Lord Brocktree Read online

  ‘Hah, there’s woodworm in that log paddlin’ faster’n you lot!’

  ‘Ho, is there now, cheekychops? You’ll soon be eatin’ our spray from behind, matey!’

  ‘Gurr, doan’t ee strain you’mselfs, zurrs. Jus’ ee stop in us’n’s wake, naow!’

  ‘Wake, is it? We thought ye were asleep, hohoho!’

  ‘Scallywag, I’ll bend my paddle o’er yore ’ead fer that!’

  ‘Tut tut, me ole messmate, you’ll ’ave to catch us first! Give ’em vinegar, Kubba – show ’em the ole double-stroke!’

  ‘Come on, sah, wield that paddle as if it were your sword, wot!’

  Kubba’s booming shout rang out over the sunflecked waters.

  ‘Ship yore paddles, stop that fuss,

  Let the stream work carryin’ us!’

  Everybeast stowed paddles, allowing the boats to skim elegantly along on the silent current.

  Brocktree leaned back, breathing heavily. ‘Whew! We must have covered a day’s distance in half a morn there. What d’you say, Ruff?’

  ‘Aye, we made the fishes look as if’n they was stannin’ still.’

  Dotti flopped down upon the prow, wiping spray from her ears. ‘By the left an’ by jingo, I’m kerfoozled! What about you?’

  Gurth’s smile split his dark-furred features almost in half. ‘Uz floo loik burds, miz. Et wurr wunnerful!’

  The remainder of that memorable day on the stream passed in similar fashion, sometimes racing, other times cruising, with banter, shanties and good comradeship prevailing over all. In the late afternoon Grenn passed on orders to make landfall at a recognised Guosim camping spot, a shallow sunlit cove. They waded in the clear water, stretching and getting the feel of paws on solid ground again. A few of the younger shrews went deeper for a swim. Gurth watched the cooks setting up their fire and digging out supplies and cauldrons. The kindly mole gave their rations a quick look over before having a word with Dotti.

  ‘Gurth says you lot can have the evenin’ off,’ the haremaid announced to the delighted shrewcooks. ‘He’ll be chef today. You chaps are in for a treat – my molepal’s going to make gurt tunnel stew, followed by preserved apple’n’plum pudden with sweet chestnut sauce. How does that sound, wot?’

  The cooks patted Gurth’s back and hugged him thankfully. Then in the true manner of shrews they hung about, observing him at work, offering advice and criticism and arguing among themselves.

  ‘You needs to peel those turnips thinner. Don’t waste any.’

  ‘Pay no ’eed to that’n, Gurth. You peel ’em ’ow you like, but I’d roll me pastry wider if I was you.’

  ‘Rubbish. The mole’s rolled it too wide as it is, can’t y’see!’

  ‘That cauldron’ll boil over if’n you don’t watch it!’

  ‘Shows ’ow much you know, sniggletail. A watched cauldron never boils, that’s wot my mum allus said!’

  ‘Yore doin’ that dried fruit all wrong, Gurth. ’Ere, let me show yer ’ow ’tis done!’

  Dotti had a quick word with Lord Brocktree, who soon settled the argument. Drawing his great battle blade he sliced a dead limb from an old willow with one mighty stroke.

  ‘Some wood for your fire, Gurth. Oh, whilst I’ve got my sword out, d’you want me to stop any shrews from interfering with your cooking? I could whack off a few tails, eh?’

  By the time Gurth turned to answer the shrews had fled. ‘Thankee, zurr Brock. They’m surpintly muddlin’ argifyin’ likkle h’aminals. Oi never see’d ought like um!’

  Log a Log Grenn approached Dotti, Ruff and Brocktree and pointed downstream. ‘I was going to take a stroll along the bank. We have to cross a ford before we reach the river tomorrow – just thought I’d best check t’see if the ford level is high enough to sail over. If not we’ll have to carry the boats along the bankside. Would ye like to take a walk with me, friends?’

  Brocktree sheathed the sword upon his broad back. ‘Be with you in a moment, marm. I want to check on Skittles. D’you know I’ve not seen hide nor hair of that rascal since morn?’

  Ruff pointed out a group of young shrews frolicking in the stream, Skittles splashing and giggling with them. ‘There’s the rogue. He’s been with that gang all day, travellin’ up front in the lead boat with Grenn.’

  The shrew Chieftain turned her eyes to the sky. ‘I always make the young ’uns sit in my boat so I can keep an eye on ’em. But seasons o’ vinegar, I’ve never had to cope with one like that Skittles – he’s more trouble than a barrel o’ beetles!’

