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  Once she reached the window, Armel mouthed a question to the fox on the other side of the glass. “What do you want?”

  She had to repeat the question before the intruder understood. Pointing to his open mouth and grinning wickedly, he pantomimed an eating gesture, clearly indicating Armel as his desired meal. She smiled back at him, mouthing a reply. “You want to eat me?!”

  The white fox nodded. Walking out of his view, Brooky stole along the wall beneath the window until she reached a bench nearby. The fox was still mimicking the act of eating, licking his lips and showing his teeth, when Brooky jumped up on the bench. The large, solid ottermaid slammed the window pole hard at the stained-glass section, smashing it through the window—and the fox’s fangs at the same time. He fell backward with a gurgling scream.

  Freeta and the others came running. She grabbed hold of the injured one, heaving him upright and shaking him as she grated angrily, “What happened . . . Who did this? Speak, fool!”

  The fox tried to mumble something, but his mouth was too badly injured. Blood spattered the vixen’s face.

  Repulsed, she pushed him away before turning upon his companion. “Why weren’t you up there, too, mudbrain?”

  He protested. “There was no room for two. I was holding his paws lest he fell . . . Duuuunnnhhhh!”

  Freeta ducked sideways, narrowly missing two window poles which, instead, thudded down so hard on the fox’s head that he collapsed to the ground—unconscious. The vixen managed to grab the end of one pole. Tugging it, she yelled at the other foxes, “Do something! Shoot arrows through that broken window!”

  “Eulaliiiiaaaaaa!”

  The vermin whirled about, just in time to see Brigadier Crumshaw emerging from the gatehouse, making a lone charge across the lawns toward them. The old hare was waving his swagger stick, running right for the foxes.

  Freeta snapped an order at the three vermin who had already notched shafts to their bowstrings. “Stop him! Fire!”

  One arrow went wide of its mark, but the other two struck Crumshaw. Amazingly, he carried on with his headlong charge, still waving his stick and roaring, “Give ’em blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliiiiiaaaa!”

  Freeta was backed up against the Abbey wall as the brigadier bulled his way through to her. She slashed at his face with her sickle-curved sword. Crumshaw was injured a second time, but he was unstoppable. Struggling to gain control of the weapon, he had seized the sword by the blade, which resulted in deep cuts to his paws. Despite the brigadier’s pain, in one last desperate effort he turned the blade until its point was against the vixen’s neck, hurling his full weight onto it. They fell to the ground together, locked in a death hold. Freeta stared at him disbelievingly and gave a dying gurgle.

  The brigadier slumped forward, his mouth against the dead fox’s ear as he gasped his last words, “Forward the Buffs . . . wot . . . Eulayyyyy.”

  28

  The Abbey doors were flung open wide. Redwallers charged forth, armed with anything that would stop vermin—window poles, ladles, kitchen knives, garden shears and digging forks. The white foxes scattered; these Abbey-dwellers looked anything but peaceable. Mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs were all bellowing and shouting, “Redwaaaaaaallllll!”

  Everybeast joined in. Abbot Humble and a crowd of Dibbuns raced up the belltower stairs and threw themselves onto the bellropes of the twin bells. Boom! Clang! Bongboomclang! Clang! Bong! Kabooommm!

  What they lacked in expertise they made up for in enthusiasm. Deep, brazen belltones tolled out their message over woodland, Abbey and plain. Armel and Brooky dashed to the big western wallgates. Throwing them wide open, the ottermaid stood out on the path, waving a flower-embroidered bedspread which was attached to her long window pole. Sister Armel guarded the gates for her.

  The Long Patrol were split to the north and south of the flatlands, pursuing the retreating vermin, arcing back toward the woodlands after them. Captain Fortindom was at the north end, close to the path, when he heard the bells and saw Brooky waving her flag outside the main gates. Sergeant Wonwill, heading the south contingent, also heeded the alarm.

  Calling off the chase, both hares directed their forces to the main gate. A brief word with Armel and Brooky was all the two officers needed before issuing the go-ahead: soon the Long Patrol flooded into the Abbey grounds. Fortindom and Wonwill intercepted Sister Screeve and Foremole Bruffy coming up from the pond.

  The hare captain wielded his sabre in a businesslike manner. “Marm, sah, how many vermin are on the grounds?”

  The mole leader wrinkled his snout. “Thurr bee’s none naow, zurr. Ee Sister’n’oi just slayed th’ larst wun. Gurt big fosker ee wurr!”

