He ceased his examination and stood over the quaking corsair. ‘And you, bold Conva, what shall I do with you?’ The Emperor’s fearsome eyes bored into Conva’s mind.
His spirit completely broken with terror, the corsair grovelled shamelessly at the Emperor’s footpaws. ‘Mighty One, Great Emperor, spare me. I. will gather more crew and the help of other captains. Give me a chance and I will go to Redwall and bring back the Tears of all Oceans.’
Ublaz stepped hard on the back of Conva’s neck, trapping his head against the floor. ‘Scum of the sea, fool who cannot control his own crew!’ the pine marten said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Do you think I would let an idiot like you travel half round the world to fight a war against Redwall Abbey? I have heard of that place. The bones of warlords moulder at its gates; more than one has tried to breach those red walls and died miserably. If I am to retrieve the Tears of all Oceans it needs cunning strategy.’ Ublaz pointed his dagger at a Trident-rat guard. ‘You, go and fetch my Monitor General!’
Leaning down, the pine marten nicked Conva’s ear with his dagger. ‘You I will let live, until I know the truth of your story. Take him away and billet him in the Monitor barracks.’
Conva knew it was pointless to beg for mercy. He had escaped instant death, but how long would he survive unarmed in the barracks of the strange, flesh-eating lizards? He was led off stunned, almost speechless with terror.
Lask Frildur the Monitor General stood before the Emperor, flat reptilian eyes unblinking, scales making a dry rustle as his heavy spiked tail swished lazily against the marble floor. Ublaz nodded approvingly. The Monitor General had never let him down; everybeast on Sampetra knew and feared the reputation of Lask Frildur.
‘Does all go well with you, my strong right claw?’ Ublaz said, as he poured wine for them both.
The Emperor turned his head from Lask’s foul breath as the lizard answered, ‘Yarr, Mightinezz. Lazk Frildur awaitz your orderz!’
The mad-eyed marten took a sip of wine and wiped his mouth fastidiously on a silk kerchief. ‘Good! I want you to take the ship of Conva and carry out an important mission for me.’
The Monitor General’s eyes flickered momentarily. ‘I will go the endz of oceanz if Ublaz commandz!’
He accepted the goblet of wine that was pushed towards him, holding it at throat height. Lask never let his eyes stray from those of Ublaz; his head did not dip to the goblet, instead a long tongue snaked out and lapped at the wine as the Emperor gave his instructions.
‘It is a long voyage to where the sun rises in the east, a place called the land of Mossflower. Take the Waveworm and her crew, with Romsca the ferret as captain, and a score of your Monitors. Here is what you must do . . .’
Outside the surf boomed on the sunwarmed rocks of the escarpment, and ships bobbed at anchor in the harbour. Sampetra shimmered under the midday sun, a once beautiful jewel of the oceans, now tainted by the evil of its ruler.
3
SAGITAR SAWFANG WAS bigger than most searats, lean and sinewy with a mean disposition. She was second only to Lask Frildur the Monitor General. Sagitar had fought her way up through the ranks of the Emperor’s Trident-rats, until she held the undisputed title of Chief Trident-rat. Whilst the rats under her command patrolled Sampetra’s harbour and taverns, keeping order among the sea vermin, Sagitar leaned on a jetty stanchion, watching Waveworm grow small on the eastern horizon, bound for Mossflower. Grasping her trident haft resolutely, she allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. Now she alone was the strong right paw of Ublaz, solely responsible for discipline among the wavescum who anchored at Sampetra.
Fate however is a cruel trickster. Turning her face west, Sagitar saw her happiness would be short-lived. The Chief Trident-rat knew the identity of the barque sailing in from the western ocean. No other vessel flew streaming red pennants from three mastheads – it had to be the Freebooter. She rapped the three-pronged metal head of her trident against the jetty timbers until a Trident-rat came running to her summons.
‘Tell the full squad to muster on this jetty immediately!’
Lifting his trident smartly in salute, the rat hurried off.
Few ships that sailed into Sampetra had a master with a reputation for danger like Barranca, captain of the Freebooter. Scorning pawholds, he balanced perfectly, high on the heaving prow, reckless and daring. Barranca was every inch a real swashbuckler, clad in flame-red silks, with a long sabre thrust into his broad, black, garnet-studded belt. Loose ends of the corsair stoat’s headband fluttered in the breeze as he pointed shoreward, calling out to his steersrat, ‘Haharr, see, Guja, ’tis ole sourpuss Sagitar an’ a welcomin’ committee awaitin’ us, let’s not disappoint ’em!’
