Skruttle narrated the message. “Cap’n Stringle sez to tell you that he’s got the giant stripe’ound surrounded, atop of a stone ’ill. But ’e sez there’s two stripe’ounds now, the big ’un an’ a smaller one, prob’ly a maid.” She paused awkwardly, shuffling her paws. “So that’s wot Cap’n Stringle told me to tell ye, Boss, we’ve got the stripe’ounds surrounded.”
Gruntan cut in on the messenger. “Where’s this stone ’ill where they’re at?”
Skruttle gestured with her tail. “Up north in the woodlands, ’bout a quarter day’s march. Cap’n Stringle’s waitin’ on yore orders, Boss.”
Gruntan heaved a snort of irritation. “Don’t tell me, the great Cap’n Stringle’s waitin’ on me to come an’ do the job for ’im. Well, ain’t ’e?”
Skruttle nodded dumbly.
Gruntan climbed laboriously onto his litter seat, calling orders to his bearers. “Up off’n yore hunkers, ye layabouts! Break camp, we’re movin’ north. Stay outta that ditch, cut off around the Abbey an’ go that way. Ahoy, you young ’uns, d’ye want a job?”
The young Brownrats stood to attention eagerly.
Gruntan called his old ratwife healer, Laggle. “Keep an eye on them, stay ahead o’ me litter. See if’n ye can scout out any fresh eggs, there’s none left in this neighbour’ood. Mind, I only wants good, big eggs, don’t go bringin’ me no wren or robin eggs. Go on, off with ye, I’ll be followin’, keep goin’ north.”
Back in the woodlands around the sandstone plateau, Stringle’s fortunes had changed for the worse. Instead of being the hunter, he now found that his horde was being attacked by a tribe of vengeful Guosim. Log a Log Osbil’s shrew warriors came hurtling out of the trees, yelling their battle cries as they hit the Brownrats’ rear ranks. Stringle was forced to turn and fight, leaving those attacking the plateau to their own devices. The Guosim fought like madbeasts, any Brownrat they seized was shown no quarter. Within a very short time they slew more than a score of the vermin. Guosim rapiers flashed in the dawnlight as Osbil and his tribe sent fear into the hearts of the foe while they started up a Bladechant.
“Hi hey Log a Log ho
Guosim lay the foebeast low,
Ho hey Log a Log hi
vermin ’tis the day ye die!
Logga Logga Logloglog!
Oh my blade is thirsting hard
not for ale or water
it will drink the vermin blood
brewed amid the slaughter!
Logga Logga Logloglog!
Ye who laid our chieftain low
Guosim wrath will feel,
take this payment of our debt
given with cold steel!
Logga Logga Logloglog!
Hi hey Log a Log ho
vengeance is a blood-red tide
Ho hey Log a Log hi
throw the Hellgates open wide!
Logga Logga Logloglog!”
On top of the plateau, Gorath and his three compatriots had repelled the Brownrats who had come over the edge. Working together, they beat the vermin back, though it was the young badger, armed with Tung, his weapon, who was carrying the fight. He was indeed an awesome sight, roaring forth his battlecry, swinging the pitchfork like a mighty flail.
Maudie was in top form. Avoiding spears and crude blades, she was lashing out with all paws, sending foebeasts skittling over the rim, though several times the haremaid was almost struck by Gorath sweeping his weapon in wide arcs. Ducking Tung repeatedly, Maudie found herself appealing to Salixa, who was swinging a loaded sling further along. “Er, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, old gel, but couldn’t you have a blinkin’ word with your chum? He’ll sweep us all over the edge if he ain’t careful. Oh, beg pardon a tick—” She broke off to deliver a walloping left to a Brownrat, sending him hurtling into space. Another came dashing up, wielding a spear. Before he could use it, the vermin was felled by one of Rangval’s daggers. Maudie waggled her ears at the rogue squirrel. “Thanks terribly, I can’t abide spear thrusters.”
Rangval grinned as he bent to retrieve his blade. “Sure, think nothin’ of it, miss—” As he stood upright the stock of Gorath’s pitchfork swung too close, felling the squirrel.
Maudie wagged a paw at Salixa. “You see, I told you he was going to jolly well hurt one of us, swingin’ that thing about!” Maudie helped Rangval up, rubbing the back of his head. “I say, old lad, are you alright? Still with us, wot?”
