Mossflower (Redwall) Read online

  Hurrying along a narrow passage, the weasel banged on the storeroom door. A key turned in the lock.

  ‘What’ve you got there? Loaves, eh. Bring ’em in.’

  The two guards who had been fighting were sitting on flour sacks. One of them eyed the bread hungrily. ‘Huh, is that all you got tonight? I tell you, mate, things are getting from bad to worse around here. Who sent you down with them?’

  ‘Blacktooth.’

  ‘Oh, him. Did he count them?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. There’s five loaves. We’ll have half a loaf each – that’ll leave three and a half. Nobody’ll notice the difference.’

  They tore hungrily at Goody Stickle’s brown oven loaves.

  Above stairs, Martin had managed to wrap one of the ropes around a stone column. Soldiers were jeering at the efforts of the patrol to get him away and up the stairs. ‘Yah, what’s the matter lads, are you scared of him?’

  Blacktooth turned on the mocking group. ‘Any of you lot fancy having a go at him? No, I thought not.’

  The door opened behind them, and snow blew in with a cold, draughty gust. A fox wearing a ragged cloak trotted past them and up the broad flat stairs to their first floor. The soldiers found a new target for their remarks.

  ‘Hoho, just you wait, fox. You’re late.’

  ‘Aye, old Greeneyes doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  ‘I’d keep out of Lady Tsarmina’s way, if I were you.’

  Ignoring them, the fox swept quickly up the stairs.

  Martin tried to make a dash for the half-open door to the parade ground but he was carried to the floor by weight of numbers. Still he fought gamely on.

  The jeering soldiers started shouting and calling humorous advice again. Blacktooth tried freezing them into silence with a stern glance but they took no notice of him this time.

  Splitnose sniffed in disgust. ‘Discipline has gone to the wall since Lord Verdauga’s been sick.’

  Fortunata the vixen waited nervously in the draughty antehall of Kotir. A low fire cast its guttering light round the damp sandstone walls. Slimy green algae and fungus grew between sodden banners as they slowly disintegrated into threadbare tatters suspended from rusty iron holders. The vixen could not suppress a shudder. Presently she was joined by two ferrets dressed in cumbersome chain mail. Both bore shields emblazoned with the device of their masters, a myriad of evil green eyes watching in all directions. The guards pointed with their spears, indicating that the fox should follow them, and Fortunata fell in step, marching off down the long dank hall. They halted in front of two huge oaken doors, which swung open as the ferrets banged their spearbutts against the floor. The vixen was confronted by a scene of ruined grandeur.

  Candles and torches scarcely illuminated the room; the crossbeams above were practically lost in darkness. At one end there were three ornate chairs occupied by two wildcats and a pine marten. Behind these stood a four-poster bed, complete with tight-drawn curtains of musty green velvet, its footboard carved with the same device as the shields of the guards.

  The marten hobbled across and searched the satchel Fortunata carried. The vixen shrank from contact with the badly disfigured creature. Ashleg the marten had a wooden leg and his entire body was twisted on one side as if it had been badly maimed. To disguise this, he wore an overlong red cloak trimmed with woodpigeon feathers. With an expert flick he turned the contents of the satchel out on to the floor. It was the usual jumble of herbs, roots, leaves and mosses carried by a healer fox.

  Approaching the bed, Ashleg called out in an eerie singsong dirge, ‘O mighty Verdauga, Lord of Mossflower, Master of the Thousand Eyes, Slayer of Enemies, Ruler of Kotir—’

  ‘Ah, give your whining tongue a rest, Ashleg. Is the fox here? Get these suffocating curtains out of my way.’ The imperious voice from behind the curtains sounded hoarse but full of snarling menace.

  Tsarmina, the larger of the two seated wildcats, sprang forward, sweeping back the dusty bedcurtains in a single move. ‘Fortunata’s here. Don’t exert yourself, father.’

