High Rhulain (Redwall) Read online

  Grabbing her friend, the ottermaid shook him soundly. “Make sense, Girry! What big bird, where, and who’s hitting it? Now take a deep breath and start again, properly!”

  Girry obeyed, taking several breaths before he recovered. “I went upstream. I was up in a beech when I saw them. There’s about eight water rats, nasty-looking scum. Anyhow, these rats, they’ve got a big bird strung upside down from a bough, and they’re torturing it to death, I swear they are. Please, Tiria, we must do something to help the bird!”

  Unwinding the sling Wuppit from about her waist, Tiria took charge swiftly. “Take an axe, Girry. Go on ahead of us and get close to the bird without being seen. Then wait for us. Tribsy, Brinty, take two good yew staves from the cart and follow behind me!”

  Plugtail and Hangpaw were trying to set light to a heap of twigs, leaves and moss beneath where the big bird was hanging upside down. They had to keep ducking as the other gang rats swung the hawk back and forth by prodding and striking at it with their spears. The bird’s wings hung limply outspread. Though it hissed feebly at its tormentors, there was no way it could stop them.

  Groffgut was enjoying himself immensely at the expense of his helpless victim. He swung his crude sword at the bird, clipping a few of its throat feathers, while taunting it cruelly. “Once dat fire’s ablaze, we’ll roast yer nice’n’slow, birdy. May’ap it’ll be suppertime afore yore dead an’ ready, eh?”

  Frogeye took a lunge at the bird with his spear but missed. “Kin I ’ave one of its legs, Chief? It was me wot catchered it.”

  Groffgut snarled and aimed a kick at him. “I’ll ’ave one of yore legs if’n ye slays that h’eagle too quick. Stop stabbin’ at it like that, snottynose!”

  Parraaaang! A hard river pebble shot out of the trees, striking the swordblade and knocking it from Groffgut’s grasp. He went immediately into an agonised dance, sucking at the paw which was stinging from the reverberation of the strike.

  “Yeeeeek! Who did that? Heeeyaaagh!”

  Tiria sped onto the streambank, whirling another stone in her sling as she shouted, “Get away from that bird, rat!”

  Groffgut stopped dancing, tears beading in his squinched eyes. He saw that it was a lone otter. Waving his numbed paw at the gang, he screeched, “Kill dat riverdog t’bits. Slay ’er!”

  Frogeye leaped forward, thrusting with his spear. Tiria sidestepped it. Swinging the stone-loaded sling, she brought it crashing into the rat’s jaw as she roared, “Redwaaaaallll!”

  Brinty and Tribsy charged out of the bushes, laying about heftily with their long staves. Girry dropped down onto the bough which held the big bird. Leaping from there to the ground, he scattered the smouldering fire with his axe. Tribsy gave Plugtail a crack across both legs with his staff, which sent the rat hurtling into the stream. Brinty brought the butt of his staff straight into Groffgut’s belly as he reached with his good paw for the sword. Then he began lambasting the gang chief mercilessly. Tiria was everywhere at once, flailing with her loaded sling, cracking the rats’ paws, ribs, tails and heads. Whilst all this was going on, Girry placed his back beneath the bird’s head and supported it.

  Taken aback by the ambush, most of the rats fled for their lives, leaving only three of their number at the scene. Threetooth and Frogeye were stretched out senseless; Groffgut, unfortunately, was still conscious, wailing and pleading as Brinty whacked on at him in a frenzy, yelling at him with each blow he delivered. “Dirty! Filthy! Torturer!”

  Tiria seized the young mouse, lifting him clear of his target. “Enough, he’s had enough! Do you want to kill him?”

  Brinty was still waving his staff at empty air, roaring, “Aye, I’ll kill the scum sure enough. Rotten, murdering torturer. He’s not fit to stay alive!”

  Tiria squeezed Brinty hard. “Now stop that, this instant!”

  The young mouse suddenly calmed down. He dropped his staff at the realisation of the wild way he had been behaving. “Sorry, mate, I must have got carried away!”

  Tribsy chuckled. “Hurr, you’m surrpintly did, zurr, boi okey, Miz Tiria. Coom on, let’s get ee pore burd daown!”

  Tiria relieved Girry by holding the weight of the limp hawk. The young squirrel took his axe, clambered up into the tree and cut the rope with a single stroke.

  The ottermaid lowered the bird gently to the ground, murmuring softly to it, even though it was unconscious. “There there, easy now. You’re among friends. We’ll get you back to Redwall Abbey. You’ll be taken care of there, I promise.”