The rogue squirrel smiled crookedly. “Oh, I think I’ll live, as long as the big feller doesn’t give me another swipe!”
Salixa ducked and dodged until she was at Gorath’s side. “You’re not feeling an attack of Bloodwrath, are you?”
The young badger looked a bit pink about the eyes, but he stopped swinging briefly. “No, I’ve got it under control, Salixa, why, is anything wrong?”
She squeezed his paw reassuringly. “No, but watch out for your friends when you swing Tung around, you just hit poor Rangval.”
Gorath was about to apologise to the squirrel, when a shout from the other side of the plateau alerted him. A gang of the Bludgullet’s crew came stampeding over the far rim, yelling madly.
Maudie picked up a fallen vermin spear and followed both badgers to repel the invaders. Rangval joined her, twirling a dagger in either paw. “Ah, miss, if only me dear ould mother could see me now, I know just what she’d say.”
Maudie singled out a ferret, muttering as she went for him, “What would your dear old mater say?”
The rogue squirrel shrugged as he imitated his mother. “Here we go again, me son, what’ve I told ye about all this fightin’, ye rascal!”
There were far too many Brownrats for Osbil and his shrews to defeat, but they achieved a certain purpose with their fierce attack. One of the Guosim scouts, who had been ranging around the base of the plateau, reported back to his Log a Log. “Chief, there’s a crew o’ those seavermin attackin’ the plateau from the rear!”
This was worrying information, requiring some quick thinking from the Guosim chieftain. Osbil cast a glance up at the rim, summing up his thoughts aloud. “Hmm, there’s only the two badgers, Maudie an’ Rangval defendin’ up there, as far as I can see.”
The scout interrupted. “There should be five, wot’s happened to the young hog, Orkwil? There’s no sign of him?”
Osbil shook his head. “Who knows, mate, he might be dead, or lyin’ wounded somewhere. We can’t stop everythin’ t’go searchin’ for him. One thing’s certain, we can’t leave goodbeasts up there to perish. Gather the tribe, we’ll make a charge, stampede through the middle of Kurdly’s rats an’ carry on until we reach the plateau. That way we can join our friends an’ make a proper stand!”
The Brownrats had now recovered from the initial Guosim assault. Under Stringle’s command they were beginning to turn the tide against the smaller shrew force. However, they were not prepared for what came next. The Guosim warriors grouped into a mass behind Osbil and charged headlong at the Brownrats, roaring, “Logalogalogalooooog!”
They went like a gale through a wheatfield, whipping through the trees and shrubbery, with Brownrats being bulled and bowled in all directions. Straight through the centre, and onto the base sandstone ledges, Log a Log Osbil led his fighters, whooping and yelling like madbeasts.
Furious at being taken by surprise, Stringle, who had viewed the incident from safe cover, came dashing out to berate his Brownrats. “Why didn’t ye stand firm, ye poltroons? We’re bigger’n those liddle shrews, aye, an’ we’ve got five times their number. Get after ’em, ye lily-livered layabouts. Form up an’ charge, come on. Charge!”
“Why charge, my friend? Let dem carry on to der top, dey got noplace to go once dey’re up dere, don’t ya see!”
Stringle whirled around, coming face-to-face with Vizka Longtooth and half a score of the Bludgullet’s crew.
33
Gruntan Kurdly was in no hurry to join Stringle, the reason being that he was under the impression there was only one bad
ger in the Mossflower region. Whilst passing around the back of Redwall Abbey on a northerly course, he sat back in his litter, gazing covetously at the east wall. The Brownrat warlord wondered if the time would ever arrive when he would be on the other side of that wall, master of all he surveyed. That was when he saw the badger.
The Tabura was being shown around Redwall, he strode the eastern rampart slowly, in company with Abbot Daucus and Foremole Burff, admiring the tranquil immensity of his surroundings. Stopping for a moment, the Tabura gazed out over the dense woodlands. He was about to turn away when a movement amid the trees caught his attention. The badger found himself looking straight into the eyes of a huge, overweight rat, being carried along, sprawled on a litter. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, then the rat was lost to view, being borne off midst the greenery.
Gruntan Kurdly furrowed his brutish brow, assessing the situation. Doubtless Stringle had been telling him a pack of lies. The minions of Kurdly often resorted to untruths, mostly to save themselves being exposed to his wrath, which often proved fatal. Every Brownrat knew what a dose of the Kurdlys meant. The Warlord dozed off, reflecting on how he would punish Stringle. The warm summer day, chirping insects, buzzing bees and silent butterflies winging their errant path amid the patches of shade and sunlight, lulled Kurdly into a comfortable doze for awhile.