Swinging nimbly to the deck, Barranca whipped out his sabre and began roaring orders to Freebooter’s crew. ‘All paws on deck, an’ arm yerselves to the teeth, mates!’
The vessel’s crew were a villainous and motley collection, mainly searats but with a scattering of ferrets, stoats and weasels. They fairly bristled with an array of cutlasses, daggers and axes.
Barranca drew his weasel mate Blowfly to one side. ‘Don’t stand any ole nonsense off’n Mad Eyes’ creatures, y’hear?’
Blowfly produced a broad curved knife. Showing his blackened teeth, he licked the blade meaningfully, and said, ‘Aye aye, Cap’n, we’ll show ’em they cain’t push Freebooter’s buckoes round, just you give the word!’
‘Dangerous, matey, we’re dangerous!’ The corsair tossed his sabre high in the air, catching it skilfully as the blade flashed downwards. ‘Haharr, you watch me tweak Sagitar’s tail. I’ve never liked the cut o’ that pompous rat’s jib an’ she don’t like me, so there ain’t no love lost atwixt us!’
Twoscore Trident-rats stood to rigid attention on the jetty. Grim-faced, Sagitar watched Freebooter heave starboard side on to the pier and make fast to it. Barranca’s loud insulting challenge hailed her.
‘Ahoy, misery guts, where’s Frildur an’ his lizards today?’
Sagitar pointed her trident menacingly at the grinning corsair. ‘Lask Frildur is the least of your worries. I’m the one who’ll be dealing with you and your rabble if there’s any trouble!’
Barranca leapt up, straddling the jetty and ship’s rail. ‘Yer don’t say? Where’s our ole mate the Monitor General then? Done us all a favour an’ died, I ’ope. Haharrharr!’
Sagitar allowed herself a thin malicious smile. ‘Not at all. Lask is still very much alive, sailing for the Mossflower coast on Waveworm at this very moment.’
Barranca turned and winked at Blowfly. ‘Hoho, is he? I’ll wager me brother Conva ain’t too pleased about that, eh, mate, ’avin’ that scaly ole reptile aboard as a passenger.’
Sagitar did not attempt to conceal the pleasure in her voice. ‘Your brother Conva is no longer captain of the Waveworm. He is now a prisoner of Emperor Ublaz and is kept in the Monitor barracks. I’ll give him your best regards when I see him. Right, let’s see what you’ve got on board in the way of tribute.’
Barranca blocked the Chief Trident-rat’s path aboard, his eyes fierce with challenge. ‘Put one paw aboard o’ my ship, rat, an’ I’ll gut ye! Crew, stand by to repel boarders!’
Freebooter’s crew crowded the starboard rail, weapons ready for use against the Trident-rats. Barranca’s gleaming sabretip hovered close to Sagitar’s throat.
She gulped visibly. ‘I warn you, this is the command of Emperor Ublaz you are defying!’
The corsair did not back down a fraction. ‘No it ain’t, this is one of yore fancy ideas. The tribute fer Ublaz will be unloaded onto this jetty by my crew – you can come back tomorrow an’ collect it. Now shift yerself, rat!’
Sagitar knew she had lost the argument. Drawing back, she marshalled her command, calling aloud to Barranca as they marched off, ‘I’ll report this to the Emperor. He will hear of your defiance!’
The derisive reply stung her as she left the jetty. ‘Report wot yer like, ratnose! Ublaz knows my
ship always brings the best booty to ’im, an’ he trusts me to unload it!’
Word of Barranca’s arrival ran like wildfire around the harbour. He was popular and well liked by all the pirates on Sampetra. Grog was broken out for all searat and corsair captains, who met with Barranca aboard his ship.
Having heard from them of his brother’s arrest and imprisonment, he addressed them fiercely. ‘Who does Mad Eyes think ’e is to lord it over us, mates? That pine marten was only a corsair like ourselves who chanced t’ find this island first. Now ’e takes the best of our plunder, makes us live by some fancy set o’ rules he invented, an’ kills or imprisons who ’e likes. It ain’t right, I tell yer!’
A grizzled searat captain called Slashback answered, ‘Aye, messmate, but Ublaz has Trident-rats an’ Monitors to do ’is biddin’. They enforce the laws round ’ere.’