  Girry bounded out of the tree, calling to Tribsy, “Come on, we’ll get the cart to carry the big bird on.”

  Tiria stayed by the hawk’s side. “Good idea, mates. Brinty, you keep an eye on that rat, he looks like their leader.”

  The young mouse strode over to Groffgut, issuing a harsh warning. “One move out of you, lardbelly, and I’ll break your skull!”

  Then he picked up Groffgut’s sword and flung it into the stream as the rat gang chief lay there helplessly, glaring hatred at Brinty through his swollen eyes.

  When they returned with the cart, it took three of them to lift the big bird on. It lay limp atop the wood cargo.

  Tribsy stroked its head. “Do ee bee’s still naow, burd. We’m friends, acumm to ’elp ee.”

  The bird’s golden eyes opened for a brief moment before it passed out again. Tribsy patted it gently. “Thurr naow, ee pore creetur, you’m sleep well. Us’ll watch o’er ee ’til you’m gets to ee h’Abbey!”

  Tiria settled the bird more comfortably on the cart and went to Brinty. The young mouse was wielding his staff, standing guard over Groffgut. The ottermaid nodded approvingly. “Well done, mate. I think you knocked all the fight out of that one!”

  She turned the rat over with her footpaw. “Listen carefully, vermin. We’re not murderers like you, that’s why you’re still alive. But I warn you, stay out of Mossflower, or you won’t get off so lightly next time.”

  Groffgut made as if to snarl, but Brinty jabbed him sharply. “Listen, scumface. If you ever cross my path again, I’ll break your skull. Do I make myself clear?”

  The gang leader never answered. He lay there, his whole body one throbbing pulse of pain from the beating Brinty had given him. Then he spat contemptuously, still glaring at the young mouse. Brinty took a step forward, but Tiria pulled him away.

  “Come on, leave him. We’ve got to get the poor bird back to Redwall. I think that vermin’s learned his lesson.”

  Groffgut watched them go. When they were safely out of earshot, he stared balefully at Brinty’s back, muttering, “I won’t ferget you, mousey, oh no! Next time we meet will be yer dyin’ day. But I’ll make it nice’n’slow for ye!”

  As the friends made their way along the streambank, Tiria noticed that Brinty’s paws were shaking and his jaw was trembling. “Are you alright, mate?” she murmured.

  The young mouse shook his head. “I’ve never raised my paw in anger against another creature before, and I’ve never been in a fight. I don’t know what happened to me back there. That rat was much bigger than me. If he could have reached his sword, he’d have slain me easily. You know me, Tiria, I’m usually the most peaceful of mice. But when I thought of the way that rat had treated the bird, well, I just lost control. I’m sorry.”

  Tiria winked at her friend. “No need to be sorry, Brinty. Some of the quietest creatures can fight like madbeasts when they’re roused. You did a brave thing, going at the rat like you did.”

  Brinty strove to keep his paws from shaking. “Maybe so, but it’s not a very pleasant feeling afterwards, remembering what you did. I would have killed him if you hadn’t pulled me off. I don’t think I’d ever like to fight again, it’s too upsetting.”

  The twin bells of Redwall, Methusaleh and Matthias, were tolling out their evening peal as the cart reached the Abbey gates. Tiria banged at the entrance. Hillyah and her husband, Oreal, two harvest mice, served as the Abbey Gatekeepers. The couple lived in the gatehouse with their twin
babes, Irgle and Ralg.

  Oreal called out from behind the huge timber gates, “Say who ye are. Do ye come in peace to our Abbey?”

  Girry answered the challenge. “It’s the wood gatherers, open up! We’ve got an injured beast here that needs help!”

  Unbarring the main gates, the Gatekeepers opened one side, allowing the friends to pass through with the cart.

  The little harvest mouse twins squeaked aloud at the sight of the big bird draped on the wooden cargo. “Yeeeek! A hinjerbeast!”

  Their mother drew them aside. “It’s not a hinjerbeast, it’s an injured beast, an eagle I think, though I’ve never seen one before.”

  Tiria allowed the harvest mouse family to help with pushing the cart up to the Abbey building. “The elders will tell us what type of bird it is, once we get it safely inside.”

  Abbess Lycian and her friend Burbee awaited them on the Abbey steps, along with Skipper, Foremole Grudd and Brink Greyspoke. Skipper shook his daughter’s paw heartily.

