Lord Brocktree Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Map

  Prologue

  Book One: The Days of Ungatt Trunn

  also entitled: Dorothea Leaves Home

  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

  Book Two: At the Court of King Bucko

  also entitled: The Tribulations of a Haremaid

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Book Three: Comes a Badger Lord

  also entitled: A Shawl for Aunt Blench

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Brian Jacques

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Salamandastron, ancestral home of the Badger Lords, is under threat from the wildcat Ungatt Trunn, whose power seems absolute and whose evil knows no bounds. The mountain’s only hope is the badger, Lord Brocktree, who is drawn to the fortress by an undeniable sense of destiny.

  BRIAN

  JACQUES

  A TALE OF REDWALL

  LORD BROCKTREE

  Illustrated by Fangorn

  I am the Teller of Tales,

  Gaze into the fire with me,

  For I know of the Badger Lords,

  And their mountain, by the sea.

  ’Tis of a fearsome warrior,

  Full of fate and destiny,

  Who followed dreams, along strange paths,

  Unknown to such as we.

  This Badger Lord was fearless,

  As all who followed him knew,

  And the haremaid he befriended,

  Why, she was as young as you!

  But no less bold or courageous,

  Full of valour and strong of heart,

  Aye, young ’uns like you, good and true,

  May stand to take their part.

  So here is my story, may it bring

  Some smiles, and a tear or so,

  It happened, once upon a time,

  Far away, and long ago.

  Outside the night wind keens and wails,

  Come listen to me, the Teller of Tales!

  Prologue

  LORD RUSSANO OF Salamandastron put aside his quill and capped a tiny gourd of ink with a wooden stopper. Leaving his study, the badger went downstairs, clutching a wooden pail full of parchment scrolls. He was met at the bottom by his wife, Lady Rosalaun, who shook her head reprovingly at him.

  ‘So, that’s where my pail went. I’ve been looking everywhere for it. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, pinching pails!’

  However, Russano looked anything but ashamed. He held up the pail and shook it triumphantly. ‘Look, Rosalaun, I’ve finished it, my history of Lord Brocktree’s journey and conquest of our mountain!’

  Rosalaun smiled at her husband. He was the kindest and wisest badger Salamandastron had ever known, though when he was enthusiastic about his pet projects he behaved like a cheerful eager youngster. She took hold of his inkstained paw as they walked to the dining hall. ‘They’re all waiting, you know. Remember, you promised to read them the story once you’d completed it.’

  Russano chuckled. ‘I don’t suppose Snowstripe, Melanius and the leverets would wait a day or two until I tidy this manuscript up a bit?’

  Rosalaun stopped Russano in his tracks. ‘There’s not just our son and daughter and some young leverets waiting to hear you read the tale. Word has got round. Every hare on the mountain wants to hear it too!’

  Russano turned and made for the stairs, but his wife held on to his paw. The Badger Lord appeared rather flustered. ‘Every hare, you say? You mean all of them? But . . . but . . . I only meant this as something for the young ’uns, to teach them a little of our mountain’s history!’

  Rosalaun squeezed his paw affectionately. ‘That’s not fair. What about us older ones, the parents and grandkin, aren’t we entitled to know our mountain’s history? I for one would love to hear it. Besides, you have a wonderful storytelling voice. Oh, say you’ll read it to us all, Russano, please!’

  The Badger Lord allowed himself to be led off again towards the dining hall. ‘Oh, all right, but it’ll take a few days. This is a big work. I’ve been two seasons now, reading through dusty old parchments, interviewing creatures for stories about their ancestors, and studying carvings in the forge. I’ve sat on the shore, listening to sea otters, stood beneath trees recording squirrels – huh, I’ve even had to crouch for four days in a mole dwelling. Had to keep waking those two fat old moles up so I could hear their story. Do you know, it was told to them by their great-grandma, who had it from her old aunt’s cousin, twice removed on the uncle’s side, or so they said?’

