[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain Page 7

  Yells of approval greeted him. Leatho winked at the big fellow. “Galedeeps were always loyal warriors, matey!”

  Kolun spat on a huge paw and held it out. “Here’s me paw, an’ here’s me heart, Shellhound. I’m with ye!”

  Dawn of the following day found Riggu Felis, Lady Kaltag and their two sons taking breakfast beneath an awning on the pier which fronted the lake. It was a fine summer morn, with sunbeams dancing on the water from a cloudless sky of cornflower blue. Otterslaves stood by, ready to serve the demands of the warlord and his kin. As usual, Jeefra and Pitru were quarrelling, this time about two gull eggs which they had been served.

  Jeefra went whining to his mother, tears beading in his eyes as he wailed, “Mamma, Mamma, Pitru stole my egg. He’s finished his own and now he’s taken mine!”

  Kaltag left off sunning herself in the early warmth. “Will you two stop bickering? Pitru, give that egg back to your brother, this instant!”

  Pitru tossed the egg up, then caught it deftly, smirking. “Tell him to come and get it!”

  His mother fixed him with an icy glare. “Give Jeefra the egg. Do as I say!”

  The chain mail half-mask which covered Riggu Felis’s disfigured face chinked as he drew in breath. He was watching his sons with interest. The wildcat rasped, “Let them be, Kaltag. If Pitru wants the egg, let him keep it—though mayhaps Jeefra’s warrior enough to take it back by force. Go on, son, let’s see what you’re made of.”

  Jeefra feared both his father and Pitru, so he took the soft alternative. Turning to an otterslave, he ordered, “You, bring me another gull’s egg!”

  “Stay where you are, slave!” The warlord’s fangs showed between the quivering chain mail. “Jeefra, go and take the egg back off Pitru. Go on!”

  Kaltag complained, “My lord, you should not be urging brothers to fight each other in this way.”

  The wildcat ruler of Green Isle snarled at her. “Stay out of this! They have to learn to take what they want. Well, go to it, Jeefra. I’m waiting!”

  Pitru taunted his weaker brother. “Aye, go to it, Jeefra. I’m waiting, too.”

  Jeefra had no option. He knew it would go badly for him if he was shamed in front of his father. Gathering his nerve, he made a sudden charge, but his brother easily sidestepped him. Leaping onto Jeefra’s back, Pitru forced him to the ground, holding him there as he mocked his feeble attempt.

  “ ‘Mamma, Mamma, Pitru stole my egg!’ Here, take it back, you big snot-nosed kitten!” Wilfully, he smashed the raw gull egg over his brother’s head. The runny mess splattered down across Jeefra’s face. Pitru contemptuously kicked his brother’s backside, then freed him. Jeefra fled indoors, sobbing.

  Pitru licked yolk from his paw, commanding one of the otterslaves, “Go and bring me another egg, I’m still hungry!”

  A gurgling laugh issued from behind the chain mail as Riggu addressed Kaltag. “That one’s got the makings of a proper wildcat!”

  She sniffed. “We have two sons, both wildcats.”

  Pulling the face mask to one side, the warlord thrust his hideous features close to her. “Never! I’m the only true wildcat here—I, Riggu Felis! You and all the rest of these cats, you are only feral cats. Your ancestors were tame creatures who served stronger beasts. You could not even fend for yourselves. It took my kin, the real wildcats, to conquer your masters. We brought your kind here from the sunset lands of the far oceans. See my colour, my stripes, these are the marks of the proper wildcat bloodline. I am the only one who is all wildcat, a warlord born. Jeefra is more like you, but Pitru has more wildcat in him!”

  Pitru had been eavesdropping on his father’s words. “Does that mean I’ll be the ruler of Green Isle someday?”

  Riggu allowed the chain mail to cover his lower face again. “It takes more than a bully to make a warlord. You have to be fearless, like me. Why could you not have slain that bird on the eve of the storm, eh?”

  Both brothers had been reminded of the incident many times by their father. Pitru did not like being criticised. Turning on one paw, he prowled off, leaving his father with a parting shot. “Huh, you tried, and look at the mess it made of you.”