  “Stripe me rudder, gel! That’s a fair ole cargo o’ wood, but is that a dead bird you’ve brought us?”

  The little twins piped up together, “It’s a hinjerbeast, Skip!”

  Abbess Lycian hastened forward to inspect the creature. “It’s alive, but only just, poor thing. How did this happen?”

  Girry explained eagerly. “A gang of water rats had it tied up, hanging from a tree. They were tormenting it, but we stopped ’em with our staves. Hah, you should’ve seen Tiria, though, she charged right in and battered the bark off those rats with her sling. They soon cleared off, dirty cowards!”

  Brink interrupted. “Tell us later, young Girry. Let’s get this pore bird some attention afore ’tis a deadbeast. Tribsy, run an’ fetch Brother Perant, he’ll know wot t’do. Brinty, go an’ get ole Quelt the Recorder. I’ll wager he’ll know wot kind o’ bird this ’un is.”

  Molemum Burbee hitched up her vast flowery apron. “Hurr, an’ oi’l goo an’ make ee gurt pot o’tea!”

  Abbess Lycian smiled appreciatively at her friend. “Good idea, Burbee. Would you be so kind as to bring it up to the Infirmary? A nice cup of tea never goes amiss.”

  Brother Perant was Redwall’s Infirmary Keeper and Healer. The good mouse’s knowledge of herbs, salves, potions and treatments was without peer in all Mossflower. No sooner was the bird borne into his sickbay than Perant began practising his art.

  “Hmm, a giant of a bird, not like any hereabouts. Probably some kind of eagle or hawk. There’s an object lodged inside its mouth. Nasty thing, looks like a star made of iron. See how it sticks out from beneath the lower beak? Skipper, get that hardwood pestle, force the beak open and hold it still whilst I work. Huh, wouldn’t like to lose a paw if it snapped shut as I was operating!”

  Most of the gentler woodland creatures had to look away as Perant pried at the object with his instruments. He worked swiftly, muttering to himself, “What sort of villain would do this to a living creature? Ah, here it comes . . . dreadful thing, just look at that!”

  Wiping the barb clean, he passed it to Tiria. She felt the sharp edges of the iron star, her face grim as she dropped it into her pebble pouch.

  “Someday I may get the chance to pay the scum back with his own weapon!”

  3

  Beyond the high seas, far away on Green Isle, a monumental bulk loomed over the landscape of swamps, streams and watermeadows. The once-proud timber fortress of the Wildlough otterclan, it had been inhabited for untold seasons by cats. Riggu Felis, and his barbaric ancestors before him, had held sway over Green Isle for as long as anybeast could remember. The isle had become no place for otters to live. Apart from a small band of outlaw otters, the rest were slaves, completely subjugated by the mighty warlord and his cats. It was the cats’ home now—a solid fortress, built entirely of pine logs, on the lakeshore. Part of the structure jutted out over the lake, where it was supported upon pillars of stone in the shallows.

  On the stairs outside the upper tower chamber, Lady Kaltag, the mate of Riggu Felis, sat in a window alcove with Atunra, the warlord’s pine marten aide. Kaltag’s lustrous black tail twitched back and forth restlessly beneath her furtrimmed cloak as she waited to be admitted into the chamber.

  On the lower stairs, the two sons of Felis and Kaltag were arguing and fighting. Jeefra was the burlier of the two. His brother, Pitru, was half a head shorter and not as well fleshed, but it was he who was the fiercer.

  Pitru lashed out at Jeefra, snarling, “If he dies, I will be Warlord of Green Isle. Then you will have to watch out, flabbytail!”

  Jeefra dodged past him and ran yowling to his mother’s side. “Tell him, Mamma! We’re both supposed to rule as warlords if Father dies, aren’t we?”

  She took his paw, calling severely to her other son, “Pitru, come up here right now!”

  The young cat did as he was bidden, though he stayed clear of Kaltag’s grasp, pouting and stamping his footpaw. “Jeefra’s soft, I’d make the best warlord!”

  Kaltag reprimanded the pair. “Shame on you both, talking as if your father were going to die!”

  Pitru dodged forward, treading on his brother’s tail. He smirked maliciously at Atunra. “I saw what the big bird did to him. He will die, won’t he?”

  The pine marten shook her head, wincing as screeches and growls emanated from the chamber. “Nay, thy father is a true wildcat. The healers will save him.”