He was rudely wakened by the cries of the young Brownrats, coming out of the woodlands. In a customary sour mood, which often followed his nap, Gruntan waved a grubby paw at the closest rat. “Gimme summat t’drink, me gob’s like a sandpit!” He slopped grog down, casting a jaundiced eye over the young ones. “Wot d’yer mean, wakin’ me with all yore shoutin’, eh?”
A Brownrat maid came forward, holding out a nest for his inspection. “We found eggs for ye, Boss.”
Poking about in the structure of woven vegetation, Gruntan pawed the two fawn-hued, brown-blotched eggs. “Moorhens, where’d ye get these?”
Laggle, the old healer, pointed off east. “They found a watermeadow over yonder.”
Gruntan Kurdly immediately perked up, watermeadows were a prime source of eggs. He hid his pleasure, curling a lip at Laggle and the young rats. “Huh, an’ that’s all ye got, jus’ two eggs atwixt the lot of ye? Aye, an’ I’ll wager these are addled an’ rotten. Right, steer a course for these watermedders, we’ll camp there, an’ I’ll take a look fer meself.”
Noggo, who was one of the bearers, piped up. “But worrabout the giant stripe’ound, wot Stringle’s got surrounded, Boss?”
Noggo was close enough, so Gruntan grabbed him, and broke both the eggs over his head. Gruntan gave a gaptoothed smile of vindication. “See, I told ye they was rotten. Never you mind about Stringle, I’ll deal with that ’un. Durty great fibber, he ain’t got no giant stripe’ound surrounded!”
Laggle made sure she was out of his reach. “An’ how d’ye know that, eh?”
Gruntan smirked knowingly. “’Cos I just saw the stripe’ound on top o’ Redwall, that’s ’ow. I’ve seen the beast fer meself, so ’ow can Stringle’ve seen ’im, tell me that, clever whiskers!”
Laggle put forward her explanation. “Well, there might be three stripe’ounds, have ye thought of that?”
Gruntan shot her his meanest scowl. “Don’t talk stupid, unless ye want to get a bad attack o’ the Kurdlys. Now, where’s that watermedder!”
It was a beautiful sight, a watermeadow in a woodland setting. Bulrushes and reeds flourished along the margins. Large dragonflies, mayflies and damselflies flittered and hovered amid widespread waterlilies, golden crowfoot, white flowering cottongrass and blue-starred brooklime.
All nature’s splendour was lost on Gruntan Kurdly as his litter was carefully lowered onto the firm ground of the border. “Haharr, this is the place fer eggs, buckoes. Now if’n ye’d caught up with those sh’ews awhile back, I’d ’ave me a nice liddle logboat t’sail round ’ere in. Well, let’s see if’n ye can make yoreselves useful now. Laggle, get some ’elp an’ light a fire, git that water cauldron filled an’ bubblin’, ready for me eggs. Youse young ’uns, cast about an’ see if’n ye can hunt up some decent nests, with lots of eggs in ’em. Go quiet an’ easy now. If’n ye kills any birds, then ye can keep ’em to roast an’ eat. But remember, the eggs are mine, off ye go now, an’ don’t dare come back empty-pawed, or I’ll boil the lot of ye in this cauldron!”
The young Brownrats stole silently off to their duties. Gruntan amused himself awhile, swatting at any winged insect which came within range. Within a short time he was snoozing again.
Noontide shadows were lengthening over the tranquil watermeadows when Gruntan was gently shaken into wakefulness by Laggle, who whispered in his ear, “Ye’d better wake up, Boss, they’ve found a swan’s nest!”
Gruntan sat bolt upright, grubbing at his eyes. He breathed reverently, “A swan’s nest!”
The one egg he had never tasted, a swan’s egg. To the Brownrat chieftain the nest of a swan was his ultimate dream. The swan was the largest of all birds! Gruntan had never seen its egg, but he imagined it would be a thing of legendary proportions. He shuddered with unconcealed delight. All thoughts of Stringle, his lies and stripehounds were banished from his mind as he whispered orders to his Brownrats.
“Who was it wot found the swan’s nest, which one of ye?”
A young male rat came hesitantly forward. “Me, Boss.”