  Springing up in a fury, the wildcat chieftain seized his single-bladed axe. “You insolent whelp! Why, I’ll. . . .”

  A cry rang out from the lakeshore, distracting Riggu. “Master, we have taken two prisoners!”

  Bound together by ropes, the two otterslaves, Whulky and Chab, were thrust up onto the pier. Surrounding them were catguards, with Weilmark Scaut and Atunra at their head. Still hefting the axe in one paw, Riggu wiped froth from his slobbering lower lip. He composed himself swiftly and sat down.

  The prisoners were forced to lie facedown in front of the wildcat as he stared regally at them. “Why do you bring them before me? What have they done?”

  The pine marten Atunra bowed. “Master, they were caught outside of the settlement before dawn. Both have been missing all night.”

  Weilmark Scaut pointed with his whipbutt at the otters. A large bandage covered Scaut’s jaw, where the missile from Leatho had broken it. He was in pain and had to speak from between clenched teeth.

  “This younger one I caught stealing recently. He’s already served a night and a day beneath the pier, Lord. I’ve had my eye on these two, they’re always whisperin’ together.”

  He pawed at the painful swelling on the side of his face before continuing. “Last night I could not sleep, so I did a secret visit to the slave compound. They were both missing.”

  Scaut winced in agony, while Riggu gestured for Atunra to continue. “After Weilmark Scaut roused me, we took a patrol of catguards and two trackers. We picked up their trail to the riverbank, but there it ended. So we hid and waited, knowing they would return the same way. Sure enough, an hour before dawn, we caught them both skulking back.”

  Intrigued, Riggu leaned forward. “And where had they been?”

  Scaut was not to be outdone if any credit were to be given. He took up the narrative again, despite his aching jaw. “I sent the trackers downriver, Lord. They found lots of pawprints an’ the ashes of a fire inside the circle of tall stones. They was attendin’ some sort o’ otter outlaw meeting, Sire. I’d swear an oath on it!”

  The face mask swayed in and out as the wildcat chieftain beckoned the guards to stand the captives up. He peered at their bruised and battered heads. “Hmm, I see, and they’ve refused to talk, eh?”

  Scaut uncoiled his whip. “Leave them to me, Sire. They’ll soon talk when their ribs show through their hides!”

  Riggu glimpsed the looks of stubborn defiance the otters gave each other. “No they won’t. Put away that lash, I have a better idea. Tell me, do they have families?”

  Atunra answered smartly, “Master, the younger one has a wife and three offspring. The older one has only a wife.”

  Riggu looked at the two otters enquiringly. “Why do you not think of your families and talk to me?”

  Whulky and Chab remained tight-lipped. The wildcat shrugged. “Bravery in a warrior is an admirable quality, but bravery in a slave with loved ones to care for is just plain stupidity. So, do you wish to speak to me now, or go to your deaths in silence?”

  Whulky and Chab were trembling all over, but they stared straight ahead without saying a single word.

  The wildcat leaned back in his chair, tapping his claws on the arm. “So be it. Tie them both underneath this pier until tomorrow morning. If they haven’t spoken by then, we’ll take them to Deeplough and introduce them to Slothunog.”

  He rose dismissively and wandered casually indoors. Stopping in the fortress doorway, Riggu Felis called back over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and let their families join them beneath the pier. They can accompany them to Deeplough. That might help to loosen their tongues before tomorrow.”

  Atunra and the catguards marched the otters off. Whulky and Chab were in deep shock at the horror they and their families would have to face.

&nbs
p; 7

  Old Quelt smiled at the embarrassment on the faces of Sister Snowdrop and her four companions. “Don’t stand staring at the floor and shuffling your paws like naughty Dibbuns. Come in, all of you, and welcome. Redwallers have been making jokes about Old Quelt since long before you were born, Sister Snowdrop. Please run along and find these young ’uns something to drink.”

  Snowdrop brought a flagon of pennycloud-and-rosehip tonic and some beakers from a window ledge, and poured the drinks. Tiria and her friends sat at a long, well-polished beechwood table, gazing about them at Quelt’s pride and joy: Redwall Abbey’s first library.

