Triss: A Novel of Redwall Page 7

  Shogg gave the word. “One, two an’ push! One, two an’ push! That’s the way, keep goin’, I can feel ’er movin’ along. One, two an’ push! Push!”

  Flith came splashing through the shallows, brandishing a spear he had borrowed. He was not more than a boat’s length from his quarry when the ship cleared the sandbar, gliding smoothly into the sea to catch the ebbing tide.

  Shogg patted Triss’s back. “Good job, shipmate. Up y’go, sharpish now!”

  Flith hurled himself, spearpoint forward, at the otter. Shogg turned just in time. He dodged the weapon and swung out mightily with the big ship’s oar. Once, twice he cracked it down on the rat, as hard as he could, then, seizing the line, he shinned up aboard the vessel, helped by Triss from above.

  Open sea lay deep and blue in front of them, with a good wind scudding the ship out onto the main. Welfo staggered out on deck, holding a damp rag to the side of her throbbing head. She managed a weak smile.

  “We made it!”

  Shogg glanced back over the stern, where he saw Flith’s limp form sink beneath the waves as it was pulled out in their wake.

  “Aye, we made it, friends, we’re safe. Sit awhile an’ rest now.” Welfo went back down below as Shogg took the tiller. He watched sadly as Triss sat on the deck and wept bitter tears for old Drufo, the last remaining link with her family.

  Prince Bladd was secretly glad that he did not have to go sailing on a long voyage after all. He shrugged happily. “Vell, dat’s dat, ain’t got no ship now, yarr!”

  There had been no vessels moored in the fjord since Agarnu’s ill-fated trip with his father. The stolen vessel had been specially built for Kurda and Bladd.

  Now Kurda eyed her father contemptuously. “Yarr, only der fool who rules a kingdom by der sea would have no ships!”

  Agarnu knew she was right. He flinched at the scorn in Kurda’s voice. Wheeling about on his fishbone leg, he stumped back to the stronghold, blustering, “Tchah! No need for der ships. Vy us needs ships? Got everyt’ink else, kingdom, stronghold, yarr! Light der beacon, Freebooters see it. Dey got ships, let dem do der job for us. Jarr!”

  Kurda gripped her sabre tighter. This was the best idea her father had ever come up with.

  She grinned wickedly at Riftun. “Jarr, Freebooters! Get dose Ratguards to fix up de beacon, now!”

  Eventide shades slid from crimson to slatey purple over the sea. On the high rocky point at the estuary a massive pile of pine logs, branches, foliage and dead moss had been erected by the weary Ratguards. Barrels of fish and vegetable oil stood close by. Kurda watched Captain Riftun set light to the beacon fire: it would burn red and gold by night and the oil would make it send up a column of dark smoke by day. Freebooters, vermin pirates and corsairs sailing anywhere in the region would see the signal and come to investigate.

  Kurda pointed her sabre blade directly at Riftun. “Keep dis burnin’, night an’ day, and you stay ’ere! Let me know ven de Freebooters be sighted, yarr?”

  Firelight reflected off the Captain’s spearblade as he saluted. “Yarr, Princess, ’twill be as ye command!”

  Kurda stared out over the restless deeps of wave and water. She spoke her thoughts aloud. “No slave escapes Riftgard. I’ll find dem. Ven I do, dey be sorry dey was ever borned. Diss I vow!”

  9

  Dawn had always been the time that Skipper of otters loved best. Rising silently at the first song of larks on the western flatlands beyond the Abbey, he would pad gently out of the dormitory for his morning exercise. This usually took the form of a good brisk swim in the Abbey pond, after which he ran several times around the outer walltops. Then he practised with javelin, club and sling. The big sturdy otter was not a beast to let fat grow about his middle. With his appetite sharpened, Skipper slipped quietly into the kitchens. Friar Gooch the squirrelcook and his assistant, the molemaid Furrel, were preparing breakfast. Knowing Skipper was not a great talker first thing in the morning, they left a tray out for him. With a nod of thanks, he took his food: warm oat scones, a small bowl of shrimp and hotroot soup (a special favourite with otters), and a large beaker of mint and pennycress cordial. Wordlessly, he left and went to seek someplace quiet, where he could eat and meditate before joining the bustle of Redwall’s daily life.