  Rosalaun stood with her hand on the doorlatch. ‘Yes, yes, I know all that, Russano. It won’t matter how long you take to read the thing. You can space it out, a bit every evening. Nothing nicer on a winter’s night than a good story. Now, the fire’s banked up, supper’s on the table, and everybeast is waiting. So in you go!’

  The dining hall was packed to capacity, mainly with hares, though there was a scattering of moles, squirrels, hedgehogs, mice, and some visiting otters. Lord Russano was immediately captured by his two young offspring, Melanius and Snowstripe, who tugged him up the three broad steps to where his chair had been placed next to a supper-laden table.

  ‘Papa Papa, read the story to us, please please!’

  ‘Are me an’ Snowstripe in the story, Papa?’

  Russano chuckled as he sat them down on the cushioned chair arms on either side of him. ‘Great seasons, you’d have to be many many seasons old to be in this tale. Now sit still and be quiet, my dears.’

  Silence fell over the hall, broken only by the door’s opening as the duty cooks came hurrying in. Everybeast turned round and shushed them loudly, and quiet was restored once more. Russano split open a small loaf, cut a thick chunk of cheese and jammed it in the bread, making himself a rough sandwich. Every eye was upon him as he took a few good bites and washed them down with a half-tankard of October Ale. The still atmosphere was broken by a small hedgehog squeaking aloud.

  ‘When’s a Badgelord goin’ t’get on wiv it?’

  Russano left off eating and looked quizzically at the hogbabe. ‘Get on with what?’

  A deafening roar rang out from the crowded hall. ‘The story!’

  Russano looked up in mock surprise. ‘Oh, did you want me to read you my story?’

  He clapped paws to his ears as the noise hit him like a tidal wave. ‘Yeeeeeeessssss!’

  The small polished hardwood stick that Russano always carried with him was lying on the table. Lady Rosalaun picked it up and waved it warningly under his nose. ‘Lord Russano, will you please stop teasing and read the story. Either that, or straight off to bed with you!’

  Everybeast, especially the little ones, laughed at the idea of a Badger Lord being sent to bed for being naug
hty. Russano pulled the first scroll from the pail. Unrolling it across the tabletop, he placed his tankard on the top edge to stop it folding back. His kind brown eyes roamed the hall, a smile hovering upon his lips as he spoke.

  ‘Friends, I will read to you for a few hours each evening. Salamandastron’s history goes back further into the mists of time than even I would dare to guess. But the mountain as we know it today, with its leveret school, Long Patrol and laws set down for all to live in peace by, is due mainly to the work of one creature: Lord Brocktree of Brockhall. It was he who was responsible for the life we enjoy here – the outer gardens and terraces, the orchards and crop-growing areas, and the wonderful chambers, so full of comfort. Other badgers were here before him, and they were all good Lords in their own fashion, but not until the time of Lord Brocktree of Brockhall did the mountain really come into its own. I have recorded the history of his early years as faithfully as I could.

  ‘So, then, here it is. I hope you learn lessons from it, take heed of its value, and most of all I hope you enjoy it as a mighty tale of great warriors.’

  BOOK ONE

  The Days of Ungatt Trunn

  also entitled

  Dorothea Leaves Home

  1

  LONELINESS WAS EVERYWHERE. Hopelessness and an air of foreboding had settled over the western shores, casting their pall over land, sea and the mountain of Salamandastron. Yet nobeast knew the cause of it.

  A pale moon of early spring cast its wan light down upon the face of the mighty deeps, touching each wind-driven wavetop with flecks of cold silver. Soughing breakers crashed endlessly upon the strand, weary after their journey from the corners of the earth. Above the tideline, gales chased dry sand against the rocks, forcing each particle to sing part of the keening dirge that blended with the sounds of the dark ocean.