  The Badger Lord smiled and shook his head. ‘Aye, he is that. As soon as I mentioned getting a wash this morning he vanished like smoke. Look at him now, playing in the stream like a little fish. I couldn’t get him near water for the life of me. Come on, let’s get going before he notices us.’

  They padded silently off down the bank. Before they had got round the bend, however, the hogbabe sprang out of the water in front of them, a wicked grin on his face. He scrambled up on to the badger’s back, seating himself on the sword hilt before anybeast could stop him.

  ‘Heeheehee, finked you was goin’ off wivout Skikkles, eh?’

  Brocktree turned his head, growling in the hogbabe’s face. ‘Be off with you, pestilence!’

  Skittles tweaked the badger’s nose impudently. ‘See, I nice’n’cleaned now, B’ock. I come wiv ya, mate!’

  Lord Brocktree turned his face to the front, smiling hugely, though his voice was gruff and stern. ‘Huh, I suppose you’ll have to, seeing as you’re up there, but sit still and no nonsense out of you, sir!’

  Skittles saluted. ‘An’ no nonsinks outta you, sir, or I chop you tail off wivva yore sword. Chop!’

  It was a pleasant walk in the warm evening. Dragonflies hovered over the stream, hunting for midges and mayflies, pepper saxifrage and yellow-cupped silver-weed grew in profusion close to the stiller edges, noon had turned to early evening gold, with pink and cream cloudbanks massed prettily to the south. Log a Log Grenn halted them in sight of the ford.

  ‘You can glimpse the river not far from here, friends. Stay well on the banks, now. If the water’s deep enough on the ford our boats should pass over it with no trouble. I’ll have to test it with a stick, so keep well on land. The waters hereabouts have streamwolves aplenty huntin’ in ’em, an’ they hide themselves well, so ’tis best to take care.’

  On reaching the ford, Grenn demonstrated what she meant by tossing a few crusts she had brought along into the water. Four long pike shot out of the reed cover and fought each other viciously for the food.

  ‘Wowow! Where a they corned from, B’ock?’

  Brocktree glanced back at the startled hogbabe on his shoulder. ‘Streamwolves lie in wait for food, then they pounce! Just like the one Ruff saved you from in the watermeadows.’

  Whilst the pike were busy, Grenn poked a stick into the ford. “Tis deep enough – our craft should pass over safely. Though I wouldn’t trail my paws in there if I was you, Skittles. Look, further down the bank, you can see the river where it meets the stream.’

  Dotti skipped down the bank apiece. ‘I say, chaps, cranberries – scads of ’em growin’ down here!’

  Dainty pink flowers with curling petals stood swaying on wispy thin-leafed stalks; beneath them the small orange-hued berries grew in profusion. They were sweet but sharp to the taste. The friends gathered in the welcome addition to their supplies, sampling the fruit as they picked.

  ‘Mmm, nice’n’tasty, marm. I wager Gurth an’ yore cooks could make a batch or two o’ cranberry tarts with these!’

  Dotti chided the juice-stained hogbabe. ‘Steady on, Skittles, you’ll make y’self ill if you scoff too many. Don’t be greedy now!’

  Lord Brocktree raised an eyebrow at Ruff. ‘That’s the best one I’ve heard for a while – a hare telling another creature not to eat too much. Wonders never cease!’

  Dotti overheard the remark, and turned primly on the badger. ‘Manners don’t cost anythin’, y’know. My mater al
ways said enough was as good as a feast, sah. Merely advisin’ the little tyke . . . Skittles, come back here, you rip!’

  But the hogbabe was off on an adventure of his own. He dashed away into the surrounding bushes, chortling. ‘Yah yah, can’t catch Skikkles!’

  They raced after him, fearing that he would turn and run into the ford. For a hogbabe, Skittles was surprisingly nippy. He put on a good turn of speed, dodging through shrubbery and around treetrunks. Grenn and Ruff went one way, Dotti and Brocktree the other, hoping to head him off. Then they heard Skittles’s shrill screams cut the evening air.

  ‘Yeeeeek! Leggo a me, leggo a Skikkles!’

  Dotti was brushed to one side as Brocktree grabbed the battle blade from his back and crashed off through the foliage like a juggernaut.

  Panggg!

  A slingstone ricocheted from the sword blade. Jukka the Sling stood barring Brocktree’s path, whirling her loaded weapon, teeth bared, ready to do battle.

  ‘Hold hard, stripedog, or the next one puts thine eye out!’