  Skipper dearly loved the Abbey, having lived on and off there through his young seasons, often leaving to live for a time with boisterous river otters and wild sea otters. But he always returned to Redwall, where he could trace his forebears right back to the famous otter Warrior, the one they had called Taggerung. Abbot Apodemus had tried to press onto Skipper the honour of being Redwall’s Warrior, though he refused on the grounds that he had never felt himself to be the Chosen One. Skipper did, however, take on the role of Master at Arms to the Abbey, training others in weaponry and warskills, though there had never been the need for anything like that in living memory. Redwall’s seasons of peace and plenty stretched back many, many seasons. But the big otter had chosen to stay in case he was ever needed.

  Great Hall was an island of serenity when it was not being used for feasting. Rising sunlight cast soft strips of multicoloured light from the stained-glass windows onto the smoothworn stone floor. Skipper took his tray and settled down with his back against the base of a sandstone column. From there he could view the ancient tapestry depicting Martin the Warrior, the Abbey’s first Champion. Foxes, rats, stoats, weasels and all manner of vermin could be seen fleeing from the armoured mouse who formed the centre of the picture. Martin had a face anybeast could trust: strong, smiling, kindly, yet with raw danger shining in his resolute eyes, which warned any evildoer to beware. He leaned upon a sword. Over the tapestry, on two silver spikes, the real one rested. Such a blade! It had a red pommel stone and a black bound handle with a cross-hilt. Like any warrior’s weapon, it was proficient, plain and simple. But the blade, double-edged shining steel, had a point like an ice needle. Legend said that it had been forged by a Badger Lord in the fires of Salamandastron, from the metal of a fallen star. With such a sword in his grasp, a warrior could face any odds.

  Eating in leisurely fashion, Skipper continued staring at Martin and the blade which rested above the skilfully woven tapestry. For some unknown reason, his eyelids began feeling heavy; and he had put aside the breakfast tray, when a sudden flash of sunlight shimmered on the swordblade. Skipper blinked at the spots of gold and silver dancing across his vision. Martin seemed to be staring at him from the tapestry. A voice, warm and distant, echoed around the room; the otter was not sure whether it was actually a real sound, or something inside his mind.

  “Look to the summer,

  Watch for the maid,

  A young running slave

  Who will hold my blade.”

  Time stood still for Skipper. The sunspots diminished and mist swirled slowly before his eyes.

  “Hello there, big fellow. Not like you to be taking a nap this early in the day.”

  Skipper shook his head, coming back to reality at the sight of Abbot Apodemus standing over him.

  “Er, wot? Er, er, g’mornin’, Father Abbot. . . .”

  Apodemus looked around at Great Hall. “Wonderfully calm in here, isn’t it? I’d join you, only ’tis too much effort sitting down there and having to heave oneself up again. Pity I’m not as fit as you, Skip.”

  The otter rubbed his eyes and stood up, respectfully allowing the Abbot to lean on his paw. He supported the old mouse as they walked toward the door, listening to what the good creature had to say.

  “Cavern Hole’s like a battleground at breakfast time, far too noisy, between Dibbuns squeaking and scrambling about, and every otherbeast shouting about going on a treasure hunt. Oh dear, it was all too much for me. Let’s take a stroll down to the gatehouse. Malbun and Crikulus are taking their breakfast quietly there, sensible creatures.”

  Skipper walked along in silence with the Abbot, trying hard to remember what it was he had wanted to tell him. But the otter’s mind was a blank for the presen
t.

  Shining dust motes, like tiny slow-motion fireflies, swirled gracefully around the piled-up mass of parchments, scrolls and old volumes on the desk inside the gatehouse. Malbun Grimp and Crikulus the Gatekeeper both had quill pens behind their ears. The quaint pair munched on warm damson scones and sipped elder-bark tea as they sorted through the jumble. Crikulus moved a pile of scrolls from an armchair and allowed Skipper to plump the Abbot down in it, causing more dust to rise.

  The ancient shrew peered over his rock crystal spectacles at them both. “A good mornin’ to ye both. What brings ye here to this dusty dungeon on such a fine day, eh?”

  Apodemus placed both paws in his wide habit sleeves. “This so-called treasure hunt. I want your opinion and advice as to such a fanciful venture.”

  Malbun, a normally placid mouse, became quite animated. She waved her paws about in excitement. “Oh, it’s a must, we’ve just got to go, can’t you see, treasure or no! Brockhall must be rediscovered. You’ve no idea how important it is to our Abbey archives!”

