Mossflower (Redwall) Read online

  The mousethief smiled in the darkness. ‘Stay still. I can reach my dagger. Didn’t I ever tell you, matey, I’m a Prince of escapers.’

  Martin felt the blade sawing at their bonds. ‘Aye, I seem to remember you saying something of the sort in the cells at Kotir, matey.’

  The ropes fell away under Gonff’s keen blade. He stood upright.

  ‘I was right that time too, if you remember,’ Gonff pointed out.

  Dinny straightened up. ‘Hurr, tho’ you’m ‘ate to boast about et.’

  They took stock of the damage. Martin threw a trampled cheese to one side.

  ‘Huh, they’ve ruined our supplies,’ he said with disgust. ‘Most of the food rolled into the water with them. Look, even the fish fell in the fire.’ He held up a smoking relic.

  Gonff pushed Blacktooth’s carcass into the fast-flowing water. ‘It could’ve been worse, matey. At least we’re alive.’

  Dinny blew on the embers, adding dry reeds and wood. ‘Ho aye, Marthen. Us’ll make out awright, ’ee’ll see.’

  25

  FORTUNATA FOLLOWED A trail that led to a dead end. Some creature had skilfully covered most traces, but the vixen knew that there had been woodlanders here. The camouflagers had not been entirely successful in covering everything; there was still scent and the odd broken twig. She scratched about in the undergrowth, trying to reveal further clues.

  ‘Lost something?’

  The vixen was startled by the voice. She whirled round, attempting to discover its owner. All she saw was the silent woodland. Quite suddenly there was another fox standing alongside her.

  ‘I said, have you lost something?’ he repeated.

  Fortunata weighed up the newcomer carefully. He was an old fox, patched grey and dusty brown, slim built and slightly stooped. But it was the eyes that caused her to shudder – weird, flat, shifting eyes. This was the most evil-looking of her species that the vixen had ever encountered.

  ‘No, it’s not something I’ve lost,’ she said, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘Actually, I was merely passing through here.’

  ‘Aye, me too. Maybe we can help each other,’ the old fox suggested.

  ‘Yes, maybe we can. My name is Besomtail, the wandering healer, what are you called?’ Fortunata asked.

  ‘I’m Patchcoat. I come from far away to the east,’ he replied.

  Fortunata nodded. He certainly looked like a patched coat. ‘Well, I come from the er, southwest. Maybe that’s why we’ve never met. I’m really hungry, though, Patchcoat. I expect you’ve seen tracks around here. Maybe there’s a camp of woodlanders nearby. They usually give me food in return for my healing skills.’

  Patchcoat rubbed his lean stomach. ‘Aye, I’m hungry too. There’s not much future in eating grass and drinking dew. Listen, Besomtail, maybe I can travel along as your assistant. I passed a place earlier today that might be just what we’re looking for.’

  Fortunata’s ears stood up. ‘You did? Where?’

  The strange fox waved a paw. ‘Oh, round and about, you know. I didn’t stop because those woodlanders always drive me off, for some reason. Huh, you’d think I was out to steal their young. It looked like a well-stocked hideaway. I expect I could find it again.’

  ‘I can’t blame them driving you off, friend Patchcoat,’ Fortunata sniggered. ‘You certainly don’t look anything like a baby fieldmouse on posy day.’

  Patchcoat threw back his head and laughed wickedly. ‘Hahaha, look at yourself, you raggedy-bottomed tramp. Any honest woodlander would run a mile from you. Let’s join forces. Come on, how about it? You won’t find the place without me.’

  Fortunata rubbed her whiskers as if she was giving the matter some earnest thought. Finally she thrust out a paw. ‘All right, Patchcoat,’ she agreed. ‘We’d better stick together, I suppose. Shake paws, fox.’

  ‘Aye. Shake paws, fox.’

  Left paw met left paw as they intoned the ritual of villains,

  ‘Shake paws, count your claws.

  You steal mine, I’ll borrow yours.

  Watch my whiskers, check both ears.

  Robber foxes have no fears.’

  Ben Stickle was observing the scene from the cover of a humped loam bank. He scurried off to report to the Corim that the Mask, alias Patchcoat, had made contact with Fortunata, alias Besomtail.

  The Mask would lead Fortunata a merry dance through Mossflower before evening fell over the woodlands.

  It was mid-afternoon when Chibb left the cell window at Kotir. Gingivere sat in the straw with his two little friends, patiently explaining the message sent by the Corim.

