Triss: A Novel of Redwall Page 3

“Good job we don’t have to walk far, then, Scarum. Just round the cove to the rocks at the north spur. Wait’ll Kroova sees all the grub we’ve brought along, eh?”

  Scarum caught up with his badger pal. “Indeed. If we’re runnin’ off t’sea then we need the proper scoff, wot? Yukko! I don’t mind livin’ off the land, but that idea of Kroova’s of livin’ off the sea: raw fish’n’seaweed! Huh, I should jolly well say not!”

  They edged down below the tideline to where the sand was firmer underpaw. It made the going easier.

  Sagax was smiling happily. “No more being sentenced to washing the pots!”

  Scarum grinned like a demented rabbit. “Or scrubbin’ the bloomin’ Mess Hall out!”

  “Or weeding the rock gardens all day!”

  “Or polishing spears’n’shields in the dratted armoury!”

  Sagax did a fair imitation of his father: “I can understand Bescarum, he’s a hare. But you, Sagaxus, you’re supposed to be the son of a Badger Lord! Why your mother even named you Sagaxus I’ll never know. She said you were supposed to be like that old Badger Lord she’d read of, Russano the Wise, her fifth great-grandsire. So she called you Sagaxus, that’s supposed to mean wise also. Huh, now this is your last chance, d’you hear me?”

  Scarum did an even better impersonation of his father: “H’rumph! You’re a rip, sah, an utter flippin’ rip, wot! Y’see these grey hairs ruinin’ me best moustache, eh? Well, you put ’em there. H’rumph, if y’were one o’ my patrol I’d clap you in the bally dungeons, wot wot?”

  Kroova heard them coming. Making the bowline fast to a nubby rock, he leaped down onto the sand. “C’mon, mateys, stir yore stumps or we’ll miss the tide!”

  His boat was a double-sailed ketch, which he had stolen from three searats a season ago. It was a trim-lined little vessel, with fore and aft sails, the latter being set slightly in front of the rudder. Kroova gasped as he helped them heave their packs on board. He loosed the bowline as they skipped aboard.

  “Stamp me rudder, are y’tryin’ to sink us wid vittles?”

  Scarum wrinkled his nose at the sea otter. “You carry on scoffin’ seaweed’n’sprats. Leave this to us, pal.”

  Kroova caught the breeze just right and sent the ketch skimming on a northwesterly tack, his hearty laugh ringing out. “Haharr, me old mateys, welcome aboard the Stopdog!”

  Sagax looked at him questioningly. “The Stopdog?”

  Kroova winked and gave him a roguish grin. “Aye, that’s the last thing I ’eard those three searats hollerin’ after me. ‘Stop, dog!’ So that’s wot I called ’er, the Stopdog!”

  Scarum tried to rise gingerly from a sitting position. “Shouldn’t we be doin’ something, paddling or tugging on ropes to make this boat go?”

  Kroova had the foresail fixed and the sternsail controlled in one paw as he held the tiller with the other. “Bless yer ’eart, no, mate. This ’un goes by ’erself, though it needs a h’expert’s paw like mine t’keep ’er on course.”

  Sagax watched the skilful otter intently. “How did you learn to sail like that? Did your parents teach you?”

  Kroova shrugged. “I never ’ad no parents, mate, leastways none that I knows about. Out ’ere on the briny, it’s learn fast or perish, an’ I wasn’t about ready to perish!”

  Scarum began opening one of the backpacks. “Talkin’ about parents, I’ll bet my old pa’s whiskers will really curl when he finds I’ve hopped it. As for Mum, she’ll probably blubber till there ain’t a dry kerchief on the flippin’ mountain. Loves a good blubber, though it drives Pa scatty, wot.”

  Sagax felt his conscience twinging guiltily. “Let’s stop talking about parents. ’Tisn’t as though we’ll never see ’em again. We’ll prob’ly drift back to the mountain in a season or two, when we’re too grown up for them to push and shove us around. Huh, bet they’ll be glad to see us then. Come on, Kroova, you old seadog, give us one of your ditties.”

  Immediately the cheerful sea otter obliged. He had a good voice.

  “Ho I was born in a storm one winter’s morn,

  When I was fat an’ tiny,

  With the wind for me pa, an’ the sea for a ma,

  Way out upon the briny.

  Let the codfish sing with a dingaling,

  An’ the crabs dance wid the shark,

  Hey ho again for the rollin’ main,

  I’m ’appy as a lark!