  ‘Oh corks! You benighted bushtailed buffoon, pack in slingin’. Can’t y’see that’s a Badger Lord?’ Fleetscut stuck out his paw just in time. Jukka’s sling wrapped around it, the stone load clacking sharply as it whacked the old hare’s paw. He hopped and leaped about in pain, yanking Jukka crazily round with him.

  ‘Owowouch! Y’blitherin’ blisternosed bangtail, you’ve gone an’ busted me poor old paw. Owoooh!’

  Everybeast seemed to arrive on the scene together then: Baron Drucco, Mirklewort, a rabble of hogs and the squirrel tribe. Grenn came dashing up with Dotti and Ruff hard on her heels. Brocktree leaned on his sword hilt, perplexed. ‘What in the name of all seasons is this?’

  Skittles appeared from beneath a bush and sat down nonchalantly on Brocktree’s big footpaw, shaking his head. ‘Name a seasons, worrall diss, eh?’

  More pandemonium ensued.

  ‘My liddle babe, me treasure! Where in the name o’ carnation ’ave yew been, yer foul-needled maggot?’

  ‘Ahoy there, marm, curb yore tongue. The liddle bloke’s been with us!’ Ruff tried vainly to placate the angry hogmother, but only succeeded in offending her mate.

  ‘Shut yer trap, babe robber. If’n my wife axes where in the coronation ’e’s been then let ’im tell ’er!’

  ‘Excuse me a tick, folks, but what’s all this about carnations an’ coronations? Shouldn’t the word be tarnation, wot?’ Dotti interjected.

  ‘Beg pardon, marm, but shouldn’t you keep your long ears out of other beasts’ business? Bad form, marm!’ Fleetscut said severely.

  ‘Who are you jolly well callin’ longears? You’re a hare y’self, y’dodderin’ old paw-wobbler – a fig for you, sah!’

  ‘Thou art a bit young in seasons to be cheeking thy elders in such manner, miss. Mind, or I’ll teach thee a lesson!’

  ‘I say, you broomtailed paw-breaker, d’you mind beltin’ up? This is my quarrel, wot!’

  Claaaanggggg! ‘Silence! Silence I say!’

  The ring of Brocktree’s sword blade upon a rock, coupled with his stentorian roar, created instant quiet. The Badger Lord sheathed his weapon. ‘Next beast I hear arguing will have me to deal with! Now, back to the bank and gather cranberries, all of you! Don’t stand there gawping at me – we have the best cooks in all Mossflower back at our camp. If you want hot cranberry tarts for supper tonight you lot would be better off picking berries than arguing. We’ll sort all our differences out over a decent meal. Now get moving!’

  Muttered introductions were made as the party bent to pick cranberries. Brocktree and Dotti filled Mirklewort and Drucco in on Skittles’s encounter with the Riverwolf, and the trial it had been trying to keep him in order. Titles, histories and names of friends and relatives were exchanged. Bags, aprons, helmets and pouches were filled until the area was stripped relatively clean of the good fruit. They trudged back along the bank in the failing light, Baron Drucco shaking his head in despair of his offspring, as he explained to a smiling Brocktree.

  ‘Four times – four, mind – that liddle tailsnip ’as gone missin’ four times since ’e was bomed, an’ ’im not more’n two seasons old. No wonder me spikes is goin’ grey – those the missus ain’t chopped off wid me hatchet.’

  Dotti and Fleetscut had apologised to one another, and were getting on quite amicably.

  ‘Well stap me, so you’re old Blench the cook’s niece, wot? Bet you can’t cook as well as your jolly old aunt, eh, m’gel?’

  ‘Beg pardon? Me, cook? I’d burn a salad, sah. Us of the fatal beauty type are pretty awful cooks if y’ask me.’

  Gurth’s apple’n’plum pudden with sweet chestnut sauce was set to one side as the Guosim cooks set about making cranberry tarts, which involved arguing.

  ‘These’ll go nice with the sweet chestnut sauce, mate!’

  ‘Who taught you to cook, bottlesnout? Rosehip an’ honey syrup, that’s the proper thing to ’ave with ’em!’

  ‘Rubbish. Y’don’t need any sauce or syrup with cranberry tarts. A few crystallised cuckoo flower petals, that’s all anybeast in their right mind would sprinkle ’em with!’

  ‘Huh, too late now. They’re scoffin’ ’em anyway!’

  Stories were told around the stone oven campfire as it reflected in the night stream, and new-made friends relaxed on the bank. Brocktree and Fleetscut sat together. The Badger Lord was extremely disturbed about the bad news from Salamandastron.

