[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain Read online

  Yund glanced over the shoulder of the slave who was serving the wine. He alerted Pitru. “Look, Lord! Atunra is coming out of the main gate.”

  Pitru winked at the scorecat and settled back with his eyes closed. He waited until the pine marten was close before addressing her. “Still skulking about, eh? What do you want now?”

  Atunra knew it was wise to keep a civil tongue in her head. “Your father would not approve . . .”

  Before she could finish, Pitru sprang up, whipping out the large, broad-bladed scimitar which he now carried at all times. “Silence! You will begin again by addressing me as Commander. That is my title until I become Warlord.”

  After a moment’s silence, Atunra bowed stiffly. “Commander, your father would never permit all the guards to be inside the fortress, and all those slaves, too. Lord Felis would never allow it. Guards have always lived in the barracks, and otterslaves in their compound. It is your father’s law.”

  The young cat placed his swordtip against the pine marten’s shoulder, pressing forward and then pushing her backward as he sneered in her face. “What some old, half-faced cat chooses to do is none of my concern. I make the rules now as commander of this fortress. Now get out of my sight, you spying lickpaw!”

  Atunra did not stop to argue. She turned on her paw and strode silently back indoors. Pitru put up his blade and swaggered back to his seat.

  Yund raised his goblet in salute. “That’s the way to deal with your father’s spy, Sire, though I’d watch my back while that ’un’s around if I were you.”

  Pitru spread his paws appealingly. “Perhaps if I had three good friends, then they would watch my back for me. And who knows, mayhaps those three friends would know how to deal with a spy in our midst?”

  The scorecat replied, with a look of enquiring innocence, “Indeed, Commander, and mayhaps such friends would be well rewarded when your time comes to rule as warlord?”

  Pitru closed his eyes and stretched out luxuriously. “A new warlord of Green Isle would need a fortress commander and two trusty weilmarks to serve him. He would remember his loyal friends.”

  Yund looked at Balur and Hinso. Both nodded wordlessly. Laying his spear at Pitru’s footpaws, Yund bowed deeply. “We live only to obey your commands, Sire!”

  Fleng and his squad had kept up their noisy pursuit of the otters from the far streambank. As darkness fell, they found a narrow rocky outcrop and forded the stream. The otters’ trail was not difficult to pick up. Leatho had halted the clans on a stony hilltop he had chosen to await the arrival of the cats.

  Fleng arrived shortly at the base of the hill. He hid his guards in the bushes, ordering them to fire a volley of arrows. The heavy barrage of rocks, javelins and slingstones that came back at them left Fleng’s squad pinned down so hard that they could not raise a paw to retaliate. The scorecat kept glancing back over his shoulder, waiting for his warlord to arrive with reinforcements. Leatho’s forces continued to batter the bushes relentlessly. It took Fleng only a short time to realise that half his squad lay slain around him. If he stayed, he would be killed along with the remainder of his guards. For some reason unknown to the scorecat, both he and his squad had been left abandoned. Signalling a retreat to his catguards, Fleng crawled backward from the bushes and fled.

  Big Kolun Galedeep, standing out in full view, lifted a boulder above his head and hurled it downhill at the enemy position. He complained to the outlaw, “Ain’t much goin’ on down there, Leatho. Those cats don’t seem to be puttin’ up a decent fight at all. Wot d’ye suppose is goin’ on?”

  Leatho slung a stone and peered downhill. “I’m not sure, mate. Either we lost ’em along the way or some are still tryin’ to cross the stream. Maybe we should take the fight to them an’ see wot happens.”

  That was all Big Kolun needed. Seizing his oar, he thundered off downhill, roaring, “Galedeeps to me! Yaylahooooo! Chaaaaaaarge!”

  Leatho could not halt Kolun and his clan, but he called out to the rest, “Watch yoreselves, it might be a trap. Follow me!”

  Leatho and Banya arrived on the scene together, only to find it devoid of foebeasts apart from ten slain guards. Kolun and his clan looked thoroughly disgruntled.

  The big otter hailed the outlaw. “Huh, just as well ye didn’t charge with me, Shellhound. There wasn’t any fightin’ t’do, they’ve gone!”