  The vixen slid to the bedside with practised ease and examined her savage patient. Verdauga of the Thousand Eyes had once been the mightiest warlord in all the land . . . once. Now his muscle and sinew lay wasted under the tawny fur that covered his big tired body. The face was that of a wildcat who had survived many battles: the pointed ears stood above a tracery of old scars which ran from crown to whiskers. Fortunata looked at the fearsome yellowed teeth, and the green barbarian eyes still alight with strange fires.

  ‘My Lord looks better today, yes?’

  ‘None the better for your worthless mumbo jumbo, fox.’

  The smaller of the two seated wildcats rose from his chair with an expression of concern upon his gentle face. ‘Father, stay calm. Fortunata is trying hard to get you well again.’

  Tsarmina pushed him aside scornfully. ‘Oh shut up, Gingivere, you mealy-mouthed—’

  ‘Tsarmina!’ Verdauga pulled himself into a sitting position and pointed a claw at his headstrong daughter. ‘Don’t talk to your brother in that way, do you hear me?’

  The Lord of a Thousand Eyes turned wearily to his only son. ‘Gingivere, don’t let her bully you. Stand up to her, son.’

  Gingivere shrugged and stood by silently as Fortunata ground herbs with a pestle, mixing them with dark liquid in a horn beaker.

  Verdauga eyed the vixen suspiciously. ‘No more leeches, fox. I won’t have those filthy slugs sucking my blood. I’d sooner have an enemy’s sword cut me than those foul things. What’s that rubbish you’re concocting?’

  Fortunata smiled winningly. ‘Sire, this is a harmless potion made from the herb motherwort. It will help you to sleep. Squire Gingivere, would you give this to your father, please?’

  As Gingivere administered the medicine to Verdauga, neither of them noticed the look of slyness or the wink that passed between Fortunata and Tsarmina.

  Verdauga settled back in bed and waited for the draught to take effect. Suddenly the peace was broken by a loud commotion from outside. The double doors burst open wide.

  3

  BEN STICKLE NEARLY jumped out of his spikes as Gonff bounded out from behind a snow-laden bush in the night-time forest.

  ‘Boo! Guess who? Hahaha, Ben me old matey, you should have seen your face just then. What are you doing trekking round here in the snow?’

  Ben recovered himself quickly. ‘Gonff, I might have known! Listen, young feller me mouse, I haven’t got time to stop and gossip with you. We’ve left the settlement at last and I’m lookin’ for the little hut that the Corim keep for the likes of us.’

  The mousethief winked at Urthclaw and kissed Goody cheekily. ‘Ha, that place, follow me, matey. I’ll have you there in two shakes of a cat’s whisker.’

  Goody shuddered. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, you little rogue.’

  But Gonff was not listening, he was skipping ahead with the little ones, who thought it was all a huge adventure.

  ‘Is it a nice place, Mr Gonff?’

  ‘Oh, passable. Better than the last place you were in.’

  ‘What’s that under your jerkin, Mr Gonff?’

  ‘Never you mind now, young Spike. It’s a secret.’

  ‘Is it very far, Mr Gonff? I’m tired.’

  ‘Not far now, Posy me little dear. I’d carry you if it weren’t for your spikes.’

  Goody Stickle shook her head and smiled. She had always had a special soft spot for Gonff.

  The Corim hut was well hidden, deep enough into the forest to avoid immediate discovery. Urthclaw said his goodbyes and trundled off to find his own kind. Ben watched him go as Gonff lit the fire. He nodded fondly. ‘Good old Urthclaw, he only stayed at the settlement because of us, I’m sure of it.’

  When the fire was burning red, Goody sat around it with Gonff and Ben. The four baby hedgehogs poked their snouts from under the blankets to one side of the hearth.

 
‘Have you been stealing from Kotir again, Gonff? What did you pinch this time?’

  The mousethief laughed at Goody’s shocked expression. He threw a wedge of cheese over to the little ones. ‘It’s not pinching or stealing if it comes out of Kotir, mateys. It’s called liberating. Here, get your whiskers around that lot and get some sleep, the four of you.’

  Ben Stickle sucked on an empty pipe and stirred the burning logs with a branch. ‘Gonff, I do wish you’d be careful. We can live on what we have until spring arrives, Goody and I would never forgive ourselves if you got caught taking cheese and wine inside that cat’s castle.’