  ‘My father Stonepaw did right in sending you to gather an army, Fleetscut. For one of your long seasons you have done well, despite the difficulties you were under. Relax now, old fellow, I take charge as from hereonin.’

  The old hare bowed respectfully to the son, as he had always done to the father. ‘Do you have a plan, lord?’

  Brocktree’s dark eyes glowed in the firelight. ‘Oh yes, Fleetscut, I have a plan. Trust your Badger Lord!’

  ‘I always have, sire, without question. D’ye mind me sayin’, you remind me of your dad when I was nought but a leveret, though a bit bigger an’ fiercer if that’s at all possible.’

  Brocktree’s great striped muzzle nodded. ‘It’s possible, my friend. ’Tis said to wield a battle blade the size of mine, a badger must suffer from the Bloodwrath.’

  Fleetscut fell silent then. He had heard tales of badgers, the most reckless and savage of warriors, all affected by the violent scourge known as the Bloodwrath. Nothing could stop such a beast in combat; not weapons, nor force of fangs and claws. This new lord was a truly perilous beast.

  That night Lord Brocktree and the tribe leaders Jukka the Sling, Baron Drucco, Log a Log Grenn, Gurth son of Longladle and Ruffgar Brookback the otter made a pact. Between them they would gather a great army and take Salamandastron; free it from the claws of Ungatt Trunn.

  Lord Brocktree’s stern voice caused neck hairs to bristle. ‘The lands our creatures live on must not be tainted by vermin hordes. Babes should be safe to wander alone. This will not be accomplished by one tribe alone. I need you all – anybeast that loves freedom, hedgehogs, shrews, squirrels, moles, otters, mice, voles and especially hares. We will go with you to the realm of this self-proclaimed hare king. He must be challenged and defeated. Then he and his followers must be persuaded to join us. They will all be fine fighting hares.’

  Gurth stared up at the badger’s massive form. ‘Hurr well, if’n anybeast be’s gurt ’nuff to beat hurr king, that ’un’ll be ee, zurr!’

  Brocktree was looking straight at Dotti as he replied. ‘No, Gurth, ’tis only fair that a hare challenges a hare. Tell me, Fleetscut, what is the next clue to this king’s whereabouts? Is there anything special we must search for?’

  The old hare repeated the lines he had committed to memory.

  ‘Discover then a streamwolf’s ford,

  Tug thrice upon the royal cord,

  Then my honour guard will bring,

  Loyal subjects to their king!’

  Brocktree tossed a few logs into the oven fi
re. ‘We’ve already found the streamwolf’s ford. Let’s get some sleep now. Tomorrow we’ve got a royal appointment, what d’you say, Ruff?’

  ‘Haharr, royal me rudder. If’n that ’un’s a king I’m a h’emperor of h’otters, mates!’

  Dotti lay awake for a while, wondering why the badger had stared at her so pointedly when he referred to a hare’s only being challenged by another hare. But she did not dwell on it overlong. Just before sleep claimed Jukka, she heard the young haremaid mutter aloud to herself: ‘Ahem, all those of my subjects still awake, take note of this proclamation. Queen Dorothea Duckfontein Dillworthy is about to take her fatal beauty sleep, so put a clap on your jolly old traps, wot wot?’

  The shrew Kubba wandered back into camp as the cooking fires were being rekindled next morning. He saluted Log a Log Grenn with a flourish of his rapier.

  ‘Got up an hour afore dawn, marm, scoured the bank by the ford an’ found wot yore lookin’ for!’

  ‘Jolly decent of you, old beast,’ Fleetscut called back from his place on the breakfast line. ‘You mean y’found the royal wotsamacallit? Where was it?’

  Kubba sheathed his rapier. “Tain’t much, mate, just a big thick red cord, ’angin’ from a whoppin’ great ’ornbeam. I’ll take ye there after brekkist. Float me log, I’m starvin’!’

  Brocktree stepped out and shook Kubba’s paw. ‘Take my place at the front of the line. Well done, sir!’

  An hour later, their hunger sated by cheese and oatmeal cakes, the remaining cranberry tarts and some good Guosim cider, everybeast adjourned to the ford bank. Kubba pointed out the hornbeam tree, around the leeside of which hung a red tasselled rope, its length going off, up amid the foliage.

  ‘That’s the one, though I ain’t tugged on the rope yet.’

  Brocktree performed an exaggerated bow to Dotti. ‘Would ye pray do the honours, milady?’

  The haremaid curtsied prettily and fluttered her eyelids. ‘Why, thankee, m’lud. Methinks I’ll give it a jolly old tug once or thrice, providin’ the blinkin’ tree don’t fall on me bonce, wot wot!’