  Ho my first ship was a cockleshell, I painted it bright red,

  Away I’d judder, wid me tail as a rudder,

  Far o’er the waves I sped,

  Then a nice ole whale made me a sail

  That helped me to go faster,

  So I voyaged free on the deep blue sea,

  Wid nobeast for a master!”

  The little ketch was soon lost in a world of silver-flecked water, scudding out north northwest over moonlit realms, like a willow leaf on a huge immeasurable pond.

  By midnoon of the following day, Colonel Whippscut was back at Salamandastron, making his report to Lord Hightor after a fruitless search of the shoreline.

  “H’rumph, I, er, lost ’em, sah!”

  Hightor’s brows beetled low over his fierce dark eyes. “Lost them, Colonel! How in the name of scut and stripes could you lose two younguns carrying great heavy backpacks? Surely their trail must have been clear enough!”

  Whippscut shook his head, scratching his waxed moustache until it became like tattered string. “H’rumph! Well, had m’breakfast as usual an hour after dawn, took a stroll down t’the blinkin’ beach, an’ there were the tracks, plain as the ears on me bonce, wot. Had followed ’em for only a short while, when they bloomin’ well vanished.”

  Controlling his temper, the Badger Lord stared at his colonel. “Where exactly did you lose sight of the trail?”

  Whippscut gestured back over his shoulder. “Round those rocks at the north spur, sah, where the tide washes over at flood. Not a sign o’ the scoundrels. I’ve got a search patrol north along the coast. They’ll find the villains if anybeast can. Did all I could, sah, ’pologies!”

  Hightor placed a huge paw on his friend’s shoulder. “No need for apologies, Whipp. You did your best.”

  A knock sounded on the chamber door. Hightor called briskly, “Come!”

  Sergeant Widepaw, a fine big capable veteran hare, entered. With him was a runner, an extremely bright and pretty haremaid. Both saluted with their lances, then Widepaw spoke, keeping his eyes to the front.

  “Colonel, sah, M’Lud, no sight o’ the runaways whatso h’ever! H’I did find this, ’owever, on the north spur. Sah!” He produced a quadrant braided cord of red and green.

  The Colonel inspected it, nodding. “Bescarum’s paw bracelet, made it for him m’self. What’n the name o’ scut’n’ears would that be doin’ there, wot?”

  Sergeant Widepaw nodded for the haremaid to step forward. “Sah, Mindel ’as somethin’ t’say. Carry on, gel.”

  The haremaid runner bobbed a brief curtsy. “I was on afternoon second run yesterday, sah. Spotted a little sailboat near the north spur. There was an otter on board. He didn’t see me, sah, so I carried on, thought nothing more about it, sah. He looked like most sea otters, friendly type.”

  Lord Hightor and the Colonel exchanged glances. The badger waited until Whippscut had dismissed both hares.

  When they had gone, the Colonel banged a clenched paw on the tabletop. “Kroova Wavedog, I might have bally well known!”

  The hackles rose on Hightor’s broad shoulders. “That pirate! How many times have I warned Sagaxus to stay away from him? Kroova is nought but trouble. I wish I had that young sea otter in front of me now, I’d make that rudder of his sting. He wouldn’t sit down for a season!”

  The realisation of what had happened hit Whippscut. “O lack a bally day an’ a half! They’ve run off t’sea with him. No wonder I lost the confounded trail!”

  Hightor sat at the table, placing his striped head between both paws, his voice weary with resignatio
n. “Better not breathe a word to Merola or Dunfreda. No use worrying them further. Just say you lost the tracks over some rocks and shifting sands. I tell you, Whipp, those two have really done it now!”

  The Colonel twirled his moustache fiercely, tidying it up. “You’re right, old friend, the worryin’ will be up to us from now on, wot!”

  4

  Agarnu, King of Riftgard, hated the sea. Just the smell of it could make him queasy. He loathed sailing and detested boats or ships of any kind. He had been this way even when he embarked on that final ill-fated voyage with his father, Sarengo. Agarnu was quite content to rule his kingdom of fjords, mountains, pine forests and pebble beaches from the comfort of his father’s throne.

  Only Pure Ferrets could rule Riftgard. Agarnu was a true Pure Ferret, snow white with pink, glittering eyes. Slumping down on the purple cushions of his shell-ornamented throne, he glared out over his gross stomach, which extended right up to his many chins. A false leg, carved from the white bone of some great fish, clicked against the floor, a dreadful reminder of that last voyage. Agarnu had been the only creature to make it back to Riftgard alive.