  Sister Screeve prodded the air with a garden rake. “Aye, but he couldn’t swim! Nasty beasts, foxes. We’ll have to haul his carcase out of the pond later.”

  The sergeant saluted the little mouse Recorder. “Go easy with that rake, marm. We’re on yore side!”

  The Sister shouldered it like a pike. “Oh look, there’s young Burlop! He doesn’t appear too happy. I’ll go and see what ails him. Bruffy, you can tell the Father Abbot and those Dibbuns to stop tolling the bells now. I can’t hear myself thinking with that din.”

  Fortindom ducked, avoiding a swing of the rake as Sister Screeve turned to indicate the east wall. “Hitheryon Jem says the foxes came in by the wicker gate in that wall. Fat lot he knows! They climbed over the wall using a double grapnel attached to a rope ladder.”

  Wonwill set off for the east wall. “We’d best go an’ h’investigate, sah!”

  Hitheryon Jem and Wandering Walt were securing the small wicker gate as the hares marched up.

  Jem pointed to the crumpled form of a white fox in the bushes nearby. “There was two of ’em—one escaped, but me’n ole Walt put paid t’this ’un. Those two foxes wasn’t chasin’ about like the other vermin. They was just standin’ ’ere, mindin’ the open gate like sentries. Bit odd that, eh?”

  The captain and the sergeant stared at each other as the realisation of the vermin plan became clear to them.

  Fortindom twitched his long ears. “Good grief, the crafty scum! So that’s why they turned an’ ran from us, wot!”

  Wonwill’s hooded eyes widened. “Aye, a clever scheme, sah. They was doublin’ back to come through this liddle gate an’ lock us out o’ the h’Abbey. That would’ve put us in a fix, if’n ye’ll pardon me sayin’, sah.”

  Fortindom began unlocking the bolts and reopening the wicker gate. “Indeed, Sergeant. With a bit o’ luck we’ll jolly well let ’em do just that. Gather the Patrol. Then get the Redwallers back into their Abbey an’ tell ’em to stay inside. This is our bloomin’ party. Make sure the other gates are all secured an’ guarded. We’ll have to look lively, Wonwill. If the vermin are bent on carryin’ out their idea, the blighters should be here quite soon now. Keep the Patrol well hidden until the vermin are all inside. I’ll lay low nearby here an’ lock ’em in.”

  Zerig met up with the rest of his vermin in the woodlands behind Redwall. The white fox captain took stock of his warriors, their number considerably thinned down since he had arrived at Redwall. Zerig, however, was still confident that he could pull off the audacious scheme. Continuing to size things up, he spotted Rogel, who was trying to blend in unnoticed with the other vermin.

  Zerig questioned the fox. “Rogel, weren’t ye supposed to be with Freeta?”

  “Aye, Captain, that I was, but I had to run for my life.”

  Zerig stared hard at him. “How so?”

  Rogel explained. “We gained entry well enough. Freeta opened the gate an’ left me an’ Farn to guard it until you came. She went off with the others to gain entrance to the big house. Suddenly the bells began ringing, an’ a horde of beasts, all armed with broomsticks an’ other things, came charging out at us. . . .”

  Zerig interrupted Rogel. “A horde of beasts?”

  The fox nodded. “Aye, sir—mice and others from within the big house. We were going to
be attacked. I had to run, I had to! They would have slain me, Captain!”

  Zerig shook his head in disbelief. “An’ where, pray tell, are Freeta and the others?”

  Rogel shuffled awkwardly. “I know not, Captain.”

  Zerig’s voice dripped scorn and sarcasm. “Ye ran away from mice armed with broomsticks! Were there no tall rabbits with javelins an’ swords there?”

  Rogel stared at the ground. “I saw none, Captain.”

  Zerig turned to the rest of his warriors, as if appealing to them for an answer. “No hares were there, like those we fought, but this bold creature ran away from mice with broomsticks. . . . Did ye fear that they would sweep ye up, wormbrain?”

  Sniggering broke out among the remaining ermine and foxes. Zerig caught Rogel by an ear, as though he were a naughty young one, twisting it so hard that he raised his subordinate tippawed. “Now we will go to the small gate, my brave Rogel. If it be still open, we will show thee how the warriors of Gulo the Savage deal with mice waving broomsticks. But if the door is locked, I will show thee how to skin a coward an’ roast him alive before we eat him. March!”

