Redwall Read online

  Cautiously, his Captains watched the Warlord. Cluny’s long tail swished restlessly, the single eye stared at a carved eagle holding the rotting lectern on its outspread wings. What thoughts occupied the dark devious mind of Cluny the Scourge? Finally he looked up and spoke.

  ‘Go and get the Shadow. Bring him here to me.’

  Darkclaw and Fangburn scurried off to obey the command. Silently the others waited, their eyes glinting in evil anticipation.

  The Chief had a plan. Like all of his schemes it would be cunningly simple and wickedly brilliant. There was no better General than Cluny when it came to strategy.

  The Shadow had been with Cluny for many years. Nobody was sure if he was rat or weasel, or even a bit of both. He was very lithe and wiry, and his long sinewy body was covered in sleek, black fur. There was no hint of another colour in his coat; it was blacker than moonless midnight. His eyes were strangely slanted, black without any brightness in them. The eyes of the Shadow were like those of a dead thing.

  He stood before Cluny, who had to strain his one eye against the darkness of the church to make sure he was really there.

  ‘Shadow, is that you?’

  The reply sounded like a whisper of wet silk across a smooth slate. ‘Cluny, I am here. Why do you want the Shadow?’

  The Captains shivered at the sound of the voice, Cluny leaned forward. ‘Did you see the walls of that Abbey today?’

  ‘I was there. The Shadow sees all.’

  ‘Tell me true. Could you climb them?’

  ‘No beast I know of could climb those walls.’

  ‘Except you?’

  ‘Except me.’

  Cluny gestured with his tail. ‘Come closer then. I will tell you what must be done.’

  Shadow sat on the top pulpit step. Cluny issued his orders. ‘You will climb the Abbey wall. Many sentries patrol the top, so take the utmost care. If you get captured, you are of no use to me. There is no point in one creature trying to attack the gatehouse and open the door alone, it is too well guarded. So forget the gate.’

  The Shadow gave no hint that Cluny had inadvertently read his mind. He remained motionless as Cluny continued, ‘Once you have scaled the wall, make for the main Abbey door. Should it be locked for the night you will use all your skill to open it without any noise. It is vital that you get inside. The first room you will find yourself in is the main one. The mice call it Great Hall. Walk in, turn around, and on the left wall facing you is a long tapestry covered in pictures and designs. Now listen carefully. In the bottom right-hand corner of that tapestry is a picture of a mouse dressed in armour, leaning on a big sword. I want it! Cut it, rip it, or tear it out, but get it for me. I must have it! Don’t come back without it, Shadow.’

  Puzzlement was written on the faces of the four Captains who had overheard the orders.

  A picture of a mouse?

  Cluny had never been known as a collector of pictures.

  Fangburn whispered to Cheesethief, ‘What use is a picture of a mouse to the Chief?’

  Cluny heard. He came to the edge of the pulpit. Grasping the sides of the lectern he surveyed his small congregation like some satanic minister.

  ‘Ah, Brother Fangburn, let me explain. I will tell you why it is that you and all your kind will forever remain servants, while I shall always be the master. Did you not see the faces of those mice today? The mere mention of Martin the Warrior sends them into ecstasies. Don’t you see, he is their symbol. His name means the same to those mice as mine does to the horde: in a different way maybe. Martin is some sort of angel; I’m the opposite. Think for a moment. If anything were to happen to me, you’d all be a leaderless rabble, a headless mob. So, if the mice were to lose their most precious omen, the picture of Martin, where would that leave them?’

  Redtooth slapped his haunches. He rocked to and fro, sniggering with uncontrolled glee.

  ‘Brilliant, Chief, diabolical! They’d just be a crowd of terrified little mice without their wonderful Martin.’

  Cluny’s tail banged down on the rotting lectern, smashing it into several fragments.

  ‘And that’s when we’ll strike!’

  The powerful tail lashed backwards, wrapping itself around Shadow’s body. He was dragged forward, face to face with his master. Cluny’s rancid breath blasted into Shadow’s face as he ground out each syllable.

  ‘Bring that picture back here to me. Do this, and your reward will be great when I sit on the Abbot’s chair in Redwall Abbey. But fail me, and your screams will be heard far beyond the woodland and meadows!’