  In his chamber overlooking the scene, Lord Stonepaw sat in his great chair, feeling as ancient as the mountain he ruled. In one corner, his bed stood neatly made, unused now for a score of seasons. He was far too old; the ritual of lying down each night and rising next day had become painful for his bones. Drawing his cloak tight against vagrant night chills, the once mighty Badger Lord squinted rheumily out to sea, worrying constantly about his domain.

  Without bothering to knock, a venerable hare creaked his way into the chamber, leaning heavily upon a small serving cart which he was pushing before him. Stonepaw’s efforts to ignore him were of no avail. He fussed hither and thither, like a broody hen with only one chick, chunnering constantly as he went about his chores. ‘Mmmm, no fire lit again, eh, m’lud? Catch your death o’ cold one night y’will, mark m’ words!’

  Sparks from the flint he was striking against a blade, coupled with his wheezy blowing, soon had a flame from dry moss crackling against pine twigs.

  ‘Hmmm, that’s better, wot? C’mon, get this supper down. You’ve got to blinkin’ well eat to live, y’know!’

  Stonepaw shook his head at the sight of the food his servant was laying out on the small table at his side. ‘Leave me alone, Fleetscut. I’ll have it later.’

  ‘No y’won’t, sire, you’ll flippin’ well have it now! I ain’t goin’ t’the bother o’ luggin’ vittles from the kitchen to watch you let ’em go cold. Hot veggible soup an’ fresh bread, that’ll do you the world o’ good, wot!’

  The ancient badger sighed with resignation. ‘Oh, give your tongue a rest. I’ll take the soup. Bread’s no good t’me, though. Too crusty – hurts my gums.’

  Fleetscut brooked no arguments. Drawing his dagger, he trimmed the crusts from the still oven-warm loaf. ‘No crusts now, wot? Dip it in your soup, m’lud.’ The hare perched on the chair arm, helping himself to soup and bread, in the hope that it might encourage his master’s appetite. Stonepaw snorted mirthlessly.

  ‘Huh, look at us. Me, Stonepaw, hardly able to hold a spoon with the same paws that used to lift huge boulders, and you, Fleetscut, doddering round with a trolley!’

  The hare nudged his old friend and cackled. ‘Heh heh heh! Mebbe so, but I can still remember the days when I could leap three times as high as that trolley, aye, an’ run from dawn to dusk without stoppin’ to draw breath. Wasn’t a bally hare on the mountain could even stay with my dust trail! Those were the seasons, wot! You too, Stonepaw. I saw you lift boulders bigger’n yourself when we were young, you could break spears an’ bend swords with your bare paws . . .’

  Stonepaw gazed at the paws in question. ‘That may have been, my old messmate, but look at my paws now, silver-furred, battered, scarred and so full of aches and pains that they’re no good for anything!’

  Fleetscut hauled himself from the chair arm and went to lean at the long window overlooking the sea. ‘So what’s the blinkin’ problem? Everybeast has t’grow old, nothin’ can stop that. We’ve had a long an’ good life, you’n’me, fought our battles, protected the western coast against all comers, an’ never once backed off from any fight. There’s been peace now for as long as any creature on the mountain can remember. What’re you worryin’ about, sire?’

  With a grunt, Stonepaw rose slowly from his chair and joined his companion at the window. He stared out at the darkened waters as he replied. ‘Peace has gone on too long. Something inside me says that trouble such as these shores have never known is headed our way. I wished that we could live our days out without having to take up arms again, Fleetscut, but deep down I’m stone cold certain it won’t happen. Worst part of it is that I can’t even guess what the future holds.’

  Fleetscut looked strangely at the Badger Lord, then shuddered and went to warm himself by the fire. ‘Sire, I know exactly how you feel. Matter o’ fact I was thinkin’ those very thoughts this afternoon, when old Blench the cook said to me: “Looks like evil comin’ soon.” She says: “See for yourself, there ain’t a sight or sound of a single bird anywhere on land or sea!”’

  Lord Stonepaw stroked his long silver beard thoughtfully. ‘Blench was right, too, now you come to mention it. Where do you suppose all the birds have gone? The skies are usually thick with gulls, cormorants, petrels and shearwaters in late spring.’