  Sergeant Wonwill and the Patrol hares crouched behind a border of rhododendron and hydrangea bushes which separated the east end of Brother Demple’s vegetable drills from the back lawns. Somebeast sniffed aloud and began sobbing. The sergeant looked around until he found the culprit, Flummerty.

  The tough Wonwill gave an exasperated sigh. “Now then, missy, you ain’t gettin’ sulky ’cos ye want to go t’bed, are ye? Stop those waterworks h’immediately!”

  The haremaid continued to weep loudly. “S . . . s . . . sorry, sah, I can’t help it.”

  The sergeant turned his eyes skyward distractedly. “I said stop snifflin’. That h’aint a request, it’s a h’order! Cartwill, lend ’er yore kerchief, will ye?”

  The young hare passed Flummerty his kerchief, but she continued to sob piteously. Crawling along to where she was crouched, Wonwill patted her ears gently. “Nah then, me beauty. Yore goin’ to soak all the curl out o’ those pretty eyelashes. Wot is it, me little maid? Why all the snuffles n’tears?”

  Flummerty wiped her eyes hard, struggling to regain her composure. She explained the reason for her sorrow haltingly. “It’s . . . it’s the Brigadier. I found him in a corner by those long windows. They killed him!”

  Wonwill’s eyes glazed over as he seized the haremaid by her shoulders. “Y’mean our Brigadier . . . Crumshaw . . . dead?”

  She nodded, her hot tears splashing on his chest. “He must’ve charged the foxes single-pawed. There were two broken arrows in his chest, and a sword had cut his face from ears to jaw. The Brigadier was lying beside the fox that did it, sah. He must’ve killed the brute with his last breath. He . . . he died all alone, sah!”

  Wonwill gazed around at the stricken faces of the other hares. He blinked hard, then smiled through the tears that hung unshed in his eyes. “Forward the Buffs, eh! The ole battlebeast, I never h’imagined Brigadier Crumshaw dyin’ in bed of long seasons, surrounded by medicines an’ such. Dry yore eyes, missy, an’ the rest of ye. D’ye think yore h’officer’d want ye lookin’ like this?”

  Young Flunkworthy took a deep breath and mastered his grief. Squinching up one eye as though it held a monocle, he did an amazing impression of the brigadier. “By the left, next one I catch blubbin’, I’ll put him on a flippin’ fizzer, wot wot! Not the done thing, y’know. Can’t abide any bloomin’ beast mopin’ about like a dratted duck at a drownin’, eh wot!”

  That did the trick. Though there was still a bit of sniffing and paws being rubbed across eyes, the young hares were much better.

  Wonwill winked at Flunkworthy. “That’s the ticket, young Flunk. We’ll mourn the Brigadier later. But for now, let’s see if’n we can’t face up t’the scummy villains who started all this.”

  Kersey ground her teeth audibly. “Blood’n’vinegar an’ guts’n’gore, that’s what those murderers are in for when I meet up with ’em!”

  Wonwill forestalled further threats by reverting to his old parade-ground-sergeant manner. “Silence in the ranks there, young sahs an’ marms. Keep your ’eads down, weapons ready, an’ wait on my command!”

  Captain Zerig gave a grunt of triumph when he saw the small east wallgate still lying ajar. Releasing Rogel’s ear, he strode cautiously into the Abbey grounds and stared all around.

  Motioning the vermin in, he remarked to an ermine alongside him, “Mice with broomsticks! There isn’t a mouse in sight anywhere. ’Tis so peaceful an’ quiet ye could lay down an’ take a nap. Hark, Rogel, where are the hordes of mice with broomsticks, eh?”

  As the last vermin came through the doorway, Derron Fortindom kicked him in the back, laying him out flat. He slammed the door, shot the bolts and drew his long sabre in one fluid movement. “Apologies for the mice. I sent them indoors. Are hares more t’your likin’, sirrah?”

  Zerig saw his fate written plain in the perilous eyes of the sabre-fighting captain. Both he and the vermin who served under him turned to run and seek some means of escape, but none existed: Their way was barred by the swords and javelins of the Long Patrol.

  Inside the Abbey, Foremole Bruffy, Sister Armel, Brooky and Burlop Cellarhog, whom they had found wandering in the grounds, had their paws full. At the first shouts of battle, Tergen had tried to get out into the thick of the fray. Clashing his beak and flexing his talons, the maddened goshawk screeched, “Haayaaakah! Stand aside . . . this bird will kill vermin!”