  All four walls were shelved out from floor to ceiling with good oaken planking. Every possible area was full of books and scrolls. Thin pamphlets stood spine to spine with tall tomes, thick volumes and beribbonned rolls of parchment, all in neat order. To one side of the fireplace was a nook, which held a writing desk with two padded stools. Quill pens and charcoal sticks, together with hardwood rulers, sealing wax and sheafs of parchment, lay stacked, ready for use.

  The ancient squirrel peered over the top of his glasses at his gaping guests. “Almost a lifetime’s work. I did it, you know. Helped, of course, by the good Sister Snowdrop, our trusty Cellarhog Carpenter and many obliging moles. So, what do ye think?”

  Tiria acted as spokesbeast. “It’s wonderful, sir, most impressive. I hadn’t realised there were so many books and scrolls in our Abbey.”

  Snowdrop refilled their beakers. “This is now the repository for all the written works of Redwall. Quelt gathered them in this former attic room. It took us long seasons to clear out the gatehouse records, and even longer to empty out the Abbess’s chambers, and the kitchens, cellars and dormitories.”

  The Librarian-cum-Recorder sighed wearily. “Aye, and we’re still searching, discovering, dusting, repairing and cataloguing old writings. Huh, and that’s beside my work as Redwall Recorder.”

  Brinty complimented Quelt. “You’ve worked wonders, sir. I expect you’re very proud of your library!”

  The oldster wiped a drop of tonic from the tabletop with his sleeve. “ ‘Proud’ is not the word I’d use, ‘fulfilled’ sums it up better. Yes, I feel fulfilled by my achievement. But you haven’t come here to listen to some doddering old fogey rattling on about his library. What exactly are you looking for? Is there any way I can be of assistance?”

  Sister Snowdrop glanced at Tiria. “Tell him about your dream riddle.”

  Quelt began rolling up his wide habit sleeves. “Oh do, miss, I pray you. Riddles, puzzles or conundrums, I’ve always been pretty fair at that type of thing. Now, you may start at the beginning, and please leave nothing out!”

  The ottermaid related her dream in detail—the big lake and its shore, and her encounter with Martin the Warrior and the otter lady. Word for word she recited the poem, then explained about her dream’s aftermath.

  “It was very odd. After I woke up, I couldn’t even recall that I’d had a dream. Then my father unknowingly repeated the line about Wildlough blood, and it all came back as clear as day to me.”

  Old Quelt picked up quill, parchment and ink. He stroked at his scraggy, silver whiskers reflectively before replying. “Hmm, very interesting. What do you young ’uns make of it all?”

  Tribsy wrinkled his velvety snout. “We’m wuz ‘opin’ you’m or ee Sister cudd make sumthin’ of it all, zurr. Arter all, we’m bain’t gurt scholarbeasts like you’m bee’s.”

  Girry agreed. “Huh, I wasn’t very bright at Abbeyschool.”

  Brinty shook his head. “Neither was I. What about you, Tiria?”

  The ottermaid smiled ruefully. “Afraid not, mate. When I should’ve been studying, I was always fooling about with slings and stones. Wish I’d paid more attention now.”

  Sister Snowdrop stared at them through her small square glasses. “Oh, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourselves, you four never struck me as dullards. Most riddles can be solved with some serious concentration. Let’s put our heads together and make a joint effort at finding the solution.”

  Quelt pointed his quill pen at his assistant. “A sensible idea, Snowdrop. Come on, you can be the Recorder for a change. I want you to write down what Tiria has to say. Miss, would ye kindly repeat the poem again for us? Slowly, please.”

  Tiria spoke the rhyme methodically, allowing the little Sister to keep pace with her words.

  “Like the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,

  to set the downtrodden free.

  A warriormaid with Wildlough blood

  must cross the Western Sea.

  She who looks ever through windows

  at the signs that feathers make,

  seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,

  for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”

  Brinty came up with an immediate idea. “Why don’t we go down to the front lawns, stand back and watch all the Abbey windows? We may catch sight of the one who is always looking through them.”

  Snowdrop put aside her pen. “Really, young mouse, you’ve lived at Redwall how long, fifteen or sixteen seasons? Tell me, in all that time did you ever see any creature who had little else to do than stand about gazing through windows night and day, eh?”