  Malbun’s outstretched paw hit a stack of heavy volumes, which toppled to the floor, causing a veritable eruption of dust. The Healer Recorder went into a fit of sneezing. Assisting the Abbot from his armchair, Skipper shepherded all three creatures out into the sunlight. Malbun stifled her face in a blue spotted kerchief.

  “Achoo! Achoo! Ah . . . Ah . . . Achoooooh! Whew, pardon me!”

  They sat on the wallsteps together. Raising his eyebrows in resignation, the Abbot sighed. “Oh well, if it’s that vital I suppose we’ll have to organise the whole thing and do it properly. Skipper, would you like to be in charge of things?”

  The otter waved his rudder respectfully. “My pleasure, Abbot.”

  Apodemus leaned back, closing his eyes at the bright sun.

  “Thank you, my friend, I know I can rely on you. Mmm, it’s nice and warm here. Summer’ll soon be upon us.”

  Skipper began to remember what it was he had been going to say. Unfortunately his thoughts were interrupted by Memm Flackery, leading a pack of dancing Dibbuns toward them, each one of the little creatures singing uproariously.

  “Summer summer summer sun,

  Rumpetty dumpetty dumpetty dum,

  See birds a-chirpin’ in the air

  An’ bees a-buzzin’ everywhere.

  With sun to shine an’ warm my fur,

  Oh how could I have a care, a care,

  Oh how could I have a care?

  Summer summer summer sun,

  That’s the time for havin’ fun,

  Grasshoppers whirr an’ hop around,

  Flowers come shootin’ out the ground,

  Butterflies pass without a sound,

  As bright long days abound, abound,

  As bright long days abound!

  Summer summer summer sun,

  Can’t catch me ’cos off I’ll run,

  I’ll dash into the stawb’rry patch

  An’ every one I see I’ll snatch.

  Gobble it up, right down the hatch,

  A fine tummyache I’ll catch, I’ll catch,

  A fine tummyache I’ll catch!”

  Panting and blowing, Memm Flackery plumped down on the wallsteps, mopping her brow with an apron corner. “Whoo, I’m gettin’ too blinkin’ old for this lark, wot! Just lookit those little fiends, each one of ’em could scoff enough breakfast to sink a ship and then sing like a pack of wolves an’ dance the bloomin’ paws from under you!”

  The Dibbuns swarmed over Abbot Apodemus, sitting on his lap, leaning on his shoulder and clambering on his back.

  “Goo’ mornin’, Farver H’Abbot, lubberly day izzenit!”

  Apodemus groaned under the weight of Abbeybabes, chuckling. “So, what do you villains want from your Abbot, eh?”

  Turfee the mousebabe tugged on the Abbot’s whiskers. “Us wanna go onna treasure ’unt with you, h’all of us!”

  Skipper scooped tiny bodies off Apodemus.

  “Ahoy there, mates, we can’t take you all. There’s far too many in yore crew, you’d be gettin’ lost all over Mossflower. Ruggum’n’Bikkle’s the only two we need.”

  The Dibbuns, who could shed bitter tears at a moment’s notice, set up a heartrending chorus of wails. “Waaaaahahawaaaaaaahwannagooooo!”

  The Harenurse tweaked Skipper’s rudder severely. “Y’ great heartless beast, sah, fancy upsettin’ my babes like that. S’pose I’ll jolly well have to make the peace.” She pulled a tiny mole out of the pack and wiped his eyes. “Listen up, young stumptail, I want y’to go and find Foremole. Tell him that Memm will be baking blackberry cream tarts today. Oh, an’ ask him if he can find some jolly helpful creatures t’lend a paw to make ’em. Run along now, wot!”

  As if by magic the wailing and weeping ceased. Dibbuns bounced up and down like mad frogs, waving their paws and shouting at the Harenurse. “Me! Me! I ’elp you, Memm! Me, me, I wanna ’elp!”

  Memm shook her head, as if doubtful. “Tut tut, I never heard anybeast sayin’ please.”

  One of the Dibbuns shouted “Please!”

  Memm scratched her ears, turning to Skipper. “What d’you say, old lad, d’you think they look like good helpers for makin’ blackberry cream tarts, wot?”

  Skipper nodded vigorously, watching the hopeful infants. “Ho aye, marm, I don’t think ye could ’ave a better crew in yore kitchens. They looks big’n’strong enough t’me.”