Barranca whacked the flat of his sabre blade down on the table. ‘I remember when seabeasts were free an’ the only rules we ’ad were our own. Now look at us! Wot ’ave we come to, mates?’
A tall sombre weasel captain called Bilgetail shrugged. ‘No one can stand against Mad Eyes an’ his army.’
Barranca looked around the assembly. ‘You, Slashback, an’ you, Rocpaw, Bloodsnout, Rippdog, Flaney, yore all cap’ns, you command crews. By my reckonin’ we must outnumber lizards an’ Trident-rats two to one, think of that! An’ ’ere’s another thing: Lask Frildur ain’t ’ere no more. Who knows if’n ’e’ll ever make it back? Aye, an’ a score o’ Monitors gone with ’im too! If ever there was a right time fer us to take over this island it’s now!’
There was a moment’s silence, then Rippdog the weasel stood alongside Barranca and voiced her opinion. ‘I’m with you, mate! Our lives ain’t our own since we been dockin’ at Sampetra. That pine marten even ’as us attackin’ each other if’n we don’t drop anchor ’ere an’ pay ’alf a cargo to ’im!’
Bloodsnout, another female corsair, joined her companion. ‘Rippdog an’ Barranca are right, Ublaz is too greedy! He’s got all the shipbuildin’ an’ repairin’ wood piled up back of ’is palace. There ain’t any good trees growin’ on the island no more. Last trip my vessel run afoul o’ rocks, ripped part of the stern away, Sagitar an’ Lask took all my cargo in payment fer timber to fix ’er up again. We should get wood free, whenever we needs it!’
Bilgetail nodded, moving decisively to Barranca’s side. ‘I’ll join ye. Mad Eyes is growin’ too powerful, ’e executed two of my crew for arguin’ with those Monitors over booty. Just ’ad ’em dragged off an’ slain – you all remember it.’
Heads nodded around the table. Barranca stove in the top of a cask with his sabre handle. ‘Dip yore beakers into this ’ere seaweed grog an’ drink if yore with me, mates. Anybeast that don’t dip a beaker is against us!’
The pact for rebellion was sealed as every beaker dipped into the cask.
Ublaz stood watching the ship Freebooter from the high window slit of an antechamber. Sagitar waited apprehensively at the pine marten’s side. After a while, the Emperor turned to his Chief Trident-rat.
‘Slashback, Flaney, Rocpaw – all the captains are aboard Barranca’s ship. What would you say they are doing, Sagitar?’
The Trident-rat chose her words carefully. ‘Mightiness, who knows what is in the minds of wave vermin?’
The silver dagger blade tapped gently against Sagitar’s tunic. ‘I do. Ublaz knows all, that is why I am Emperor. They are plotting against me, they think I am weak without Lask Frildur. But we will show them, won’t we, my strong right paw?’
The Trident-rat bobbed her head respectfully. ‘As you say, Excellency. I am yours to command!’
The pine marten tapped the dagger blade against his sharp white teeth a moment, before giving further orders. ‘Take all your Trident-rats fully armed, quickly now, and block off the end of the jetty. Do not attack, but don’t let any of the captains pass. Keep them aboard the ship, and await my command.’
Sagitar went swiftly off to carry out orders. Ublaz motioned to a Monitor guard. ‘Assemble all my Monitors in the courtyard and bring the prisoner Conva here to me.’
Grath Longfletch, a daughter of Holt Lutra, should have been dead two seasons ago. She had been found three nights after Conva’s attack on her family home, crawling through the mud of a half-dried stream with horrific injuries. Glinc the watervole and his wife Sitch dragged Grath between them to an overhang in a mossy bank, close to their den. As best they could, the voles tended the otter, but there was little the pair could do, save give her some hot soup and cover her with dry bracken.
Grath lay all season long, at the very entrance to death’s door, some hidden inner flame keeping her alive – reliving in nightmares with loud cries the horrors she had survived. Gradually she recovered and spent her days eating and sleeping, growing slowly in strength and agility. At her request, Glinc brought a long sturdy yew branch to Grath. With a flint shard the otter scraped and fashioned it, wetting and steaming the wood over a fire. She strung it with flaxen threads, twined and greased by beeswax. Then one by one she made her arrows of ashwood, each as straight as a die, feathered with the green plumage of a lapwing Sitch had found dead upon the shore.