Gruntan gazed at him fondly. “Wot’s yore name, mate?”
The young rat did not know whether to be proud or afraid. “Duggerlo, Boss, me name’s Duggerlo.” He blinked each time Gruntan patted his head.
“Duggerlo, eh, an ’andsome name for a clever young ’un. So yore the bright spark wot found the swan’s nest, d’ye think ye could take me to it, Duggerlo?”
Feeling more confident, Duggerlo nodded vigorously. “Aye, Boss, ’tis over yon, where those willows are. There’s a little stream runs through them into the meadows. The nest is right there, I saw it.”
Gruntan turned to the other Brownrats. “Youse lot stay ’ere, keep the fire goin’ an’ the cauldron bubblin’ ’til me’n Duggerlo returns.”
At the far side of the watermeadow, Gruntan and Duggerlo stood waist-deep in the water, the willows were some distance away. It was not going to be as easy as the Brownrat chief first thought. He questioned the youngster. “Tell me, ’ow did ye make yore way across?”
“I waded most o’ the way, an’ swimmed a bit, Boss.”
Gruntan scratched his stomach underwater. “Hmm, an’ yore certain the nest is over there?”
Duggerlo pointed. “Ye can’t miss it, Boss, right in the stream mouth, ’tween those far two willows.”
After a few moments’ thought, Gruntan reached a decision. “Right, young ’un, you stay ’ere, an’ keep quiet, I’ll go over there by meself. If’n I needs ye I’ll shout.”
Being much taller than Duggerlo, Gruntan figured he would not need to swim. Keeping his gaze fixed on the willows, he began wading. The going was slow, but steady; he squelched onward, feeling the ooze, old tree roots and vegetation beneath his footpaws. So obsessed was he with his quest for the fabled swan’s egg, the Brownrat chieftain did not want any otherbeast sharing his discovery.
Wading closer, he could make out the nest now, a sprawling, unwieldy construction, probably based on some underwater willow roots. Gruntan could mentally picture the egg, lying there in solitary splendour, white as the driven snow, and big as a seaside boulder. His paws trembled with desire and anxiety as he pushed himself faster through the water, which was now lapping about his chin. He was spitting water by the time he reached the nest, but his footpaws found a hold on the underwater roots. Grabbing the outside of the huge nest, he hauled himself upward, gurgling with happiness.
Under the weight of the Brownrat’s bulk, the entire nest came toppling sideways on him, in a hideous cacophony of sound. Two gangling cygnets and a fully grown female mute swan fell upon Gruntan. The young swans scrabbled back onto the half-capsized nes
t, trumpeting weakly, whilst their mother set about punishing the unwelcome trespasser.
Defending its nest and family, the mute swan was an awesome sight. It towered over the unfortunate Brownrat, hissing and snorting, thrashing him with both webbed limbs, beating him with wings like windmill sails. Then it pounded away at his head with its fearsome orange beak, which was backed by a hard, black protrusion at the base. Once, twice, thrice the swan struck, each blow powered by its long, powerful neck. Gruntan Kurdly sank limply beneath the waters, with a fractured spine, and a cracked skull. Still hissing and snorting its wrath, the mute swan shepherded its two cygnets away to safety.
Duggerlo stood clinging to a clump of bulrushes, still waist-deep in the watermeadow. Shocked by what he had witnessed, his gaze was still rooted to the scene of the attack, watching the spot where Gruntan had sunk, expecting him to reappear, roaring orders to slay the swan. Duggerlo stayed quite awhile, until it finally dawned on him that only a fish could stay underwater so long.
The young Brownrat staggered into camp dripping wet. He had to impart the story three times, in full detail, before anybeast began believing him. Though there were a few cynics.
“Garn, Kurdly slayed, no bird could do that!”
“Hah, shows ’ow much you know, you’ve never seen a swan close up. One o’ them things is even bigger’n a stripe’ound. It could finish off the boss, an’ three like ’im. Swans is bigger’n giants!”
“Well, I don’t believe the boss is dead, so there!”
Duggerlo lost his patience with the speaker. “Well, why don’t ye go over there, an’ swim under the water an’ ask ’im?”
That ended the argument. They sat around the fire, boiling the few eggs that had been collected for the departed. Laggle, the old female Brownrat, made Duggerlo recite the tale once more, then she composed a dirge for the slain chieftain. Laggle considered herself an accomplished Dirger, a highly respected position in the Brownrat horde.