  There was no time for Memm to reply, as she was grabbed by her apron strings and tugged away to the kitchens by the Dibbuns, all of them yelling and shouting.

  “Cummon, Memm, where our aprons?”

  “I the bes’ berrycream tart baker inna world!”

  “Yurr, uz make lots’n’lots’n’lots, gurt ’eaps of em!”

  “Looka, me paws be clean, me don’t ’ave to wash ’em!”

  Malbun was laughing as she nudged Skipper. “Heehee! You’d best go an’ rescue Ruggum’n’Bikkle, they’ve gone off with the rest!”

  The big otter dashed after the baking party. “Ahoy there, you two, get back ’ere. Yore needed by us treasure ’unters. Come back ’ere, I say!”

  The Abbot rose stiffly, patting Malbun’s paw. “Well, I see you’re off to a good start. I wish you luck with your enterprise, old friend!”

  10

  By midmorning the searchers were leaving Redwall Abbey with Skipper and his two stalwart otter mates acting as guards. The party was composed mainly of grown-up creatures, with Ruggum and Bikkle hemmed neatly in the middle of the shrews, still protesting at being excused from their tart-baking duties. Apodemus locked the main gates behind them and climbed up to the north ramparts. He stood watching his creatures trudge away up the path until they cut off at an angle into Mossflower Wood.

  The going was fair, as they kept up a leisurely pace through the woodlands. Log a Log Groo and the Guosim shrews knew the exact location where they had found the two Dibbuns. This took a lot of guesswork out of the route.

  Crikulus tramped alongside the shrew leader. “D’you happen to know that old Guosim song, ‘Footlecum Durr,’ I think it was called? I heard one of your beasts singin’ it when you visited the Abbey last winter. I like it.”

  Log a Log Groo kept his eyes on the path ahead. “Even if I did, I couldn’t sing it, old ’un. I’m more of a dancer than a singer. Hoi, Burrl, you know that’n, don’t ye, ‘Footlecum Durr’? Sing it out good’n’loud for us.”

  Burrl was a smallish, skinny-looking shrew, but he had a voice like a foghorn. He sang out loud and clear:

  “Young Footlecum Durr, I do declare,

  Was a fanciful little shrew.

  With waxy grease he curled his fur

  An’ wore a greatcoat o’ blue.

  His ma was ever so fond of him,

  That lest his paws should bruise

  She made for him from aspen skin

  A brand-new pair of shoes.

  Well, pickle my fur, I tell you, sir,

  Do you believe the news?

  O
what to do, a Guosim shrew,

  Clompin’ about in shoes!

  With laces green, the best you’ve seen,

  An’ silver bells each end,

  He strutted here an’ swaggered there,

  An’ jigged about no end

  ’Til Footlecum took off his shoes,

  An’ paddlin’ went one day.

  Then a big old owl, the thievin’ fowl,

  Swooped down an’ stole ’em away.

  So now in the night, if you wake in a fright

  At a strange sound in the air,

  Tis only that bird that you have heard

  In the shoes of Footlecum Durr.

  Too whit too woo, a ding dong clomp,

  He’s dancin’ round out there,

  Pursued by a shrew, cryin’ out ‘Hey you,

  They’re the shoes of Footlecum Durr!’ ”

  Ruggum thought the song was hilarious and shook Burrl’s paw. “Gurtly singed, zurr. Fooklum Gurr, ee’m wurr a sillybeast!”

  It was sometime before midnoon when Log a Log called a halt. “This is about where we found the liddle ’uns. Let’s ’ave lunch an’ see if’n they can tell us which ways they went from ’ere to find that big ole tree with the door in it.”

  Malbun and Crikulus doled out barley farls, soft white cheese and flasks of pale cider. Both were glad to be rid of the extra weight they had been carrying. Skipper split his farl and packed it with cheese. Before he took a bite, he called the two Dibbuns to his side and questioned them. “Well, me ole mates, d’ye know where the old oak is from ’ere?”

  Bikkle gestured in a wide arc nonchalantly. “H’east norfwest, or souf I fink!”

  Crikulus could not help wagging a stern paw at her. “East northwest and south, that’s a great help. Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Ruggum, eh?”

  The little mole clapped his paws together and chortled. “Hurr hurr, oi did loike ee song bowt Fooklum Gurr, zurr!”