High Rhulain (Redwall) Page 4

  Strutting back and forth, Weilmark Scaut began haranguing the otters. “Stir yer stumps, waterdogs! Git that catch up’ere, an’ stand t’be searched. Move yerselves!”

  Whulky and Chab spread their net with its small catch of trout and gudgeon. They both stood to one side, paws spread wide, as a feral cat soldier searched them for concealed weapons (which otters were forbidden to carry) or any type of contraband.

  Scaut took five of the eight fish they had caught, leaving them the three smallest. He scowled at the searcher. “Well, are they clear?”

  The soldier tossed two sharpened musselshells (which the fisherbeasts were allowed to carry in the course of their trade) down onto the pier. He saluted with his spear. “Aye, they’re clear, Weilmark!”

  Scaut watched Whulky and Chab carefully. “Go on then, get goin’, both of ye.”

  As they walked away, Scaut’s keen gaze was still inspecting them. “Halt right there, don’t move!”

  The two otter slaves froze in their tracks. Scaut walked over and placed his face close to Chab’s, grinning wickedly at him. “You there, guard, lift this ’uns left footpaw.”

  The soldier hastened to obey. Scaut struck the raised footpaw with his whipstock, and two perfectly symmetrical, purple mussel pearls rolled out onto the pier.

  Scaut feigned surprise. “By my claws, what’s this?”

  Chab murmured awkwardly, “Sir, they’re only baubles for me liddle daughter t’play with.”

  The weilmark swaggered in a circle around Chab. “Baubles fer yer liddle daughter, eh? They’re the property of yore warlord, Riggu Felis, the same as everythin’ else on Green Isle. Nothin’ belongs to waterdogs, nothin!”

  He turned to the soldiers, bellowing, “This beast is a thief, take ’im away an’ bind ’im under the pier fer the night. No vittles an’ a night freezin’ ’is rudder off down there’ll teach ’im a lesson!”

  He scooped up the pearls and admired them. “Lady Kaltag’ll like these fer ’er collection!”

  Whulky was dismissed to go back to his family. As Chab was being prodded at spearpoint to the pylons beneath the pier, another feral cat soldier came panting along the lakeshore. Throwing a hasty salute with his bow, he called to Scaut.

  “Weilmark! There’s trouble down on the river. We’ve got one of ’em pinned down there. They say ’tis the Shellhound!”

  Scaut grabbed a spear, leaping down onto the shore. “The Shell’ound, eh? Quick, take me there!”

  He dashed off behind the stumbling soldier. “Cummon, cummon, shift yerself. I need to catch that rogue!”

  Bound by his neck to one of the stone pylons beneath the pier, Chab chuckled grimly. “Fat chance o’ that, ye pompous bunglin’ furball!”

  Leatho Shellhound, crouching among the bushes on the riverbank, watched a cat soldier creeping forward stealthily. In a passable cat accent, Leatho shouted out excitedly, “Lookit, there ’e goes, over by those two rocks!”

  As the soldier turned his head to see, Leatho let fly with a stone from his sling. It slammed into the back of the foecat’s skull, laying him out senseless. The brawny sea otter turned to an injured barnacle goose, who was lying alongside him.

  “Hah, if’n that feller ever wakes, I’ll be surprised. Now then, matey, let’s take a peek at that shaft!”

  As Leatho inspected the arrow that was sticking from the bird’s neck, the wounded goose commented, “It is not a bad hurt I am thinking. Lucky for me it was that the cats are not being as good with the bows than you are with the sling, comrade.”

  Leatho worked the arrow loose and staunched the wound by binding it with a poultice of mud and wild radish leaves. “Ye’ll live, matey. Yore right, t’aint that bad. You keep an eye on those scallywags while I tighten this dressin’. Was you the only one of yore skein they hit?”

  Flinching slightly as Leatho firmed up his work, the barnacle goose nodded gingerly. “Only I was struck. It was my own fault I am thinking. We of the Skyfurrowers should never be caught napping while we are on the wing. Lagged to the back and lowered my height I had. Silly goose that I am. Two more cats I can see out there, comrade!”

  Two feral cat soldiers were creeping toward the limp figure of the fallen one on the shore. Leatho popped up from hiding. Like greased lightning, he slung two more stones. So swift was he that the second stone was in the air before the first had landed. They both fell true. One cat screeched as his tail was cracked near its base; the other rolled over wailing, with a forepaw badly smashed.

