Eulalia! Read online

  EULALIA!

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Redwall

  Mossflower

  Mattimeo

  Mariel of Redwall

  Salamandastron

  Martin the Warrior

  The Bellmaker

  Outcast of Redwall

  Pearls of Lutra

  The Long Patrol

  Marlfox

  The Legend of Luke

  Lord Brocktree

  Taggerung

  Triss

  Loamhedge

  Rakkety Tam

  High Rhulain

  Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

  The Angel’s Command

  Voyage of Slaves

  The Great Redwall Feast

  A Redwall Winter’s Tale

  The Tale of Urso Brunov

  Seven Strange and Ghostly Tales

  The Ribbajack

  BRIAN JACQUES

  EULALIA!

  Illustrated by DAVID ELLIOT

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand. Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2007 by The Redwall La Dita Co., Ltd.

  Illustrations copyright © 2007 by David Elliot.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, PHILOMEL BOOKS, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  The text is set in 11/12.5-point Palatino.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jacques, Brian.

  Eulalia! / Brian Jacques; illustrated by David Elliot.

  p. cm.

  Summary: On his way to invade Redwall Abbey, vicious and tyrannical Captain Vizka Longtooth captures Gorath, the brave young badger whose predicted destiny is to become the next Badger Lord.

  [1. Badgers—Fiction. 2. Foxes—Fiction. 3. Animals—Fiction. 4. Fantasy.]

  I. Elliot, David, 1952–ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.J15317 Eul 2007

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007060022

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0880-9

  First Impression

  IN HONOUR OF PETER MCGOVERN,

  A TRUE FRIEND AND A GREAT MAN

  Contents

  Prologue

  BOOK ONELongtooth’s Prisoner

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  BOOK TWOA Thief Absolved

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  BOOK THREEThe Battle of the Plateau

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Am I not fortunate, sitting in the forge chamber at Salamandastron? The fire is well banked up—I feel its warmth all around me, whilst I gaze out over our western shores at the sea. What an awesome sight, the vast deeps, on a moonlit winter night. Mountainous waves take on a silver sheen, powerful and mysterious as they thunder in from beyond the horizon.

  Headlong, they crash in cascades of foaming spray upon the shore. Chuckling darkly over pebbles, and hissing secrets to the silent sands, as they are drawn back into the depths of boundless water. Nature, my friend, beautiful and fearsome, a hypnotic force few can resist. Goodness, how one’s mind can wander, merely sitting here looking out from the forge room window. I must get back to writing my Chronicle.

  It is a tale of several fates, each with its own destiny. Since I arrived at this mountain, I have set myself a pleasurable duty. From my own recollections, and information gathered from friends, both old and young, I recently put quill to parchment and began this Chronicle. Mayhaps when the story is finally told, my young daughter will enjoy reading it. I hope you will, too, my friend. Well, it starts like this…

  BOOK ONE

  Longtooth’s Prisoner

  1

  It was a night for raiding. Beneath a dark, moonless sky, high seas ran grey and smooth to the shores of the Northern Isles. With her big single sail bellying smoothly, the vessel Bludgullet nosed shoreward, like some huge seabeast seeking its prey in coastal waters. Perched at the masthead, straddling the mainsail spar, the lookout, a small rat called Firty, was first to glimpse the glimmering, golden light on the far side of the saltmarshes. Noting the position of the illumination, he slid skillfully down a rope to the gently heaving deck.

  Scurrying to the captain’s cabin, Firty rapped on the door. He waited until a tall, golden fox emerged. The little rat tugged his ear in salute.

  “Cap’n, dere’s a light showin’ ashore, dead ahead. I t’ink it might be sum sorta buildin’, Cap’n.”

  Flinging a heavy cape across his shoulders, Captain Vizka Longtooth smiled, exposing a pair of oversized fangs. Firty swallowed hard. He, like every Sea Raider aboard the Bludgullet, had come to know the danger in Longtooth’s smile.

  “A buildin’, ya say! Better sumthin’ than nought on dis sun-fersaken shore, eh?”

  The small crewrat nodded nervously, watching his captain reach for the mace and chain. It was a vicious weapon, a spiked iron ball on a thick chain, attached to an oaken handle. Firty crept backward, trying to stay out of his captain’s way as he toyed with the mace and chain, swinging the spiked ball with a flick of his paw. The golden fox continued smiling, allowing the mace spikes to dent the woodwork of the cabin door. Firty tried to keep his eyes off the hypnotically swinging weapon.