  ‘Now, if a ferret looks like a ferret, or a stoat like a stoat, or a weasel looks like a weasel, don’t trust them. But if a fox that looks like a fox says that his name is Mask and he’s been sent by the Corim, we must do exactly as he says, quickly and without question.’

  Ferdy scratched his spiky head. ‘Supposing it’s a stoat that looks like a weasel with a ferret’s nose and a fox’s tail, Mr Gingivere?’

  Gingivere pushed him playfully backwards into the straw. ‘Then don’t trust him, even if it’s a Ferdy that looks like a Coggs with a Gingivere’s fur, you little rascal. Hush now, there’s somebody coming. I’d better get you back into your bags.’

  Two weasel guards passed along the corridor, chatting animatedly.

  ‘So what did the foraging party bring back?’

  ‘Not a single acorn. The Queen’s not too happy, either.’

  ‘Well, that’s only to be expected.’

  ‘Aye, but it made things worse when Cludd reported that one of our soldiers had been taken by that big old eagle.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A stoat, they say.’

  ‘Ah well, as long as it wasn’t a weasel.’

  ‘Aye. Can’t stand stoats myself. Nasty sly creatures.’

  ‘Right. Not like us, mate. Anyhow, I’ll bet if the eagle attacked one of our lads he’d weasel his way out of it somehow.’

  ‘Hahaha. That’s a good one. Weasel his way out of it!’

  The waters of the fast-flowing stream glittered in the afternoon sun. All day the three travellers had wandered along the bank, looking for a shallow fording place. Martin gazed up at the mountains. They were much closer now. He could see the green of vegetation at the base changing to basalt and slate-coloured rock which soared upward to snow-covered peaks that seemed to support the sky like mythical columns.

  Gonff was singing as he trailed his fishing line along.

  ‘O the day is fair and blue,

  The mountains lie ahead.

  Companions good and true,

  Our enemies are dead.

  I’m longing for the day,

  O for that happy time,

  When I’ll return to say,

  Sweet Columbine, you’re mine.’

  As they trekked, Young Dinny dug up edible plants and roots to add to their supplies.

  Martin sighted a bend ahead with steep sloping banks. ‘Come on, mates. The stream looks narrower there. Perhaps there’s a way to cross.’

  He was right; just around the bend was a sight which gladdened their hearts.

  A rope stretched across the water, attached at either end by a deep stake driven into the earth. On the opposite bank a white willow trunk lay in the shallows. Gonff twanged the tautened fibres of the rope.

  ‘It’s a ferry, mateys,’ he told them. ‘See on the other bank? Pity it isn’t on this side of the water. Never mind, even if it means getting wet we’ll cross on this rope.’

  Two pairs of unwinking eyes watched them from behind the log on the opposite shore.

  Martin waded into the river, holding the rope as a guideline.

  ‘Come on, it’s not too bad,’ he called. ‘Stay on this side of the rope, then the current won’t sweep you downstream.’

  Dinny and Gonff followed his example. The going was not too difficult. Paw by paw, they began pulling themselves through the stream. Halfway across, it deepened. They we
re floating now, but still going forward, aided by the rope.

  A shout rang out from the far bank, ‘Stop right there, strangers!’

  A snake and a lizard emerged from behind the willow trunk.

  ‘Looks like trouble, eh, Din,’ Gonff whispered.

  Martin ignored the warning, continuing to pull himself forward.

  Dinny called out a friendly hail. ‘Goo’ day to ’ee. Us’n’s on’y a crossen, no need t’be afeared.’

  The snake reared up, flickering a slim tongue. ‘Hssss. Nobody crosses without paying us. I’m Deathcoil and this is Whipscale. We are the ford guardians. Pay us, or pay with your lives.’

  Gonff caught up with Martin. ‘I don’t like the look of those two. Has that snake got adder markings?’

  Martin’s warrior nature rose. Tightening his grip on the rope with one paw, he unslung the broken sword from around his neck.

  ‘Looks a bit skinny and undersized to be a true adder, Gonff,’ he reassured his friend. ‘I’m pretty certain that the other one is only some kind of newt. Leave it to me. We’ll soon find out.’

  It was now apparent to the ford guardians that the travellers were coming across.

  ‘What’ve you got for us?’ the lizard asked, his voice harsh and aggressive. ‘Come on, move yourselves. Up on the bank here, and empty those packs out. Quick, now!’

  Martin’s face was grim. ‘Listen, you two. You don’t frighten us. We’re travellers and we aren’t carrying anything of value, but we’ll fight if we have to, so you’d better stand clear.’