  More screeches came from within, together with the crashing of furniture being hurled about. Suddenly the door slammed open and two old cats were flung out, tumbling down the stairs. The voice of Riggu Felis roared angrily, “Idiots! Impostors! Out, before ye slay me with those foul potions and rusty needles. Begone with ye!”

  Then Warlord Riggu Felis stood framed in the doorway. The wildcat’s face had been covered when they brought him in, but now it was plain to view in all its hideousness. The black-and-grey-striped fur was normal from ears to eyes, but below that it was red, glistening flesh and bone. The whole muzzle, nose and upper lip had been torn off. Half of the warlord’s face was a frightful mask—a spitting, bubbling skeleton, as he continually sucked air to breathe. His blazing eyes raked them.

  “Why are ye staring so? Is it not a pretty sight?”

  Storming back into the chamber, he slammed the door. They heard him clattering and rattling amid armour, ranting to himself, “Two useless sons who couldn’t kill a bird, a single bird! Hah, and the bird flew off, it could not stand and do battle with me. Birds will die! All birds on Green Isle shall be slain! Then everybeast will know that I cannot die, for I am Riggu Felis!”

  Outside, Lady Kaltag beckoned to her sons as she descended the stairs. “We will not tarry here whilst your father is in such wrath. Atunra, you will stay and await his orders.”

  The pine marten bowed briefly. “As ye wish, my Lady!”

  The afternoon was waning by the time the wildcat emerged from his chamber. He faced his aide. “So, Atunra, what do ye think?”

  The pine marten stared at him, knowing she would die if she did not reply favourably. Riggu Felis had altered one of his war helmets to cover the injuries to his face. He had wrenched the visor from the headpiece and fixed a square of chain mesh to its lower part. It hid the wounds but made him look even more sinister. Now his breath whistled and hissed through the rings of chain mail, and they parted slightly, revealing his naked fangs. Moreover, he kept pushing his tongue through the mask to facilitate his breathing.

  Atunra nodded solemnly. “It gives you an air of mystery, Lord.”

  The wildcat raised his single-bladed war axe. “Gather my catguards. Tell them to take bows and quivers of arrows. My command is that they kill every bird in the skies, large or small. We will feast on their flesh. Destroy the birds, slay them all!”

  He strode to the alcove window. Leaning out, he bellowed, “Death to all birds! Death! Death!”

  On the lake below, two otter slaves heard the din from the tower window. Looking up, they beheld the
wildcat, recognisable even with his face masked.

  One of the otters shook his head sadly. “Ah, ’twas a mistake ye made sayin’ Felis was dead. That villain will never die! D’ye not hear him?”

  The other otter began hauling in his nets. “Aye, sure he’ll only get wickeder by the day, worse luck for us. Y’know the trouble with us, mate? We’re weak. It takes a beast like Leatho Shellhound to defy that Riggu Felis an’ his scurvy cats. Aye, Leatho’s the buckoe, sure enough!”

  Whulky, the elder of the two otters, rounded on his companion. “Keep yore voice down! Ye know wot’ll happen if’n yore caught even mentionin’ that name. Ye’ll end up bein’ slung into Deeplough with a stone tied to yore neck, t’be eaten by Slothunog. Now get rowin’ for shore. Can’t ye see Weilmark Scaut waitin’ on our catch?”

  As Chab, the younger otter, sculled their coracle toward the pier, Whulky lectured him. “Lissen, Chab, don’t ye ever say we’re weak. Us otters have to stay an’ obey Felis because we’ve all got families an’ young ’uns to worry about. They’d be the ones to suffer if ever we tried anythin’. Shellhound’s free as the air. That rogue can afford t’be an outlaw, an’ besides, he’s a seadog, not a stream otter like us.”

  Chab rested his paddle. “But wasn’t it us that were once the warriors of Green Isle, an’ haven’t we got the blood of the High Queen Rhulain1 Wildlough runnin’ in our veins?”

  Whulky sighed. “Aye, that’s truth to tell, Chab, but ’tis many a hundred seasons since those days. The High Queen is nought but a thing for songs an’ poems to tell our little’uns now.”

  An irate voice called to them from on shore. “If you two don’t move yerselves, I’ll skin the hide from yer rudders!” This threat was followed by the crack of a whip.

  Weilmark Scaut was a burly, ginger feral cat, hated by all the otters for his arrogance and cruelty. He stood on the pier end, coiling his long whip, watching the little fishing coracle heave to. As a weilmark he was a high-ranking officer of the catguards.