  Leatho rolled up his sling. “There’s somethin’ wrong, Kolun. It was all too easy. Wot do you think, Banya?”

  The tough ottermaid was a short distance away, supporting the head of a badly injured catguard until it drooped limply back and she let it go.

  “I got to that ’un just afore his lights went out. He managed to say that there wasn’t more’n a score of catguards. Said they was ordered to follow us an’ t’make the most noise they could, so that we’d think it was a full troop.”

  Leatho interrupted her. “But where’d Felis an’ the rest of’em get to?”

  Banya touched the dead guard with her footpaw. “He said they stayed back at the streambank where we first met up with the cats. I was goin’ to question him a bit more, but he just drifted off.”

  Kolun gritted his teeth. “Huh, lyin’ cowards, they won’t admit we beat ’em fair’n’square. That’s cats for ye!”

  Banya did not agree with him. “No, he spoke the truth. Look around, there was never over a hundred catguards here. Wot d’you think, Shellhound?”

  But Leatho was already on the move as the chilling realisation dawned on him. His voice was tight and urgent. “Kolun, get the clans on the move. Quick, at the double!”

  The big otter saw the alarm in his friend’s eyes. “Why, mate, wot’s goin’ on?”

  Leatho was running as he shouted out his explanation. “Felis outsmarted us. He’s gone the other way, t’the coast where the families are hidin’!”

  The outlaw was out ahead of everybeast, speeding like an arrow. Kolun and his brother Lorgo, together with Banya, headed the main band as they sped through the night. The big otter’s chest was heaving.

  “That scummy cat, goin’ after our families like that!”

  Banya steadied him as he stumbled against a tree. “Aye, ’tis just the sort of thing Felis’d do. Save yore breath, an’ let’s hope we can stop ’im, mate!”

  Word had passed through the clans of what might happen. The packed mass of otters increased their speed. Regardless of rock, bush or shrub, they stampeded madly toward the coast.

  14

  It was shortly after sunrise at the Abbey. Sister Snowdrop watched Friar Bibble filling a tray with breakfast foods for herself and Old Quelt. “A touch more honey on the Recorder’s oatmeal, if you please, Friar. He likes a lot of honey—oh, and some of those whortleberries, too, thank you.”

  Bibble obliged her. “There y’are, Sister. Oh, did ye hear? Tiria’s gone. An’ that Pandion bird, thanks be to goodness!”

  The aged Sister looked over her glasses. “Gone, Friar? Where to, what do you mean?”

  Bibble filled two beakers with coltsfoot and dandelion cordial. “Indeed to goodness, I thought you knew. She’s off on that journey of hers. I filled haversacks for them—her da, Brink and Tiria. They left before sunup.”

  Snowdrop appeared bemused by the news. “But she can’t do that! We haven’t gathered all the information she needs yet.”

  Friar Bibble wiped his paws and took a parchment from his apron pocket. “Well, I don’t know about that, Sister, but gone she has. Said I was to give this to you.”

  The little Sister tucked the parchment into her habit sleeve. “Thank you, Friar. Oh, when you see Brinty, Tribsy and Girry, will you please send them straight up to the library?”

  Bibble watched her skittering off with the laden tray. “Indeed to goodness, I’m more of a messenger than a cook this morning. Now then, baby Groop, what can I do for you?”

  The molebabe held her dish out solemnly. “No messinjers furr oi, jus’ vikkles, zurr. Lots of ’em!”

  Sister Snowdrop an
d Old Quelt shared the Recorder’s desk as they pored over Tiria’s letter. They looked up as the library door slammed open. Girry and Brinty dashed in, followed at a more sedate pace by Tribsy.

  The young mole was balancing a tray loaded high with food. “Hurr, Miz Tirry bein’ goned bain’t a-stoppen this choild gettin’ ee vikkles. G’mawnin’, zurr’n’marm!”

  Brantalis appeared in the doorway and honked. “I am thinking Tiria is gone from here!”

  Quelt peered at him over the rim of his oatmeal bowl. “Yes, she has. Why are you looking so pleased?”