  Cluny the Scourge had spoken.

  THE SUN’S FIRST rays flung wide the gates of dawn. The inhabitants of Redwall were already up and about. After breakfast the Abbot issued daily orders. All those not employed defending the Abbey would husband the crops and gather in supplies for the larders in the event of a prolonged seige. Young otters collected watercress and fished; Cornflower headed a party of mice to reap the early cereal crops; more youngsters tended the salad gardens. The bright summer morning hummed to the bustle of industrious woodlanders.

  Ambrose Spike, now sufficiently recovered, sat in the storeroom taking stock: lots of nuts and preserved berries from last autumn; apples and pears a-plenty. Unfortunately, the hedgehog could not check the cellars; Brother Edmund and Friar Hugo had the only two keys. He licked his lips at the thought of barrels of nutbrown ale, strong cider, creamy stout, and the little kegs – ah, the dear little kegs! – full of elderberry wine, mulberry brandy, blackcurrant port, and wild grape sherry.

  ‘Yurr, ’edgepig. Where’m us a-puttin’ these roots an’ dannylines. ’Asten up, they’m roight ’eavy.’

  Ambrose sighed wistfully as he attended the two moles staggering under a bundle of dandelions and tubers.

  ‘Arr, ’old ’em liddle taters steady, Bill. Yurr, tip ’em up, leggo.’

  More baby moles. Ambrose pawed the bandage on his wound. A hedgehog’s work was never done.

  Matthias and Constance stood in the cloisters. They had taken charge of weapon training. The woodlanders were each showing off their special skills. In more peaceful days, these skills had only been used at fairs and sporting contests, but now, when the need arose, they would be used to more deadly effect.

  The otters carried bags of smooth pebbles which they hurled from vine slings with great force and accuracy. Groups of fieldmouse archers nocked thistledown shafts to the strings of their longbows. Many a marauding bird had been driven off by these same tiny archers. Bands of Redwall mice practised at thrust and parry with staves.

  Below the wall on the Abbey grass the Foremole directed his crew as they dug a trench. This was lined with sharpened stakes by a solitary beaver. A system of ropes and pulleys carried the baskets of stone and trench-debris up to the ramparts. Defenders piled it in heaps at the edge of the parapet.

  Matthias took a group of Redwall mice to instruct in the use of the quarter staff – he had discovered in himself a natural skill with the long ash pole. None of the mice had ever competed in any type of violent sport; they were awkward and timid. But as it was a personal choice between learning cudgel and wrestling from Constance or quarter staff from Matthias, to a mouse they had opted for the latter.

  Matthias found he had to be quite severe with them. Accordingly, he dealt out some hefty blows and hard falls to make the more timid souls angry enough to retaliate.

  ‘Keep that head guarded, Brother Anthony!’

  Thwack!

  ‘I warned you, Brother! Now look out, I’m coming after you again.’

  Thwack!

  ‘No, no! Don’t just stand there, Brother! Defend yourself! Hit out at me.’

  Thwack, crack!

  This time, Matthias sat down hard, rubbing dazedly at his sore head. Constance chuckled.

  ‘Well, Matthias, you’ve only yourself to blame. You asked Brother Anthony to hit out at you and, my word, he certainly obliged. I’ll have to recruit him for my cudgel class! He shows promise.’


  Matthias stood up, smiling ruefully. He rested on his staff. ‘Yes, he’s very strong, but I do wish that we had some real weapons of war – swords and daggers and such like. We won’t kill many rats with wooden staves.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ the badger replied. ‘But you must remember that we are here to defend, not to attack or kill.’

  Matthias threw down his staff. He took a dipper of water from an oaken pail, drinking deeply, then splashing the remains over his aching head.

  ‘A wise observation, Constance, but you try telling that to Cluny and his horde. See how far you get.’

  Lunch that day was served out in the orchard. Matthias lined up with the other woodland creatures to collect his food: a bowl of fresh milk, a hunk of wheaten loaf and some goats-milk cheese. Cornflower was serving. She gave Matthias an extra large wedge of the cheese. He rolled up the sleeve of his habit and pulled out the corner of her scarf.

  ‘Look, Cornflower, a very close friend gave me this last night.’

