped up indignantly, ‘Scoffin’ a load of our grub an’ not tellin’ a story? I say, what a bally swizz!’

  The harewife cuffed his long ear lightly. ‘Burrbob! That’s quite enough from you, m’laddo. I don’t think you deserve a story after such impudence!’

  Rillbrook took a deep draught of Mountain Ale, smacked his lips and wiped a paw across his mouth. ‘Oh I dunno, marm, a good story often teaches rotters an’ rogues to be better creatures.’

  The leverets shouted encouragement eagerly.

  ‘Rather, tell on, old chap!’

  ‘I’ll say! Anythin’ to make us better creatures, wot?’

  ‘Do us the world o’ good, doncha know!’

  The ancient otter waited until silence fell and they were watching him expectantly, then he began.

  ‘They call me Rillbrook the Wanderer, son of Rillbrook the Wanderer, my grandsire was called Rillbrook the Wanderer . . .’

  The cheeky Burrbob could be heard muttering, ‘I s’pose his great great auntie was called Rillbrook the thingummy, we know that, get on with the yarn. Yowch!’

  This time the harewife’s quick paw did not descend so lightly on the impudent leveret’s ear. She fixed him with a frosty glare, and said, ‘One more word from you, sir, and it’s bed with no supper!’

  Burrbob took the hint, becoming the very model of silence.

  Rillbrook started from where he had left off.

  ‘I have wandered all the seasons of my life, near and far, sometimes under forgotten skies, along hidden streams, across silent forests. I have seen many things: mountains topped with snow, hot wastelands where creatures would kill for water. I have eaten among strangebeasts, listened to their songs, poems and stories, words that have brought tears and laughter to these old eyes. I have heard tales so mysterious that they trouble my memory and still return to roam my dreams on lonely nights.

  ‘Listen now, and I will relate to you a mighty saga. It concerns a Badger Lord who once ruled this mountain and his mortal enemy, a Ferret Warlord. The destiny of these two was entwined with many creatures, but mainly with two young ones who dwelt at the Abbey of Redwall. They were a pair thrown together by chance, for good or evil.

  ‘Each of us is born to follow a star, be it bright and shining, or dark and fated. Sometimes the paths of these stars will cross, bringing love or hatred. However, if you look up at the skies on a clear night, out of all the countless lights which twinkle and shine, there will come one. That star will be seen in a blaze, burning a path of light across the roof of the earth, a great comet. Think on these words as my tale unfolds. Mayhap you will learn something valuable, not about stars, but of the value friendship brings.’

  BOOK ONE

  * * *

  A Friendship Made

  * * *

  1

  Skarlath the kestrel fledged late
r than his brothers and sisters; the autumn was almost over when he left the nest never to return. This is the way with hawks. They are fierce and independent, free spirits who love to soar high.

  So it was with Skarlath, but being young and reckless he flew north and was trapped by winter. Howling gales from the very edges of the world bore him away. The young kestrel was held captive by a whirling mass of snow that swept him over hill, dale and forest. Shrieking winds drove him along, a bundle of wet feathers in a tight cocoon of damp white flakes that built on to his plumage in small drifts. Helpless, Skarlath was shot like an arrow into a forest. His body smashed against the trunk of an old hornbeam. Relentlessly the storm plunged onward, keening a wild dirge, leaving in its wake the unconscious young kestrel.

  Skarlath regained his senses slowly. It was night, still, with not a breeze about the forest. The cold was bitter and intense, and frost glittered and twinkled on snow-laden tree boughs. Somewhere close he could see the glow of a fire, but could not feel its heat. Voices and raucous laughter came from the lighted area, drawing him, but when he tried to move, the young kestrel squawked aloud in pain. His whole body was pinioned by ice; he was frozen tight, spreadeagled to the trunk of the hornbeam.