  To curtail Tergen’s wild desires, Brooky the ottermaid dropped a huge woven wall hanging over him. The whole thing began leaping about as though it were alive.

  Brooky shouted as she tried to hold the covered hawk still, “Somebeast help me before I’m dragged outside!”

  Sister Armel, Foremole and Burlop added their weight by sitting on the wall hanging, holding on to the big bump at its centre which jolted up and down. Though Tergen tried to break free, the four Redwallers managed to restrain him.

  The roars and bellows from out near the east wall, mingled with the bloodcurdling battle cries of the hares, grew to a crescendo.

  Friar Glisum clapped both paws over his ears. “Oh, the dreadful din! What’s happening out there?”

  Sister Screeve began climbing on a table to look out of the windows. Her voice had a hysterical ring to it. “It’s slaughter, that’s what it is. Slaughter!”

  Surprisingly, it was Abbot Humble who pulled her down. He shook the Recorder mouse, shouting at her, “You were out there a short while back, Sister, killing the vermin with other Redwallers. Of course it’s slaughter—goodbeasts slaughtering evil ones!”

  Wandering Walt sat Screeve down, calming her. “Thurr naow, doan’t ee fret yurrself o’er yon vurmint villyuns. They’m h’only gettin’ wot bee’s due to ’em.”

  Brother Demple viewed the situation logically. “Sister Screeve, would you sooner have the vermin in here, slaughtering us? I for one would not.”

  The two Dibbuns, Mudge and Perkle, had been dashing hither and thither, their voices shrill with excitement. “Bludd’n’vin’ger! Yooleehayleeee!”

  Ulba the molemum collared both the babes. “Coom yurr, likkle scallawaggers, sitt still noaw, or oi’ll chase ee both up to you’m beds!”

  A sudden silence fell outside. In the eerie quiet which followed, Brooky began laughing. “Hahaha! It’s like hitting yourself over the head with a saucepan, ’cos it’s nice when you stop. Hahahaha!” Her merriment was halted by somebeast banging on the Abbey door.

  Abbot Humble called out, “Who is it?”

  Wonwill could be heard outside. “ ’Tis us, Father. You can h’open up, sah!”

  The Redwallers set up a rousing cheer as the hares marched into Great Hall, but it died upon the lips of everybeast when they saw what the slow-marching Patrol bore between their ranks. Laid out upon a trestle taken from the orchard was the still form of Brigadier Crumshaw. In one paw, the old warrior still held his swagger stick. The
broken arrows in his chest and the awful wound across his face could be seen by all. Crumshaw’s monocle dangled from his bloodstained tunic by its cord.

  Captain Fortindom saluted Humble with his sabre, nodding toward the makeshift bier. “Father, may we request someplace to lay him until the evenin’? The burial will take place at sundown, in the Abbey grounds, with your permission, sah.”

  Humble, who had become firm friends with the feisty old officer, led Fortindom and the bearers over to the great tapestry. Then he addressed the group. “I think the best way we can honour your Brigadier is to lay him there, beneath the likeness of our warrior, Martin.”

  Wonwill smiled up at the brave mouse’s picture. “A warrior watched over by a warrior. Father h’Abbot, I think the Brigadier would’ve liked that. Thank ye kindly!”

  BOOK THREE

  “The Walking Stone”

  Rakkety Rakkety Rakkety Tam,

  the drums are beatin’ braw.

  Rakkety Rakkety Rakkety Tam,

  Are ye marchin’ off tae war?

  That savage from the lands of ice,

  he’s no’ like any other.

  He’s sworn tae get the Walkin’ Stone,

  an’ murder his own brother!

  ’Tis braw tae woo a bonny maid,

  for love is aye sae sweet.

  Yet who’ll be left tae tell the tale,

  when steel an’ fang must meet?

  29

  To say that Wild Doogy Plumm and Yoofus Lightpaw looted the vermin camp would have been a gross understatement. Between them, the Highlander and the volethief left the place stripped bare to the earth. The happy pair came away decked from ear to tail, and from pawtip to snout end, with ornaments the vermin had left behind in their haste. Earrings, tailrings, pawrings, bracelets, necklets, belts and sashes were all donned as the two victors criticised and complimented each other.