  She laughed at him. ‘Get along, and eat your lunch, warrior mouse, or I’ll show you my deadly aim with a piece of this cheese.’

  Strolling through the dappled shade of the orchard, Matthias sought out old Methuselah. Slumping down beneath a damson tree the young mouse munched away at his lunch. Methuselah was sitting with his back against the tree, his eyes closed in an apparent doze. Without opening them he addressed Matthias. ‘How goes the practice war, young stavemaster?’

  Matthias watched some of the tiny ants carrying off his fallen breadcrumbs as he answered, ‘As well as possible, Brother Methuselah. And how are your studies coming along?’

  Methuselah squinted over the top of his spectacles. ‘Knowledge is a thing that one cannot have enough of. It is the fruit of wisdom, to be eaten carefully and digested fully, unlike that lunch you are bolting down, little friend.’

  Matthias set his food to one side. ‘Tell me, what knowledge have you digested lately, old one?’

  Methuselah took a sip from Matthias’s milk bowl. ‘Sometimes I think you have a very old head for such a young mouse. What more do you wish to know about Martin the Warrior?’

  Matthias looked surprised. ‘How did you know I was going to ask about Martin?’

  Methuselah wrinkled his nose. ‘How do the bee folk know there is pollen in a flower? Ask away, young one, before I doze off again.’

  Matthias hesitated a moment, then blurted out, ‘Brother Methuselah, tell me where Martin lies buried.’

  The old mouse chuckled drily. ‘Next you are going to ask me where to find the great sword of the Warrior mouse.’

  ‘B-but how did you know that?’ stammered Matthias.

  The ancient gatehouse-keeper shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘The sword must lie buried with Martin. You would have little use for the dusty bones of a bygone hero. A simple deduction, even for one as old as I am.’

  ‘Then you know where the Warrior lies?’

  Methuselah shook his head. ‘That is a thing no creature knows. For many long years now I have puzzled and pored over ancient manuscripts, translating, following hidden trails, always with the same result: nothing. I have even used my gift of tongues, speaking to the bees and others who can go into places too small for us, but always it is the same – rumours, legends, and old mouse tales.’

  Matthias crumbled more bread for the ants. ‘Then the Warrior’s sword is only a fable?’

  Methuselah leaned forward indignantly. ‘Who said that. Did I?’

  ‘No, but you—’

  ‘Bah! Nothing of the sort, young mouse. Listen carefully to me. I have an uncanny feeling that you may be the one I have been saving this vital piece of information for.’

  Matthias forgot his lunch. He listened attentively.

  ‘About four summers ago I treated a sparrowhawk who had pulled a sinew in her foot. She could not use her talons properly. Hmm, as I remember, I made her promise never to take a mouse as prey. She was a fierce, frightening bird. Have you ever been close up to a sparrowhawk? No, of course you haven’t. Well, let me tell you, they can hypnotize small creatures with those savage golden eyes. Born killers, they are. But this hawk said something that made me think. She talked of the sparrows, called them winged mice, said that many years ago they had stolen something from our Abbey: a treasure that belonged to the mice. Wouldn’t say what it was. Just flew off. Huh, who expects gratitude from a sparrowhawk, anyway?’

  Matthias interrupted. ‘Have you ever spoken to the sparrows about this “something”?’

  Methuselah shook his head. ‘I’m too old. I can’t climb up to the roof where they nest. Besides, the sparrows are odd birds, forever quarrelling and chattering on in their strange voices. They are warlike creatures, extremely forgetful and completely savage. They’d throw you from the roof and kill you before you had a chance to get near their tribal nests. Yes, I’m far too old for that sort of thing, Matthias, and anyhow, I’m not too sure that the sparrowhawk’s story was true. Some birds can be dreadful liars when they have a mind to be.’

  Matthias tried questioning Brother Methuselah further, but the warm sun had worked its magic upon the old gatekeeper as he sat in the orchard savouring the peace and tranquillity of a June afternoon. This time there was no deception. He was genuinely fast asleep.

  CLOUDS DRIFTED ACROSS the sky, obscuring the thin sliver of moon. The Joseph Bell tolled out its midnight message to the slumbering countryside. A warm soft drizzle was falling over the parched meadows and dry woodland, bringing relief after the hot dry day, damping down the dust from the road.