  Swartt Sixclaw sat closest to the fire. He was a young ferret, but obviously the leader of the threescore vermin who made up the band. Tall, vicious and sinewy, Swartt had made himself Chieftain, because he was quicker and stronger than any who dared challenge him. He was a fearsome sight to friend and foe alike, his face striped with a sloping pattern of purple and green dye, teeth stained glistening red. Round his neck hung the teeth and claws of dead enemies. His left forepaw bore six claws – it rested on the hilt of a long curved sword thrust through a snakeskin belt.

  The kestrel’s agonized cries brought Swartt upright. Kicking a nearby stoat, he snarled, ‘Trattak, go and see what’s makin’ that noise.’

  The stoat scuttled obediently off into the snow-laden trees. It did not take him long to find Skarlath. ‘Over ’ere, some stupid bird got itself froze to a tree!’ he called out.

  Swartt smiled wickedly at a young badger, tied to a log by a halter. It was a creature about the same age as himself, painfully hobbled and muzzled with rawhide strips. On its head was a broad, golden-coloured stripe. Drawing his sword, the ferret touched its point to the rare-coloured stripe. ‘Get up, Scumtripe, and give your master a ride over there,’ he said.

  The vermin crowding round the flames jeered and laughed, as Swartt sat upon the badger’s back and goaded it forward, raking with his claws and slapping it with the flat of his swordblade. Hobbled close, the young creature could only take small stumbling steps. Anguished growls issued from its bound mouth as it fumbled through the snow.

  Swartt thought it no end of a joke, shouting aloud for the benefit of his band, ‘Giddy up, Scumtripe, y’great lazy stripedog, move!’

  Skarlath eyed the ferret fearfully, as Swartt brought his face close, leering and licking his lips. ‘Well now, what ’ave we ’ere? A kestrel, not as tasty as quail or woodpigeon, but young and tender I’ll wager. Stuck fast by the ice are ye, bird? That’ll keep y’nice an’ fresh until you join me at breakfast!’

  Then, dragging the badger cruelly up, he tied the halter attached to its muzzle to an overhanging limb of the hornbeam. ‘Here’s a good job for ye, Scumtripe – guard my breakfast until mornin’! Yer gettin’ too fat’n’lazy lyin’ by the fire.’ Swartt Sixclaw strode off chuckling to rejoin his band round the flames, leaving the unfortunate pair fastened to the tree.

  An hour passed, when all that could be heard was the crackling of pine logs as flames devoured them; the vermin camp was silenced in sleep. Suddenly, in one swift, silent movement, the badger flung his body close against the kestrel, trapping the bird between himself and the bark. At first the young kestrel thought he was to be smothered, but the warmth from the soft fur of the badger’s chest started to melt the ice. Slowly, Skarlath felt the blood begin to stir in his veins. Although the badger was tethered and muzzled he clung on tightly with all his strength until at last Skarlath was able to move his head and wings. Skarlath jerked his head around until he found himself looking into the dark eyes of the golden-striped creature. Both young ones stared at each other, communicating in silence. Then the badger held still as the hawk’s beak went to work. With short, savage movements Skarlath tore into the rawhide muzzle strips that bound the badger until they were ripped to shreds. The badger clenched and unclenched his teeth, testing his jaws, then bowing his great gold-striped head he devoured the rawhide hobbles that bound his paws, chewing and swallowing the strips in his hunger. They were both free!

  ‘Come, friend, we go, escape, get away!’ said Skarlath, keeping his voice to a hoarse whisper.

  But the badger acted as if he had not heard his companion. Fierce anger burned in his eyes. Stretching his powerful young limbs, the badger seized a bough of the hornbeam and snapped it from the tree with a single wrench. Smashing the bough against the treetrunk, he broke it in two then, casting aside the thin end, he gripped the heavier piece with both paws. It was about half his own height, thicker at one end than the other, like some huge rough club. Roaring out his challenge, he charged the unwary vermin around the fire.

  ‘Eeulaliaaaaaa!’

  The camp came to life instantly. Two vermin fell under the club as the badger threw himself at Swartt. Before the ferret had half drawn his sword the badger’s club thudded hard against his foe’s sixclawed paw. Swartt screeched and fell back injured, yelling to his creatures, ‘Stop him! Kill him!’