  The barnacle goose did a waddling turn and started off downstairs, calling back to the Recorder, “I will look as pleased as I please, old one. No more hook-beaked fish eater to bother me. He went, too. I am thinking I will ask the Bibbler for two breakfasts now.”

  Snowdrop went back to studying the parchment, murmuring, “I’m sure that will please the Friar no end.”

  Brinty helped himself to a baked apple from Tribsy’s tray. “Huh, scooting off like that without so much as a thank-you or farewell. The Friar said Tiria left a letter. Is that it? Can I have a look, please?”

  Old Quelt straightened the creases from the parchment. “No, you can’t! Your paws are all full of cooked apple.”

  Girry stood on tip-paw, trying to see the letter. “My paws are clean.”

  The ancient squirrel’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Good, well, let’s see if you can’t keep them that way, young sir. I’ll read the letter out to you. Listen.”

  He held the missive at paw’s length, commenting before he read it, “Dearie me, spelling is not that ottermaid’s strong point, though she does write with a neat paw. Er, right.

  “Dear friends,

  Sorry I couldn’t stop to say good-bye. I had a dream last nite, and the High Rhulain said I must go to Green Isle rite away. I hope you find lots of things in the Geminya Tome book. Here are some words from my dreem which may help you: ‘Bide ye not on Mossflower shore, hasten to Green Isle. Thy presence there is needed sore, in coming time of trial. Leave thy Redwall friends to read that tale of ancient life, when Corriam the castaway took Mossguard maid as wife. Their secrets follow in thy wake, lost symbols will be found.’

  “There’s lots more, but my father and Brink are wateing, so I’ve got to go now. Pandion’s with me, too. I’m sure he’ll be a great help to me. I’ll miss you all very much, and Redwall, too. Thank you for your kind aid and frendship. I hope we’ll meet again someday.

  “Tiria”

  Tribsy dropped his tray and broke out sobbing. “Boohurrrrrr! Us’ll never see Tirry no more, she’m goned. Boohurhurhurrr! Oi wurr gurtly fond of ’er, she’m wurr allus koind an’ noice, an’ she’m wurr moi friend. Boohurrr!”

  Girry and Brinty were affected by their molefriend’s tears. They, too, turned aside and wept quietly. Old Quelt reached out a bony paw to lift up Sister Snowdrop’s chin. She was sniffling also, a tear rolling from beneath her small, square glasses.

  “Such a pleasant young ottermaid. Oh dear, I hadn’t realised how fond of Tiria I’d become!”

  Old Quelt shook his head in gentle reproof. “My my, just look at you all, blubbering away like Dibbuns at bathtime. Well, what’s it to be, eh? Are you going to waste time crying the day away, or are you going to do something to help your friend by solving the clues which she left for us?”

  There followed much wiping of paws and habit sleeves across eyes. Tribsy sat down by his fallen tray and sighed deeply. “Oi’ll be with ee direckly, zurr, soon as oi’ve ’ad moi brekkist!”

  A moment later, they were all hard at work.

  Tiria bounded along through Mossflower’s summer woodlands as though there were springs on her paws. Her regrets at leaving her home and friends soon vanished with the excitement of embarking on the quest. Pandion circled overhead, whilst Skipper and Brink trudged along behind, burdened by two large haversacks of supplies.

  Though she had pleaded with them to let her help with the packs, her father and the good Cellarhog would not hear of it.

  “Nay, missy, we’ll ’elp ye for as longs as needs be!”

  “Aye, me gel, ye might have to carry both of ’em alone afore yore journey’s done. Don’t get too far ahead of us now. Take a right turn at the bend o’ the next stream and stay away from the water’s edge. ’Tis deep an’ swampy there.”

  As she forged ahead, Banjon called after her, “Oh, an’ tell yore fish ’awk to walk from here. We don’t want no great bird frightenin’ the Guosim shrews.”

  Tiria guessed that they were not far from the watermeadow from the sounds of revelry which began echoing through the normally silent woodlands. It was a blend of singing, shouting and merriment.

  Pandion did not seem to like it. Spreading his wings, he addressed Tiria. “Kraaaaah! They will frighten off the fish with that din. I will hunt among the streams. When I have eaten, I will come and find you.”