  Goodwife Stickle wiped her eyes on her flowery pinafore. ‘No more we wouldn’t, you young scallawag. Oh my spikes, I dread to think what’d ’appen if those varmin catchered you, Gonff.’

  Gonff patted her very carefully. ‘There, there, Goody. What’s a bite of food and a warm drink between mateys? The young uns need their nourishment. Besides, how could I ever forget the way that you and Ben brought me up and cared for me when I was only a little woodland orphan?’

  Ben took a sip of the wine and shook his head. ‘You be careful, all the same, and remember what the Corim rule is; bide your time and don’t let ’em catch you. One day we’ll win old Mossflower back.’

  Goody sighed as she went about making porridge for the next morning’s breakfast. ‘Fine words, but we’re peaceable creatures. How we’re ever goin’ to win our land back against all those trained soldiers is beyond me.’

  Gonff topped up Ben Stickle’s beaker with elderberry wine and gazed into the flickering flames, his normally cheerful face grim. ‘I’ll tell you this, mateys: the day will come when something will happen to change all this, you wait and see. Some creature who isn’t afraid of anything will arrive in Mossflower, and when that day arrives we’ll be ready. We’ll pay that filthy gang of vermin and their wildcat masters back so hard that they’ll think the sky has fallen on them.’

  Ben rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘A hero, eh. Funny you should say that. I thought I saw just such a one earlier tonight. Ah, but he’s probably dead or in the dungeons by now. Let’s get some sleep. I’m bone weary.’

  The little hut was an island of warmth and safety in the night, as the howling north wind drove snowflakes before it, whining and keening around the gaunt trees of winter-stricken Mossflower.

  4

  STRUGGLING WILDLY BETWEEN two stoats, the captive mouse was dragged in to the bedchamber. He was secured by a long rope, which the guards tried to keep taut as he dodged and jumped, scratched and bit, first letting the rope go slack, then dashing forward so the two guards were pulled together; as they collided he leapt upon them, biting and kicking despite the rope that pinned his paws to his sides. A ferret guard from the door came running in to help. Between the three of them they managed to pin the warlike mouse upon the floor. They lay on top of him, trying to avoid the butting head and nipping teeth. The mouse was breathing heavily, his eyes flashing reckless defiance at his captors.

  Verdauga sat up straight, sleep forgotten as he questioned the two stoats. ‘Make your report. What have we got here?’

  One of the stoats freed his paw and threw a quick salute. ‘Lord, this one was caught within the bounds of your lands. He is a stranger, and goes armed.’

  A weasel marched in and placed the traveller’s ancient rusty sword at the foot of the bed.

  Verdauga looked from under hooded lids at the sword and the sturdy young mouse upon the floor. ‘It is against my law to carry arms or to trespass upon my domain.’

  The mouse struggled against his captors, shouting out in a loud angry voice, ‘I didn’t know it was your land, cat. Tell your guards to take their claws off and release me. You have no right to imprison a freeborn creature.’

  Verdauga could not help but admire the obvious courage of the prisoner. He was about to speak, when Tsarmina grasped the battered sword and stood over the captive with the point at his throat. ‘You insolent scum! Quick now, what is your name? Where did you steal this rusty relic?’

  As the guards pinned the struggling mouse down his voice shook with fury. ‘My name is Martin the Warrior. That sword was once my father’s, now it is mine. I come and go as I please, cat. Is this the welcome you show travellers?’

  Tsarmina forced Martin’s head back with the sword-point. ‘For a mouse, you have far too much to say to your betters,’ she said contemptuously. ‘You are in Mossflower country now; all the land you can see on a clear day’s march belongs to us by right of conquest. My father’s law says that none are allowed to go armed save his soldiers. The penalty for those who break the law is death.’

  She beckoned the guards with a sleek catlike movement. ‘Take him away and execute him.’

  Lord Greeneyes’ voice halted the guards as he turned to his son. ‘Gingivere, have you nothing to say? What shall we do with this mouse?’