  Fleetscut shrugged expressively. ‘Who knows what goes on in the mind of a seabird? Maybe they know things we don’t. Stands t’reason, though, sire, why should they hang about if they know somethin’ bad is due to come here?’

  The badger smiled at his faithful old friend. ‘Why indeed? They have no duty to protect this coast and they can always build nests elsewhere. Leave me now, I’ll talk to you on the morrow. There are things I must do.’

  Fleetscut had never questioned his Badger Lord’s authority, and was not about to do so now. Bobbing a stiff bow he left the chamber, pushing his trolley.

  Lord Stonepaw made his way to the secret chamber where countless other Badger Rulers of Salamandastron had gone to dream mysterious dreams. It was a place that would have made the hairs on any other creature’s back stand stiff. Ranged around the walls of the inner chamber were lines of little carvings, telling of the mountain’s history. Guarding it in fearsome armoured array stood the mummified bodies of past Badger Warriors: Urthrun the Gripper, Spearlady Gorse, Bluestripe the Wild, Ceteruler the Just and many other legendary figures.

  From his own lantern, Stonepaw lit three others: Then, taking a pawful of herbs from a shelf, he sprinkled them into the lantern vents. As the sweet-smelling incense of smoke wreathed him, he sat down upon a carved rock throne. Closing both eyes, he breathed in deeply and let his mind take flight. After a while he began speaking.

  ‘If the gates of Dark Forest lie open for me soon, if the shadow of evil darkens our western shores, who will serve in my stead? My hares are scattered far and wide. Peacetime makes young warriors restless; they are gone questing afar for adventure. Only the old guard are left here with me on this mountain, dim of eye and feeble of limb, the seasons of their strength long flown.’

  Lord Stonepaw’s eyes began flickering, and the herbal smoke swirled about his great silver head as he sat up straig
ht, his voice echoing around the rockbound cavern.

  ‘Where is the strongest of the strong? Who can be so perilous that a force of fighting hares will rise and follow that creature? Is there a badger roaming the earth brave and mighty enough to become Lord of Salamandastron?’

  Outside on the strand, the gale increased, waves crashed widespread on the tideline in their effort to conquer the land, like a maddened beast the ocean roared. Sand swept upward into winding columns, driving, spiralling, crazily across the shore. Yet still was there no sound of birds or any other living thing to be heard.

  A foreboding of great evil lay over the land and sea. But nobeast knew the cause of it.

  . . . Yet.

  2

  IN THE NORTHEAST reaches of Mossflower Wood a traveller had walked straight into trouble. Drigg Slopmouth and his brood numbered thirteen in all, nasty, vicious stoats every one. Drigg’s family loved to cheat, lie, steal, bully or murder, even among themselves; their chief hatred was honest toil. The only work they had done that day was to lie in wait for an unsuspecting wayfarer, a lanky carefree young hare known to her friends as Dotti. She was reckless and impatient and not over-fond of studying, but what she lacked in scholarly achievement she made up for in impudence, courage and a sharp wit. The realisation that she was surrounded by Drigg and his band of robbers did not seem to upset her unduly.

  She nodded amiably at them. ‘Good mornin’, chaps an’ chappesses. Not a bad old sort o’ day for the time of season, wot!’

  A snigger arose from the stoats.

  ‘Lookit wot we caught, Drigg – a posh rabbit!’

  Dotti rounded on the speaker, a fat frowsy female. ‘Specifically incorrect, doncha know, my old stoatess. I’m a hare, not a rabbit. Now say it correctly after me. Lookit wot we caught, Drigg – a posh hare.’

  Drigg stepped between them, pointing to the travelling haversack, which resembled an outsized handbag, swinging from the young hare’s paw. ‘Empty yer bag on the ground!’

  Dotti smiled sweetly at him. ‘Oh, I’d rather not, sir. It’d take me half the day to get the jolly old thing repacked, wot!’