  The outlaw otter grinned broadly. “That’ll keep the mangy rascals’ heads down for a while, but we’ll have t’be movin’ afore they bring reinforcements. Can ye fly, matey?”

  Puffing out its chest, the barnacle goose replied, “Ho yarr, fly I can, though I am thinking it will be some while before I am catching up to my skein. But what of you, comrade, will they not seize you?”

  The sea otter sorted through his slingstones casually. “Seize the Shellhound? Hah! The cat hasn’t ate supper yet that’ll ever seize me, old matey. I’ll cover for ye while you escape. Get away from Green Isle, across the wide sea, but I suppose ye know whither yore bound. Whenever ye reach land, though, ye must get a healer, or somebeast that knows physickin’, to look at that neck. Arrow wounds have a nasty habit of turnin’ poison.”

  Leatho went into a crouch, twirling his loaded sling. “I’m goin’ to break cover now, mate. The moment I’ve got all their attention, you take off. Understand?”

  The barnacle goose offered its webbed leg. “It is thankful to you I am. May the good fortune speed you, comrade!”

  Leatho shook the proffered web in his sinewy paw. “An’ may the good winds be at yore back, fine bird!”

  He broke cover and yelled at the six or so cats who came bounding after him, “Heeee aye eeeeh! Who wants to catch a Shellhound? Yore mothers were bandy an’ yore fathers were mangy!”

  He dropped the fastest of the cats with a well-aimed stone to the jaw, then sped off. Zigging and zagging, ducking and weaving, Leatho shot into the river and vanished underwater.

  The cats, terrified of deep water, scrambled along the bank, firing arrows uselessly into the swift current, just as Weilmark Scaut pounded up with six more behind him. Immediately Scaut began yelling, “Wot in the name o’ fangs is goin’ on’ere? Where’s that bandit Shell’ound?”

  The senior of the patrol, the cat whose paw had been smashed, threw a limp salute and explained in a pained whine, “Weilmark, we brought down a goosebird, but the Shell’ound rescued it. Then ’e dropped Rubjer stone dead, broke Viglo’s tail an’ smashed me paw, every bone of it I think.”

  Scaut struck the speaker hard in the face with his coiled whip, roaring at him, “I never asked yer wot he did. I’m askin’ yer where is he?”

  “Yoohoo, Wipwip, I’m over here!”

  As Scaut turned to the sound of the voice, Leatho blasted up out of the water like a rocket. He let fly with a ropy length of bedweed, which had a small rock tied to one end. Before Scaut could duck, it caught him, wrapping swiftly round his neck and bringing the rock thudding against the side of his skull. The weilmark fell heavily in a limp heap. Arrows thrummed through the air toward the river surface. But Leatho Shellhound, the outlaw sea otter, had gone.

  As the dispirited cats carried their wounded weilmark from the scene, high up, far out of arrowshot, a barnacle goose honked its delight to the skies.

  4

  That evening at supper, the Great Hall of Redwall was abuzz with the exploits of Tiria and her friends. The ottermaid sat with her father, Abbess Lycian, molemum Burbee, Brink Greyspoke and Foremole Grudd. She had already related her story of the incident, though quite modestly.

  The Abbess clasped Tiria’s paw warmly. “You were very brave to save the bird’s life, my dear, particularly when you were outnumbered two to one by the vermin. You have a courageous daughter, Skipper.”

  Almost at a loss for words, Banjon swelled with pride as he patted Tiria’s back. “I wish yore mamma ha
d lived to see ye now, gel. She always said us Wildloughs were a warrior clan from somewhere. Yore a credit to us, Tiria.”

  The ottermaid asked a question she had often mulled over. “Do you think I’ll become a Skipper someday?”

  Her father put aside his tankard of October Ale, explaining almost apologetically to her, “Ye’d make a finer Skipper than any otter I’ve ever met, myself included. But the Law of Otters says that maids can’t become Skippers. I know it’s not fair, Tiria, but the law’s the law, an’ we’ve always lived by it.”

  Tiria persisted. “But I’ve heard tales saying that there were maids who became Skippers in other parts of the land.”

  Banjon took a draught of his October Ale and then slammed the tankard down decisively. “This ain’t the time or place t’be talkin’ of these matters, me gel. May’ap there are places where it happens, but not in Mossflower territory, an’ I ain’t responsible for wot sea otters do. We abide by our Otter Law, an’ that’s that!”