  ‘Some say that ignorance of the law is no excuse,’ Gingivere answered without raising his voice. ‘Even so, it would be unjust to punish Martin; he is a stranger and could not be expected to know of us or our laws. Also, it would be too easy for us to slay him. He seems an honest creature to me. If it were my decision I would have him escorted from our territory then given his weapon. He would know better than to come back again.’

  Verdauga looked from son to daughter. ‘Now I will give you my decision. There are enough cowards in the world without killing a brave creature for so little reason. This Martin is a true warrior. On the other side of the scales, if we were to allow him to roam free as the wind on our land, this might be read as a sign of our weakness. It is my judgement that he be put in the cells to cool his paws awhile. After a time he can be set free, provided he is never again so rash as to trespass in my domain.’

  Snap!

  Everyone present heard the sharp report. Furious at being overruled, Tsarmina had set the sword between the jamb of the door and the stone doorway. With a huge burst of energy she threw her weight against the venerable weapon. Suddenly it broke; the old blade rang upon the floor, leaving her holding the shorn-off handle, which she tossed to a guard.

  ‘Here, throw him in the cells with this tied around his neck. If ever we do release him, then others will see him and realize how merciful we can be. Take the wretch away – the sight of him offends my eyes.’

  As the guards tugged on the rope, Martin stood firm resisting them. For a moment his eyes met those of Tsarmina’s. His voice was clear and unafraid. ‘Your father made a just decision, but yours was the right one. You should have killed me when you had the chance, because I vow that I will slay you one day.’

  The spell was broken. The guards hauled on the ropes, dragging Martin off to the cells. In the silence that followed, Tsarmina slumped in her chair and sniggered. ‘A mouse kill me, indeed! He’s not even worth worrying about.’

  Verdauga coughed painfully. He lay back on the pillows. ‘If you think that, daughter, then you have made a grave mistake. I have seen courage before; it comes in all shapes and sizes. Just because he is a mouse does not make him less of a warrior than me. He has a fighter’s heart – I saw it in his eyes.’

  Tsarmina ignored her father and called to Fortunata. ‘Vixen, mix Lord Greeneyes a stronger potion. He needs sleep after all the excitement. Gingivere, give father his medicine. You are the only one he will take it from.’

  Fortunata gave Gingivere the beaker containing the prepared draught. Tsarmina nodded to her, and they left the room together. Outside in the corridor the wildcat gripped the fox’s paw in her powerful claws. ‘Well, did you fix the medicine?’

  Fortunata winced in pain as the claws sank in. ‘Twice. Once before the mouse came in, and just now before we left. He’s taken enough poison to lay half the garrison low.’

  Tsarmina pulled the vixen close, her cruel eyes burning. ‘Good, but if he’s still alive in the morning you had better prepare some for yourself. It would be a lot easier than facing me if you fail.’

  The cells we
re deep beneath Kotir. They were ancient, smelly, dark and dank. Martin the Warrior was hurled into his prison by the two guards who had dragged him down passage and stairway. He had fought every inch of the way and they were glad to be rid of him. Martin lay with his cheek resting on the cold stone floor where he had been flung. As the door clanged shut behind him, one of the stoats peered through the door grating, turning the key in the lock. ‘Thank your lucky stars, mouse. If Lady Tsarmina had had her way, you’d be in the darkest wettest cells further down the passage. It was Lord Greeneyes’ wish that you should be put in a good cell, aye, and given bread and water to eat and some dry straw to lie on. Huh, he must have taken a shine to you. He’s a strange one, old Verdauga is.’

  Martin lay still, listening until the sounds of the guards’ heavy paws receded and he was alone. Standing up, he took stock of his new surroundings. At least there was light coming in from a torch that burned on the far corridor wall. Feeling a slight draught, he looked up. There was a high narrow grille slitted into the wall near the ceiling. Martin changed position, still looking upwards, until he could see a star shining outside in the night sky. It was his only link with freedom and the outside world. He sat, resting his back against the wall, huddling down in his ragged cloak to gain a little warmth. The rest of his cell was just the same as any prison: four bare walls and precious little else, no comfort or cheer to be gained from anything here. He was a prisoner, alone in a strange place.