  The snake lowered his head onto the rope, glaring wickedly at them. ‘Hsss, fools, one bite from my fangs means death. If you have no valuables, then go back and get something to pay our toll with.’

  Martin yanked down on the taut rope, letting it go with a twang. The line sprang upward, vibrating. The snake was hammered on the lower jaw several times before he was tossed flat on the bank. ‘How’s that for starters, worm,’ Gonff laughed. ‘Stand up straight, and I’ll give you a taste of my dagger when I get ashore. Come on, Din.’

  The mole waved a hefty digging paw. ‘Oi’ll make knots in ’ee, then oi’ll teach yon glizzard sum manners.’

  The three friends bounded up on the bank, dripping but determined. Martin advanced, wielding his broken sword; Gonff drew his dagger as he and Dinny spread in a pincer movement; the mole whirled a pack loaded with plants and roots.

  As they closed for combat, the snake flicked his coils at Martin. ‘Hsss, you’ll leave your bones on this bank, mouse!’

  26

  FORTUNATA WAS BECOMING irate with her travelling partner. ‘By the fang, Patchcoat, I’m certain we’ve passed this same yew thicket three times today. What are you playing at, in the name of foxes?’

  Patchcoat whirled upon the vixen, pulling out a long rusty knife. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Besomtail? Think I don’t know where I’m going?’

  The vixen backed off, licking dry, nervous lips. ‘Of course not, friend. I’m sorry, this forest looks all the same to me. I’m a healer, not a pathfinder, you know.’

  Patchcoat grunted, as he sheathed his knife. ‘Huh, I’m no trailmaster myself. I’m a mercenary by trade. I’d swap a good barracks for this lot, anyday. Never mind, not far to go now.’

  Fortunata pushed aside an overhanging branch. ‘A mercenary, eh? Soldier for hire. Well, you do right by me and I might be able to find you a good barracks. I could have you made into a Captain.’

  ‘A Captain, you say. Where at?’

  The vixen winked. ‘Tell you some other time. Are we nearly there?’

  ‘See that big oak?’ Patchcoat asked, pointing. ‘It’s got a hidden door between the main roots. Follow me.’

  At the sound of knocking, Bella opened the door of Brockhall the merest crack. Skipper and Amber craned their necks to see the visitors as the badger called out gruffly, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  Fortunata made a fawning bow. ‘My name is Besomtail. This is my assistant, Patchcoat. Are there any among you who require the services of a healer?’

  Lady Amber showed her teeth. ‘We don’t need your mumbo-jumbo, fox. Now clear off, quick!’

  ‘Oh, please have pity on us,’ Mask whined pitifully. ‘We’ve fallen upon hard times. Foxes are always driven off, even when they have travelled far, seeking honest work. We do not mean harm to any creature. We are starving.’

  Skipper winked at the badger. ‘Oh, let em in, Miz Bella. Surely we can manage a bite and a sup for these two cruising fleabags?’

  Bella opened the door wide. ‘Come in, foxes. But mind you behave, otherwise you may find yourselves hanging by the tails from a high branch.’

  Once inside, Fortunata’s eyes roved ceaselessly, noting every detail of her surroundings. Abbess Germaine entered the room, accompanied by two small hedgehogs dressed in blanket cloaks and cooking-pot helmets.

  ‘Ferdy, Coggs, take these two travellers to the kitchen,’ she ordered them. ‘Ask Goody to feed them, please.’

  Goody Stickle fed the unsavoury duo some leftover spring vegetable soup with bread and cheese. They ate ravenously.

  ‘Dearie me, it looks like you two ain’t eaten since last harvest,’ Goody remarked. ‘I’ll cut more bread ’n’ cheese, then you can earn your keep by scouring some pots and pans before you eat us out of house and home altogether. That’ll save my old paws a job.’

  Reluctantly the foxes finished their meal. Afterwards they faced the formidable stack of dirty kitchenware heaped in bowls of water.

  The vixen curled her lip in disgust. ‘You wash and I’ll wipe.’

  Mask shook his head. ‘Oh no. A healer needs clean paws. You wash, and I’ll do the wiping.’

  As they worked, Mask whispered to Fortunata, ‘What d’you make of this place, Besomtail?’

  ‘Well, they’ve certainly got a comfy den here,’ she replied. ‘Well-stocked, too. But hark, Patchcoat, they’re soft and innocent as new bread. Look how easily we got in here.’