  Brinty saw how foolish his idea must have sounded. “Sorry, Sister, I see what you mean. I was only trying to help.”

  Tribsy rapped a huge digging claw upon the table. “Oi says ee bestest way to solve ee riggle bee’s to start at ee beginnin’ of et, hurr!”

  Snowdrop complimented him. “An excellent suggestion! I always said that nobeast could beat sound mole logic. Now, we know that the sun rises anew each day, but we don’t know what a Rhulain is. However, this mention of a warriormaid with Wildlough blood fits your description, Tiria.”

  The ottermaid pointed at herself. “Me? I’m not a warrior!”

  A wry look crossed the old Sister’s face. “Excuse my asking, but are you not the one who led the charge against a gang of water rats and saved the osprey? And do you not carry around a sling named Wuppit, a weapon with which you slew a vermin with a single throw from an incredible distance? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the blood of Wildlough otters run through your veins, hence the very name you go by, Wildlough?”

  Tiria attempted to equal her interrogator’s irony. “Huh, we know all that! Kindly stop quibbling and get on with your explanation of the poem, my good mouse.”

  Snowdrop resumed without comment. “It states that you must cross the Western Sea, but let’s skip ahead a few lines. The object of your journey is to aid your kinbeasts, doubtless that means other otters. We know that they dwell on this place called Green Isle and are in some kind of difficulty. So that’s a start.”

  Girry interrupted by referring to the lines Snowdrop had skipped over. “Right then, but we’re not on Green Isle, neither is Tiria. So our first task is exactly what Brinty meant: We must first find the window watcher who is always looking at the signs feathers make. That seems to be the key to this puzzle. I wonder who it can be.”

  Tribsy blinked a few times, allowing the information to sink in. “Oi doan’t know who et bee’s, do ee?”

  Brinty looked to the Recorder. “Have you any ideas, sir?”

  Snowdrop whispered, “No use asking him, I’m afraid the poor fellow’s fallen asleep again.”

  With both paws folded across his gently heaving chest and both eyes closed, Quelt surprised them by speaking. “On the contrary, Sister, the poor fellow’s wide awake and drinking in every word you’ve spoken. Dearie me, it’s you lot whose eyes are really closed. The answer’s staring you right in the face!”

  Tiria began to feel impatient with Quelt’s manner. “If you have the answer, sir, I’d be grateful if you’d give it to us, instead of pretending to be asleep!”

  Quelt continued with his eyes still closed. “You were doing quite well for the main part, at least Snowdrop was, though it was young Girry who asked the most pertinent question. Who is the one who look
s through windows at the signs made by feathers?”

  Opening his eyes, the Librarian pointed directly at Snowdrop. “It’s you, my aged assistant!”

  The little Sister’s voice rose squeakily. “Me? What makes you say that?”

  Quelt took an unhurried sip of his tonic drink. “Ask yourself, what do we use to write with? Quills! And what are quills but the feathers of birds? So we dip them in ink and make marks, we write with them. Are you following me?”

  Tribsy chortled. “Hurrhurrhurr, loik maggypies follerin’ ee frog, zurr. You’m carry roight on!”

  The ancient squirrel obliged. “The riddle points to a ‘she,’ a knowledgeable creature. Observe!” Quelt removed his rock crystal spectacles and held them up.

  “Constant seasons of study do not help one’s eyesight. Sooner or later, we elders need these windows to see properly through. My spectacles are round, and I am a he, not a she. Now look at Sister Snowdrop.”

  Instantly the problem was solved for Tiria and her friends. “She wears little square glasses shaped like windows. I’ve never seen her without them. It is you, Sister!”

  The dawn of a happy smile soon faded from Snowdrop’s face. She waved her paws in agitation. “No, no, I don’t know what a Rhulain is, or how to cross the Western Sea, and I’m woefully ignorant about Green Isle.”

  Rising stiffly from his chair, Quelt left the table. “Tut tut, my dear friend, what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be after serving as my assistant for so many long seasons. A trained scholar and Librarian, surrounded by all the knowledge our Abbey has to offer—literature, records and histories. Why, it’s like a Dibbun being locked in Brink Greyspoke’s cellars complaining that he has nought to drink. Was all the training I gave you for nothing?”