Then, early one spring morn, Grath rose wordlessly and strode off along the stream shallows. Glinc and Sitch followed the silent otter, watching her intently. They had never spoken to Grath, nor she to them, since the night they had found her. Glinc and his wife seldom spoke to one another; some bankvoles are like that.
Near the northern shore both voles sat on a streambank, where it broadened to meet the estuary. On the opposite bank, Grath was a long time out of sight, inside the holt of her father Lutra.
Emerging stone-faced and still silent, Grath set aside her weapons and went to work. Gathering twigs, root branches and stones she piled them up over the holt entrance. She carried mud from the riverbank and plastered it over the doorway, mixing it with grass and leaves. It took her a full day and most of the night to seal up the humble cavern, making it a tomb for her massacred family.
Afterwards, Grath washed herself in the stream. Silvery scar traces showed through her wet fur. Then, standing motionless in the water, she watched the gentle spring dawn spread its light across the skies, blinking as she shed tears for her kin.
Gathering her great bow and the quiverful of green-feathered shafts, Grath Longfletch waded to the far bank and took hold of the two bankvoles’ paws.
‘Friends, I know not yore names, but I thank ye both, for takin’ care o’ me an’ savin’ my life. I won’t be back this way, so fortune care for y’both. Farewell!’
Grath shouldered her quiver and bow, then turning west she set off at an easy lope towards the dunes along the shore. Both watervoles stared at the back of the long figure until it was lost to view. Then Glinc spoke to his wife.
‘I would not like to be one of the beasts that slew her kin. That creature carries death in her paws!’
4
EXTRACT FROM THE journal of Rollo bankvole, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.
Spring weather can change suddenly as the mind of an old mousewife choosing mushrooms. Dearie me, how it can make the most carefully laid plans go astray!
This very morning the weather was so soft and fair that Abbot Durral decided to hold our first spring season feast out of doors. Poor Durral, he spent most of the night in the kitchens, cooking and baking with his friend Higgle Stump. Strange, is it not: Higgle was one of the winecellar-keepers of the family Stump, yet he wound up as Redwall’s Kitchen Friar, and Durral was once a lowly kitchenmouse, but now he is Father Abbot of all Redwall. He is such a humble old fellow, his love of the kitchens never left him.
Ah me! Seasons roll upon seasons and yet our Abbey remains the same, a loving old place, filled with happiness and peace, even though our old friends are but memories to us now. We who were once young are now greyed with age. Orlando the Axe, our great badger Lord, roamed off long ago, as male badgers will, to e
nd his seasons at Salamandastron, mountain stronghold of great badger warriors. I do not know if he still lives. Auma, his daughter, is now the Abbey Mother; badgers are indeed noble creatures, with a lifespan which nobeast can equal.
So, that only leaves two, Auma and myself, Rollo bankvole, who have lived and prospered in bygone seasons. The others have gone to their well-deserved rest, including Mattimeo and Tess Churchmouse whose son, Martin, is now our Abbey Warrior. Peacefully they went in the certainty that the wisdom and knowledge they gave to this great Abbey is still held strong in the stone of Redwall and in the minds of its creatures who carry on the wonderful tradition . . . Great seasons! How I do wander off, I should have been called Rollo of the roving quill pen. Where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you of the outdoor feast our Abbot had planned. Well, needless to say, as soon as a few tables were carried out to the orchard and some benches to sit upon, swoosh, down came the rain! However, I must own up to the fact that I was not totally unhappy. The Great Hall inside our Abbey is a comfortable place for feasting, far better for my creaky bones than a draughty orchard in early spring.
Foremole, the leader of our Abbeymoles, has convinced the Abbot to commence festivities late this afternoon. This will give Foremole and his crew time to create a huge turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie, a most homely delicacy. Actually, I think my paw rheumatism is playing me up a bit, so here I’ll end my daily recording and pop off over to the kitchens, where I can savour the sights and smells of the good food. Not that I’m a greedy creature, you understand, merely appreciative, and slightly peckish too. My warm old cloak will give me sound protection in this awful rainstorm, the walk from gatehouse to Abbey seems to get longer as I get older . . .
Rollo the Recorder donned his cloak and stirred the fat otter curled in slumber on the hearthmat by the gatehouse fire.
‘Wullger, come on, matey, wakey wakey. Let’s pay the kitchens a visit and see how the feast preparations are progressing.’