  Skarlath saw the badger disappear under a crowd of vermin as they tried to bring him down, and he hurtled in, ripping and stabbing with beak and talons. Though the badger was weighted by foebeasts, none could fell him. He stood like a mighty young oak, flailing the club, his deep-throated warcry ringing through the forest.

  ‘Eeulaliaaaaa!’

  Skarlath decided then that his friend was totally mad. The vermin numbers would tell soon and the badger would be brought down to be slain. Fighting his way through, the kestrel landed upon the badger’s shoulder and cried into his ear, ‘Come away or we’ll both be killed. Escape!’

  The badger struggled to the fire’s edge and, using his club, he scattered the blazing logs into the ranks of his enemies. Flames whirred and sparks showered as he battered burning wood everywhere. It sizzled and steamed in the snow, throwing up choking clouds of smoke and wood ash. Then the two friends were away, the young badger bounding through the night forest with Skarlath perched upon his shoulder. Bursting with the energy of freedom they travelled tirelessly, crashing through bush, briar and bramble in a welter of flying snow.

  Back in the ruined camp, all was confusion, smoke, ashes and freezing dark night. A weasel called Muggra extricated himself from a snowdrift where the badger’s club had bowled him. Rubbing his aching back he crawled over to where an older vixen named Nightshade was ministering to Swartt, binding his sixclawed paw with a poultice of herbs and snow. Muggra sneaked a pawful of the herbs and rubbed them on his own back, asking, ‘Shall we follow them an’ slay ’em with arrows?’

  The vixen answered without looking up from her task. ‘Aye, best do it right away, before they get too far.’

  Bad temperedly, Swartt made as if to raise his six-clawed paw and swipe out at them both, but the movement caused him to snarl in agony; his paw hung limp and throbbing. ‘Idiots! Get the fire goin’, quick, before we freeze t’death in the dark here,’ he spat. ‘Follow them? With me paw smashed an’ ruined, an’ five slain, another five, maybe, wounded or injured? I give orders round ’ere, mudbrains, we follow ’em when I’m ready, an’ not before!’

  With lightning speed he shot out his good paw, and seizing the weasel Muggra by the neck he pulled him close, his hot breath vaporizing on the weasel’s face as he hissed, ‘But when this paw’s fixed an’ I’ve rested by a good fire, there’ll be noplace that badger can hide from Swartt Sixclaw. I’ll follow that one to the edge o
f the world or to Hellgates, and he’ll take a long time t’die at the blade of my sword. I’ll hunt him t’the death an’ slay him bit by bit, if it takes me ten seasons!’

  The vixen Nightshade continued binding Swartt’s paw, fixing the herbs and snow tight, with mud from the earth where the fire had been, and strips of aspen bark. ‘If you leave it later than this night it will take you a lifetime,’ she said as she worked.

  Swartt winced as the dressing tightened. ‘Shut yer slimy mouth, fox, always seein’ the future, or sayin’ that y’do. I could fix your future with one swing of me sword, that’d keep you quiet!’

  Muggra was choking under Swartt’s grip. The ferret looked at the weasel as if just noticing him. ‘What’re you doin’ gurglin’ there, didn’t I tell y’to get a fire goin’? Trattak! Halfrump! Gerrout an’ forage for dry timber! The rest of you, get shot of those deadbeasts an’ clear this place up!’ He flung the weasel aside.

  Later, as fresh flames licked hungrily around resinous pine boughs, Swartt lay back gritting his teeth, and muttering savagely: ‘We’ll meet again, badger. Make the best of these few days y’ve got left – I’ll find ye, Scumtripe!’

  * * *

  2

  The badger did not stop running until it was broad daylight, cold and crystal clear. He halted in a small clearing at the forest edge. Skarlath fluttered to one side as the hefty young badger threw himself down in the snow and lay panting, tongue lolling, as steam rose from his thick coat. After a while he sat up, cramming pawfuls of the cooling snow into his mouth and gulping them down.