  He winged off, and the ottermaid waited for her father and Brink to catch up. As they pressed forward through the trees, Brink chuckled at the growing sounds of raucous singing.

  “Those Guosim certainly know how to enjoy theirselves, Skip.”

  Banjon agreed. “Aye, that they do, mate, especially at their summer watermeadow festival.”

  There was a swift rustle of undergrowth, and a gruff voice called out, “Halt right there!”

  Tiria was surprised by her first meeting with the Guosim. The travelers were suddenly surrounded by twelve or more shrews, tough-looking little beasts with spiky fur. Each one wore a coloured headband, a short kilt with a broad-buckled belt and a ferocious scowl. They were all armed with short rapiers.

  A youngish shrew flourished his blade aggressively at them. “Stand still, or ye’ll be deadbeasts!”

  Skipper murmured to Brink and his daughter, “Don’t say anythin’, leave this t’me.”

  Banjon looked the young shrew up and down fearlessly. “Well, Dobra Westbrook, ye’ve sprouted up a touch since I last clapped eyes on ye. Where’s yore dad? Still swiggin’ grog an’ wrestlin’ with the best of ’em, is he?”

  Dobra stared hard at Skipper for a moment. Then he put up his blade and hugged him fondly. “Nuncle Banjon, ye ole gullywhumper! Where’ve ye been all these seasons? What brings ye t’the watermeadow?”

  Skipper pulled himself loose and held Dobra at paw’s length. “I’ve come t’see yore dad. I thought you was him at first. By the rudder, ye look just like him!”

  Tiria cast a sidelong glance at her father. “Nuncle?”

  Skipper explained, “Dobra’s always called me that, since I made him his first liddle sling. That was about four seasons afore you were born.”

  The watermeadow was practically a carpet of gypsywort, sundew, water plantain, bulrush, reed and wide-padded water lilies. The three visitors were escorted to a logboat which transported them out to a big island at the centre of the meadow. Dobra leaped ashore as the prow nosed into land. The place seemed to be packed with Guosim shrews—families picnicking, maids dancing, elders arguing, groups singing and various contests of skill taking place. They followed Dobra through the carnival atmosphere to the middle of the island, where it seemed the main event was being held. A number of veteran Guosim warriors were seated in the treeshade, eating and drinking as they watched a slinging competition.

  Dobra called out to a sturdy, tough-faced shrew, “Ahoy, Dad! Lookit wot the frogs just dragged in!”

  Log a Log Urfa, Chieftain of the Western Guosim tribe, stood up. He swaggered over, growling savagely, “Haharr, ’tis a mad ole plank-tailed waterwalloper who thinks he kin wrestle. Let’s see wot ye can do, cully!”

  They leapt upon each other, crashing to the ground and setting the dust flying as they grappled and grunted like madbeasts. Tiria became alarmed. Just as she was reaching for her sling, they both sprang up and began hugging and laughing.

  “Urfa Westbrook, ye great grog tub, how are ye, buckoe?”

  “Banjon Wildlough, me ole matey,
if’n I feel half as good as yore lookin’, then I’m fine!”

  Introductions were made all around. The guests were seated and given tankards of Guosim Grog, accompanied by huge thick wedges of pie, which turned out to be leek and turnip with savoury herbs.

  Skipper started right in telling Urfa about Tiria and her need for a boat, but the Guosim chieftain touched a paw to his lips. He pointed to the slinging competition.

  “Hush now, matey, I’ll talk to ye in a moment. The Dipper’s about to throw. I don’t want to miss this!”

  Brink whispered, “Which one’s the Dipper?”

  Urfa pointed out a tall, sinewy shrew who was stepping up to the mark and selecting stones from his pouch. “That ’un there, Brink. Ole Dipper’s got an eye like a huntin’ eagle. Ain’t nobeast in all the land kin sling a stone like the Dipper can! You just watch an’ see.”

  Banjon sized the shrew up keenly. “Yore Dipper must be a good ’un if ye say so, mate. Wot’s the target he’s slingin’ for?”

  Urfa nodded to a figure suspended from a beech limb some distance off. It was a crude likeness of a weasel, with torso and limbs made from stuffed sacking. The head was carved from a turnip, with two hazelnuts for eyes.