  Mask tapped his nose knowingly. ‘A right bunch of woodland bumpkins, eh. One good squad of soldiers could tie their whiskers in knots.’

  Fortunata passed a large pan to be wiped. ‘How would you like to be in charge of that squad, Patchcoat?’

  ‘Would this have anything to do with that Captain’s job you mentioned earlier?’ Mask whispered out the side of his mouth.

  Fortunata wiped her paws on a towel. ‘Aye, it would. I’ve been watching you, Patchcoat. You’re a fox after my own heart. Now listen carefully and stick by me. We can both come out of this as two rich and powerful foxes if we play both ends against the middle.’

  A fraction before both sides joined in combat there was a deep gruff shout from the reeds. ‘Whoooaaahhh, gerroutofit!’

  A small, ferocious shrew, armed with a heavy hornbeam club, hurled himself roaring onto Deathcoil and Whipscale. He belaboured them mercilessly with swift hard blows.

  ‘What’ve I told you two filthy reptiles?’ he shouted. ‘Gerroff my bank. Here, take this with you, and this, and this too!’

  The snake and the lizard were thrashed into the stream.

  ‘Ouch, ow, no, please, owoo, ooff!’ they cried.

  The bad-tempered shrew slammed his club down hard on Whipscale’s tail. It flew off into the air, and he batted it into midstream with an expert flick.

  In the water, a pattern of dirt floated away from Deathcoil, showing that under the dark bruises he was only a common grass snake.

  The shrew turned to Martin and his friends, gesturing toward the unlucky pair in the stream. ‘See, a grass snake and a newt. Pair of nuisances, I’ve warned ’em before about threatening honest travellers. Go on, clear off you snotty vermin. Just let me catch you around here again, and I’ll make you eat each other’s tails!’

  The snake and the newt were carried off by the current, hissing dire threats now they were out of reach of the shrew and his club. ‘You wait, you’ll pay for this, you haven’t seen the last of us.’

  A
well-aimed stone from Gonff’s sling bounced off the snake’s head; another from Martin stung the newt’s severed tail stump.

  The shrew nodded approvingly. ‘Slingmice, eh. Good shots. This club’s my weapon. They won’t be back for another dose of this.’

  Martin smiled. He liked the shrew’s truculent manner.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said warmly. ‘I am Martin the Warrior. This is Gonff the thief and this Young Dinny, our mole friend. We are travellers, as you see, bound on a quest to Salamandastron.’

  The shrew shouldered his club. ‘Sala what? Oh, you mean that big place t’other side of the mountains. Well, I’m called Log-a-Log Big Club. I own the ferry round here. You should have given me a shout, like this.’

  Log-a-Log cupped his paws around his mouth, bellowing out in a deep voice which echoed off the mountains.

  ‘Logalogalogalogalog!’

  Gonff put his sling away. ‘We would have if we’d known, matey. Do you live around here?’

  Log-a-Log parted the reeds, revealing a cave hewn into the bank. ‘Aye. I live alone. I expect you’re hungry; travellers always are. Come inside. I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Inside the cave was a nest of untidy odds and ends. Fishing nets draped the walls, a fire smouldered in one corner, many tools lay all about a large skilfully made boat which dominated the living area. An old black water beetle sat by the fire.

  The travellers found seats amid the jumble, and Log-a-Log served them steaming bowls of freshwater shrimp soup with arrowhead bread and spring radishes. He sat stroking the beetle’s back.

  ‘I call this fellow Grubwhacker. He lives nearby, comes in and out of here for his food, just like a pet. That there is my boat. It’s about finished. I was going to try it soon in the stream.’

  Martin felt the sturdy polished hull. ‘It’s beautifully crafted, Log-a-Log. You know about boats, then?’

  The shrew picked up a spokeshave. He took a sliver off the stern. ‘Ships, friend, ships. Though I’m a ferry-puller, like all my family, we used to live with our tribe on the banks of the River Moss, far to the north of here. One day, several seasons ago, we were invaded by sea rats who sailed inland. They took many of us captive and put us to the oars of their galley. Some died there, but I escaped. One night I slipped my chains and went overboard, just south of Salamandastron. I swam ashore. Do you see those mountains? Well, I couldn’t cross them, so I walked around them. Ha, that took a season or two, I can tell you. Eventually I found my way to this place – the Great South Stream, I call it. One day I’ll go back to my village, where the shores and flatlands meet the woods on the River Moss. Until then, well, here I am.’