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of Friar Bibble. The shrewcook was pushing a trolley, upon which rested a steaming cauldron. He wiped perspiration beads from his snout with a spotted kerchief before he proclaimed proudly, “Look you, Tiria. I’ve made a pot of special shrimp’n’hotroot soup, just for you, my brave young ’un!”

  Freshwater shrimp’n’hotroot soup was a dish dear to the heart of all otters. Tiria sniffed its fragrant aroma, complimenting the kindly friar. “Marvellous! Nobeast can make shrimp’n’hotroot like you do, sir!”

  As he began ladling the soup out, Bibble winked at Skipper. “Indeed to goodness, missy, don’t be sayin’ things like that. You’ll be causin’ trouble twixt me an’ your da!”

  Banjon accepted a bowlful eagerly. “Oh no, mate, ’tis a fact. Even I can’t make it taste like you do. Ye can make ’otroot better’n an otter, Bibble!”

  Tiria chuckled. “Exactly what do you put in it, sir?”

  The friar began explaining. “Well, I uses more watercress an’ scallions than some does, an’ a touch of wild ransom . . . ” He halted and glared at her with mock censure. “Indeed to goodness, missy, I can’t be tellin’ everybeast about those secret herbs an’ spices I uses in my recipes!”

  Foremole Grudd had been watching Brinty, Tribsy and Girry. They were seated at the other end of the table, telling of the day’s adventures . . . with many embellishments to the facts.

  Grudd laughed aloud. “Hurr hurr hurr! Do ee lissen to they’m young ’uns? Oi never hurd such fibbin’ in all moi borned days!”

  Brinty was positioning various items on the table as he told of his role. “See these candied chestnuts? Well, they were the water rats. Wicked villains, all twelve of ’em!”

  The molebabe Groop interrupted. “Oi hurd Miz Tirree sayen’ et wurr h’eight ratters!”

  Girry cleared his mouth of plum pudden. “She was too busy whackin’ about with her sling to be counting vermin. Actually, there were thirteen rats. I battled with two of ’em, big rascals who’d climbed up onto the branch of the tree while I was cuttin’ the big bird’s rope.”

  Tribsy left off demolishing some rhubarb crumble to make his contribution to the fictional action. He took two loaves and stuck a fork in each one, placing them amid the candied chestnuts. “Yon loafers wurr ole Brinty an’ moiself. Hurr, wot ee purr o’ wurriers we’m was! These yurr forks bee’s ee yew staves us wurr a-carryen’. Bain’t that roight, Brin?”

  Brinty got carried away as he invented further heroics. Using the loaves and forks, he sent chestnuts bouncing and flying widespread as he yelled, “That’s right, we fought ’em! Bangbashwallopsplat! We sent all fourteen of those giant rats scurryin’. Wailin’ for their mammas they were, the fatty-bottomed cowards!”

  After wiping a splash of soup from his cheek, Skipper Banjon peered at the candied chestnut floating in his bowl. “Look, a rat’s just landed in my soup. We’d best eat up, daughter, afore they tell the tale again an’ increase the number of vermin they defeated!”

  After supper, most Redwallers went to sit out on the Abbey steps to enjoy the summer evening’s warmth. Tiria and her father joined Abbess Lycian and Brink Greyspoke on a visit to the Infirmary to check on the hawk’s progress. Brother Perant and Old Quelt, the Recorder-cum-Librarian, were studying the bird. It had flown up onto a window ledge and was inspecting its new surroundings.

  Perant reported his findings avidly. “Well, friends, what can I say? That bird is a most remarkable creature, just look at it! Earlier today you wouldn’t have given a split acorn on its chances of survival. However, no sooner had I removed the barb from its mouth and cleaned up its bumps and bruises when it began drinking water. Hah, and not just wetting its beak, it consumed nearly a full basin. Almost a magical recovery you’ll agree!”

  The learned Brother pointed at his patient. “See how those golden eyes glitter. Notice how it has preened its plumage back into shape, truly remarkable! Admittedly its mouth and beak must be rather stiff and quite sore, but what a grip on life our feathered friend has, eh? A real survivor I’d say, yes indeed!”

  The big bird swept its savage golden eyes over the assembly, then went back to grooming its wing feathers. Tiria felt happy for the bird, clearly a brave and solitary creature. “Do you think its thick plumage saved it from severe injury, Brother? Those rats were brutal vermin.”