  “Will ya be goin’ ashore, Cap’n?”

  Vizka halted the swing of his mace; he fondled the spikes lovingly. “Aye, it wouldn’t be gudd manners not
t’call when dey left a light on fer us. Tell Codj ter rouse der crew. We’re goin’ visitin’!”

  As Bludgullet’s keel ground into the shallows, the small, golden light stood out clear against the dark, velvet canopy of night sky. The vermin waded ashore, everybeast armed to the teeth, eager for booty and blood.

  It was a night for raiding!

  Lost in the deep sleep of total exhaustion, Gorath lay slumped by a glowing turf fire in the small farmhouse. There was a claw missing from one of the young badger’s forepaws, his pads were thick with calluses and hardened scars. Wrestling half-buried boulders and uprooting scrubby tree stumps from the frozen earth was hard and punishing labour for a single beast. Gorath performed all his tasks unaided; his grandparents were too old for such heavy work. It was no easy life on the Northern Isles, both the weather and the land were hostile. Gorath, however, had youth on his side, plus unbridled strength, and an in-born tenacity. In short, he was like most male badgers, doggedly stubborn.

  All Gorath knew of his early life had been imparted to him by his grandparents. His family came from the far Southern lands; both his parents were warriors who had fallen in battle during the Great Vermin Wars. The remainder of Gorath’s family had been forced to flee the South.

  The two old badgers took their little grandson in a small boat. They set off seeking a dream, a refuge of peace and happiness, where they could live without fear. They had heard tales of such places, the mountain of Salamandastron, and the Abbey of Redwall, legendary havens!

  However, cruel fate and capricious weather shattered their dream. The aged badgers were landbeasts, with little knowledge of the sea. Their boat was blown far off course, and wrecked upon the rocks of the Northern Isles by a mighty storm. Gorath’s grandparents stumbled ashore, carrying him between them, all three fortunate to be alive. That was how they came to a new life on the cold Northern Isles.

  Their first few seasons ashore taught the three badgers some harsh lessons. A need for nourishment and shelter was paramount. Using timber from their wrecked boat, local stone, earth and moss, the grandfather built the house. Gorath and his grandmother foraged for food, whilst struggling to make the scrubland arable. It was hard, but they survived until their first meager crop came in, confirming that they were finally farmers.

  Gorath grew to be a dutiful grandson, and a diligent worker. He never failed his grandparents, though as the seasons passed, one into another, things became more difficult for him. Wearied with age and illness, his grandparents grew unable to carry on working.

  Thus it was that Gorath faced the hardships alone. He carried on clearing the windswept scrubland, planting, digging, coaxing and harvesting sparse crops from the thin soil. It was grindingly arduous work for a lone young one, but Gorath never complained. Sometimes in the long, dark evenings, when the wind dirged outside, Gorath would sit by the turf fire, listening as his grandfather told tales of Salamandastron or Redwall Abbey. How much truth there was in such stories, none of the badgers really knew, having never visited either place.

  But the young Gorath was ever eager to hear more. He was thrilled at the thought of Salamandastron, the fortress of warriors, ruled by Badger Lords, where none knew the meaning of fear. His grandfather taught Gorath a song about Salamandastron. Though the young badger never had cause or reason to be anything other than a peaceful farmer, something in the ballad wakened a feeling deep within him. It stirred warlike emotions, which made Gorath both excited and fearful, when he sang it as he worked throughout the daylight hours.

  “Where wild waves break on West’ring shore,

  that mighty rock mark well,

  here live the free, the bold, the brave,

  Aye, here the warriors dwell…

  Salamandastron!

  In dreams you speak to me.

  Salamandastron!

  Great fortress by the sea.

  “Let evil ones come as they will,

  our steel awaits them here,

  wild fighting hares and Badger Lords,

  will teach them how to fear…

  Salamandastron!

  Our battle cry rings far.

  Salamandastron!

  Come shout Eulaliaaaaa!”

  Other times his grandmother told stories she had heard about Redwall Abbey. Gorath would gaze into the fire longingly. What a delightful place, the young badger thought. One immense home, built on happiness, peace and prosperity. Where many types of creatures lived in harmony, working, feasting and enjoying life together. Though Gorath was stirred by his grandfather’s stories of Salamandastron, he also liked to hear about Redwall, with its gentle, more tranquil way of life. But what did it all matter now? Cruel fate and ill winds had denied everything to the young Gorath, leaving him far across the stormy seas, marooned on the harsh Northern Isles, with no means to follow his dreams.