  In the ditch a frog opened its eyes, disturbed by some slight noise from the hedgerow. It blinked. Was that three figures creeping along, or two?

  The frog remained perfectly still. There seemed to be two figures, and some sort of shadow. The moon came out from behind a cloud.

  It was two huge rats … and a dark shadowy something!

  They crept along under cover of the hedge towards the big dwelling of the mouse-folk. Rats were hunters; thankfully they had not noticed him. The frog stayed motionless and let them pass. It was none of his business.

  Cluny, Ragear and Shadow padded noiselessly towards Redwall. This was such an important mission that Cluny had decided to come along and supervise it personally. Around Shadow’s waist was strapped a skin pouch. It contained a thin strong rope, a padded grappling hook, a vial of oil, some lockpicks and a dagger: Shadow’s usual burgling kit.

  Ragear ambled proudly along, thrilled that he had been specially picked to accompany his Chief on such a vital task. Little did he know that Cluny had only included him as an insurance. If they should get into a tight corner, Ragear would serve as an expendable fool. That way Cluny could make good his own escape.

  The trio halted beneath the lofty Abbey walls. Cluny silenced them with a wave of his tail, then vanished into the night. Ragear felt distinctly nervous at being left alone with the Shadow. He attempted a whispered conversation.

  ‘Nice drops of rain, eh, Shadow? Good for the grass. Blow me, these walls are pretty high. I’m glad it’s you climbing them and not me. I’d never make it. Too fat, hahaha.’

  Ragear’s voice trailed off. He fumbled with his whiskers, wilting beneath the basilisk stare of Shadow’s dead black eyes. He shuddered and fell silent.

  Within ten minutes Cluny was back. He nodded up at the parapet. ‘I’ve been up and down the length of the wall for a fair distance. The sentry mice are all asleep, the fools! They’ve never had to do guard duty before – as soon as night falls so do their eyelids. That’s what soft living does for you.’

  Ragear’s head bobbed in agreement. ‘You’re right. Chief. If they were in our army and old Redtooth caught them snoozing he’d—’

  ‘Shut your trap, stupid,’ Cluny hissed. ‘Are you ready, Shadow? Now don’t forget your instructions.’

  The Shadow bared his yellowed fangs and started climbing. Slowly he made his way upwards, like a long black reptile, his claws seeking hidden niches and c
revices in the sandstone. Ever upwards, sometimes stopping spreadeagled against the surface as he figured out his next movement, taking full advantage of every crack and joint in the wall. No other animal in Cluny’s army could have attempted such an ascent, but the Shadow was a climbing expert. He concentrated his whole being on the job in hand, sometimes clinging to the stones by no more than a single claw. Below on the ground Cluny and Ragear strained their eyes upwards. They could hardly make out his shape but could just see him, not far from the top of the wall.

  The Shadow shifted position and levered with his back legs and tail. Now he wedged his claws into a fissure and stretched upwards, gaining inch by inch.

  On top of the wall Brother Edmund was snoring gently. He was nestled in a pile of rubble, wrapped in a warm blanket with his hood up against the light rain. Edmund was oblivious of the long sharp claws that latched themselves over the parapet edge. A moment later the sleek black head appeared; two dense obsidian eyes stared at the sleeping mouse. The Shadow had succeeded in climbing the Abbey wall.

  Like a sinuous black lizard he slithered past slumbering creatures and around rubble heaps, never once making a sound. Friar Hugo mumbled gently in his sleep, and moved his head so that his cowl slid off. Drizzle fell upon the fat friar’s face, threatening to wake him. Gently as a night breeze, Shadow replaced the hood. Pausing for an instant, Shadow looked about before descending the stone steps from the ramparts to the cloisters. Using shrubs and bushes as cover he moved furtively forwards, never taking any needless chances or making sudden movements. Sometimes he stopped and waited, letting the minutes tick away as he planned his next progression, gliding like a cloud’s shadow cast upon the ground by the moon.

  The door to the Great Hall was not locked. Shadow judged that the latch was probably old and creaky. He took out the vial of oil and lubricated the latch and hinges. Carefully he inched the door ajar – apart from a tiny squeak it swung effortlessly open. Sliding inside, he released the door by mistake. A swift night breeze slammed it shut with a dull thud.