  Perant nodded. “I don’t think we fully realise just how strong the bird is, Tiria. It’s a formidable creature.”

  Much to everybeast’s surprise, Abbess Lycian strode calmly over to the big bird and began gently stroking its head. It stayed quite still, perhaps sensing that she meant it no harm. Lycian spoke softly to it.

  “My goodness, you certainly are a big, strong fellow. I wonder what sort of bird you really are?”

  Old Quelt had the answer. He was a silver-furred squirrel, an ancient dry stick of a beast, bent by many long seasons. Besides being the Redwall Recorder, Quelt had appointed himself the first Abbey Librarian. He had commandeered the lowest of the attic rooms and made it his own. There he had gathered every piece of written material Redwall possessed. Brink and Foremole Grudd had shelved the room out at his request. Parchments, scrolls, pamphlets, tomes and volumes covered the library from ceiling to floor. The old squirrel held in his paw a slim, bark-bound book. All of the Abbey members who had assembled listened carefully to what he had to say.

  “This is a record of birds, written by one Abbess Bryony in the far bygone seasons. She had a particular interest in hunting birds. Let me read you what she wrote about this specimen.”

  Peering through his rock crystal spectacles, Quelt leafed the yellowed parchment pages. “Hmm, here it is. A bird that is rarely seen in the Mossflower territories. They have been reported by geese who have visited Redwall as mainly inhabiting a place called Green Isle, where they hunt the rivers, loughs and streams. They are said to be large, powerful birds; their description runs thus. Dark-brown upper plumage, with white feathers underneath the body. Long wings, with brownand-white-patterned undersides, angled two-thirds of the way along. The head is white-crowned, with two dark stripes. These are barred across the eyes, giving a masklike aspect. The eyes are broadly gold-ringed, with jet-black centres. These birds have lethally curved beaks. They also possess four black talons of savage aspect on each blue-grey scaled leg.”

  Closing the book, Quelt favoured Tiria with a rare smile. “So then, do ye not think your bird fits the description?”

  The ottermaid agreed readily. “Indeed I do, sir, perfectly!”

  The ancient Librarian pointed a bony paw at the bird. “These were known as pandions in olden times. What you have brought to our Abbey is an osprey, the great fish hawk!”

  Brink Greyspoke stared admiringly at the osprey. “A fish’awk, eh? That ’un must need vittles wot he’s used to. What d’ye think, Skip? Shall we go an’ catch our osprey a fish? There’s grayling aplenty in the Abbey pond.”

  Skipper, who loved to go fishin
g but seldom got the chance, was all for the idea. “Aye, let’s do that, Brink. Can’t see that big ole feller starve now, can we? Er, with yore permission, Mother Abbess, me’n Mister Greyspoke would like to go night fishin’.”

  Lycian could not help smiling at the eager pair. “Just for the benefit of the osprey, of course? Nothing to do with taking the little boat out on the pond, together with some refreshment for a quiet summer’s night.”

  Brink’s eyes went dreamy at the thought. “Just me’n ole Skip, out on the pond in our liddle boat with the moon above, a flagon o’ my best pale cider, some cheese’n’mushroom pasties an’ a calm, warm night. Aaaah!”

  Banjon kicked the Cellarhog’s footpaw to silence him. “Er, no, Abbess, nothin’ like that, but just like you said, for the benefit o’ the osprey. By me rudder, it can be hard work, fishin’ all night long for a fish big enough t’feed that feller’s beak. That it will, marm!”

  Neither could see Lycian’s eyes twinkling as she bowed her head gravely. “A charitable and worthy act, my good friends. You have my permission.”

  Tiria piped up excitedly. “Can I come too, please?”

  Her father shook his head. “You’ve had quite enough for one day, me gel. I reckon a good night’s rest is the best thing for ye.”

  Seeing her crestfallen face, the Abbess suggested an alternative. “Obey your father, Tiria. Who knows? Tomorrow we may have more responsible tasks, now that you’re growing up. But first you may go to the kitchens. Tell Friar Bibble I sent you for a treat, after all your good work today. I’m sure he’ll have something special for you.”

  Flashing the Abbess a brief smile of thanks, the ottermaid hurried off downstairs.

  Friar Bibble looked up from his ovens. “Indeed to goodness,’tis the heroine of the woodcutters. What can I do for you, lovely miss?”