  The peace of his throne room was shattered when Prince Bladd came hurtling in yelling and wailing, “Dadda, stop Kurda, she come after me vit der sword!”

  He scrambled behind the throne as Princess Kurda bounded in, swinging her sword.

  Agarnu nodded swiftly to his Ratguards. Six of them penned her in, grasping their spearhafts to form a barrier around the irate Princess. Agarnu glared at her.

  “Stop dis fightink, you ’ear me, Kurda. Now, vot you got to say for youself, eh?”

  The Princess strode forward with the Ratguards still penning her, but moving along with her as she went. She sighted her brother cowering behind the throne and pointed the sword at him.

  “Dat fat toad, he been tellink tales again, yarr!”

  Her father’s pink eyes continued glaring at her. “Tales? T’ree barrels of herrink iz not tales. Dey’s food, not practice for der swordplayink, you no do dat vit food!”

  Kurda curled a contemptuous lip at her father and made some slashing motions in the air with her sword. “Tchak! Der be plenty more fishes in der sea.”

  Agarnu stamped his carved-bone paw irately on the floor. “Nodd if you keep choppink dem up for sword practice der von’t. But I not called you two here to talk about dat. Guards, leave us now. Bladd, gedd out from be’ind dat chair. Listen, I haff somet’ink important to talk about vit you both.”

  As the guards left, Captain Riftun strode in. Agarnu eyed him quizzically.

  “Yarr, Riftun, vot is it?”

  The Captain saluted with his spear. “I’ve caught the creatures who were stealin’ the walkway wood, yer majesty. Three of em, a squirrel, an otter an’ a ’edgehog. They was buildin’ an escape boat, stockin’ it up with vittles, too. Turnips, carrots an’ chopped ’errings. Wot d’yer want doin’ with em? I’ve got all three locked up in the punishment cages.”

  Agarnu snorted and shrugged moodily. “Vy tell me all dis? You de Cap’n, do vat you vant, don’t bodder me. A king have udder t’ings to do. Drown dem!”

  Kurda interrupted. “No, I’ll deal wid dem. Live prisoners are good for der sword practice, ’specially thiefs an’ escapers!”

  Agarnu shook his head, regarding his daughter with distaste. “Jus’ like you gran’father. Yarr, you a cruel one, Kurda. So be it. Save spoilin’ more barrels of herrink, eh, eh?” The King’s stomach shook as he laughed at his little joke.

  Kurda pawed her sword edge with anticipation.

  Triss and her two friends shuddered with cold. The punishment cage was half submerged in the cold shallows of the fjord, which were fed by icy water from the mountains.

  Welfo the hogmaid laughed bitterly. “Brrr! Can’t stop me spikes from rattlin’!”

  Shogg the otter stared gloomily through the boards. “Yore spikes’ll soon stop rattlin’ fer good, marm, Cap’n Riftun will see to that. It’s the death sentence fer us, mates, I’ll wager anythin’ on it!”

  Triss gritted through her chattering teeth, “Stop that kind of talk, Shogg, we’re not dead yet. Let’s see what we can do about breaking out of this cage. We’ve got nothing to lose now.”

  The rest of the slaves labouring on the walkway cast sympathetic glances at the three creatures in the punishment cage. A guard flicked his whip out across their backs.

  “Get workin’, ye idle scum, lest yer wanna join yore pals in the cage. C’mon now, get that wood laid, straighten that ground, keep those logs tight’n’even there, ye lazy lot!”

  Badly fed and poorly clad, the slaves toiled on, unable to stop and remove long pine splinters from their paws, or bandage scuffed, stone-scarred limbs with tufts of moss and grass. They were terrified to stop, lest they too end up in the dreaded cages, where they would face death from exposure, or execution at the sadistic whim of Captain Riftun.

  Only when darkness fell were the workers allowed to halt in their chores. Whips cracked as they were led off to the slave quarters beneath Riftgard. There they would be fed on a single bowl of grain porridge, some vegetable roots and a pail of water between every group of ten.

  Beneath the waning moon, cold night winds swept over the deserted worksite. Activity in the cage, which had begun furiously, had now slackened, owing to the intense cold eating into the bones of the three captives. They had groped around through the floor bars and collected rocks from the riverbed. First they had tried wedging them between the bars to see if the metal could be bent enough for them to squeeze through. Then Shogg the otter, who was the strongest and most resistant to cold, battered away at the big well-greased padlock on the door grille. Neither method proved successful. Their limbs were growing slower and stiffer as the night advanced.