  These days, Gorath’s main refuge came through sleep. Moreso as his grandparents had gone silent, they seldom told tales, or sang. They, too, withdrew into themselves, slumbering constantly.

  The young badger lay by the fire, letting his eyes close, thinking how the weather had played a miserable trick on him. It had been a wild winter, followed by a false spring. In the space of a single night, all the crops, seedlings and fresh green growth, which Gorath had toiled upon, were blighted. Winter had returned with renewed fury, withering and freezing everything which had begun growing.

  Gorath fell asleep with his grandmother’s words echoing through his mind.

  “If we have little else, at least we have peace on these Northern Isles.”

  And so they had.

  Until that night, when the Bludgullet sailed in, and Vizka Longtooth decided that it was a night for raiding!

  2

  Gorath found himself thrust roughly into a waking nightmare. Hot scattered embers of the fire were kicked into his face. Screams and roars echoed around the farmhouse amid the flickering shadows and smoke. Instinctively the young badger sat upright, grasping the closest thing to his paw. It was the big, double-pronged pitchfork he called Tung. But even as his paw fell upon it, a blinding pain exploded in his head. Dazed by the impact, he turned to see what had struck him.

  A big, golden-furred fox wielding a mace and chain was standing over him. The intruder’s long fangs glittered, as he smiled in astonished amusement, calling to his crew, “Dis wan haz der head like a rock I t’ink.”

  Before the stunned badger had a chance to dodge, the golden fox brought the ball and chain crashing down again.

  Brilliant coloured lights and a cascade of shooting stars thundered through Gorath’s skull. He fell into a void of agonised darkness.

  How long he remained in that state, the young badger had no way of knowing. Then strange visions began confronting him, a mountain on the silent, sunlit shores of a great sea. He was wading slowly toward it through the waves. Standing on the tide line, over twoscore huge badgers stood watching him. They were armed with a selection of swords, axes, clubs and spears, each one a beautifully crafted weapon. Something told Gorath that these were not beasts from among the ranks of the living, but the shades of warriors who had passed beyond the pale.

  One massive, silver-coated patriarch, far older than the rest, waded out to meet Gorath. He thrust a paw into the young badger’s chest, his voice booming out over the sea. “Why come ye to Salamandastron?”

  Gorath resisted the pushing paw, he did not like being shoved about. “Take your paw from me, old one!”

  But the ancient continued pressing him backward. “Go ye to the Abbey of Redwall!” He pushed Gorath hard with both paws, sending him floundering into the sea. The young badger spluttered, spitting out the cold salt water.

  “Lookit, Cap’n, der stripe’ound’s alive!”

  Gorath retched, as a weasel hurled a second pail of seawater into his face. He came awake to find himself onboard a large ship, surrounded by vermin, an evil-looking crew. Weasels, ferrets, stoats and rats, all fully armed and clad in tattered barbaric gear. Gorath was
held captive, a thick, iron chain was padlocked tightly about his middle, the chain secured to the lofty mainmast.

  Refilling his pail from over the ship’s side, the weasel hauled it up on a rope and prepared to swing it at the prisoner.

  “Can I give ’im annuver drink, Cap’n?”

  The tall, golden fox, who had struck Gorath down, was leaning on the midship rail. Smiling, he revealed his long fangs to the captive. “Well, do ya still be t’irsty, stripe-’ound?”

  Congealed blood from the dreadful wound on Gorath’s forehead had stuck one of his eyes shut. The young badger stooped against the deck, his head was throbbing unmercifully. Saturated and shivering, he swayed as waves of nausea swept over him.

  The golden fox kicked him, repeating the question.

  “Be ya deaf as well as daft? Do ya wanna drink, stripe’ound? Speak!”

  Gorath pulled himself upright against the mast, staring at his captor angrily. “I am not called stripehound, my name is Gorath!”

  The fox ignored him, turning to the weasel with the pail. “Give der stripe’ound dat udder drink, Balid.”

  As the pail of freezing water sloshed over him, Gorath gasped with shock. The fox pointed at him with his mace haft.

  “Yew got no name aboard my ship, except wot I calls ya. I’ll call ya Rock’ead, ’cos yew got a skull t’ick as a rock. Aye, Rock’ead, dat’s a good name, eh?”