  Welfo began to weep softly. Triss threw a paw about her shoulders and tried to comfort the hogmaid. “Hush now, friend. Don’t cry. Keep your chin up, you wouldn’t want to give those vermin the satisfaction of seeing your tears now, would you? We’ll go down fighting to the last if we have to.”

  Shogg let his rock sink to the cage floor, whispering urgently, “Quiet, mates, somebeast’s comin’!”

  It was Flith, Captain Riftun’s lieutenant. He stood watching them closely. Ceasing their activities, the three prisoners grasped the bars and stared dumbly back at the impassive rat.

  Flith poked his spear out and rattled the bars. He tested the padlock by prodding it. “Don’t worry, you three. We won’t let yer freeze t’death in there. We ain’t that cold- ’earted, are we, ’edgepig?”

  Welfo wiped tears from her eyes hopefully. “No, Lieutenant.”

  Flith leaned on his spear and chuckled. “Course we ain’t. Not one of us Riftgard rats is goin’ to lay a paw on ye. Princess Kurda is, though. She’s got somethin’ special planned fer yew three. Goodnight an’ sleep well, now . . . if ye can. Heeheeheehee!”

  Flith padded off, sniggering happily at his own joke. Triss felt her stomach turn over at the thought of Princess Kurda’s unimaginable designs for their fate.

  No sooner had the lieutenant gone than another figure appeared from behind a stack of pine logs on the bank. “Triss, miss Trissy, are ye all right?”

  The young squirrelmaid pushed her face to the bars, trying to keep the eagerness in her voice down. “Drufo, I kept hoping you’d come. Good old Drufo!”

  The aged squirrel waded into the water, holding an earthenware jug above his head. He brought it close to the bars, but it would not go through.

  “Come t’the bars, Welfo. You too, Shogg. I’ll hold this while ye sup it. ’Tis some ’ot veggible soup we made out o’ bits of this’n’that. ’Tain’t much, but it’ll keep the life in ye.”

  Heads up, mouths open, they stood side by side whilst Drufo shared the soup out, pouring it, still hot, straight into their mouths. It was meagre stuff, cobbled together with a few pawfuls of grain, turnip, carrot and some wild onion.

  Triss had never tasted anything so delicious. Th
ey held their mouths open like young fledglings being fed by a mother bird, until the last precious drop had gone.

  “Sorry that’s all I could manage for ye,” Drufo apologised.

  Triss felt new life coursing through her. “What’s happening inside Riftgard? What’ve you heard, Drufo?”

  The old squirrel pulled himself to the river side of the cage, so that he could not be seen from the bank. “I follered Cap’n Riftun up t’the throne room an’ got me ear close to the door. Good’n’close, Triss. Agarnu was talkin’ to Kurda an’ Bladd, an’ Riftun, too. So, ’ere’s the gist of it. We’ve got t’get you out o’ this cage, one way or another, quick! ’Cos instead o’ turnips, Kurda plans on usin’ you three for ’er sword practice. I don’t like t’bring bad news, but that’s ’ow ’tis goin’ t’be!”

  Shogg began shaking the cage bars. “Then wot’re ye waitin’ for, Drufo? Get us out of ’ere, now!”

  Welfo clasped Triss’s paw anxiously. “But what’ll we do then? They’ve prob’ly smashed our escape boat up. We’ve got no food, no weapons, an’ no place to hide. Riggan the slavecatcher will hunt us down. We’ll be dragged back here for Kurda to slice up with her swords!”

  Triss had to stifle her friend’s mouth with a paw before she started to get hysterical. “Hush now, I’m sure Drufo has a plan. Panicking will get us nowhere. Er, you have got a plan, haven’t you, Drufo?”

  The old squirrel bit his lip and shrugged. “It ain’t much of an idea, but ’tis yore only ’ope.”

  He fumbled an object through the bars to Triss. It was a file, rusted, broken and old, with a piece of rag where the handle once was.

  “I risked me life gettin’ that. My old bones won’t take this icy water much longer, but ’ere’s wot you must do. Once you’ve filed through the bars, yore only ’ope is to steal the King’s new boat an’ sail away to someplace they’ll never find ye. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for ye, Trissy, but that’s it.”

  “You did all you could, old friend. We’ll manage. Now get yourself out of this fjord and back inside before you freeze to death.”