Cluny climbed across and sat next to Scragg. He spoke in a whisper. ‘Good thinking, weasel. Yes, this branch’ll do fine. Stick by me, Scragg. You’re a useful soldier. With some of the blockheads I’ve got around me I could be on the lookout for a new Captain soon. You know what that means: extra loot, a bigger share of the plunder. Cluny always rewards initiative, Scragg. Play your cards right and you’ll soon get promotion.’
‘Thanks, Chief. Don’t worry; I won’t let you down,’ Scragg murmured.
On a lower branch, Cheesethief (who had been eavesdropping on the conversation) sneered inwardly. Yes, Chief. No, Chief. Three bags full, Chief! Who did that snotty weasel think he was?
And as for Cluny promoting a weasel to captain over rats of his own kind, well Redtooth and Darkclaw and the others might have something to say about that! Upstart weasel, he’d only joined up a day or two ago. If he got half the chance Cheesethief would fix Scragg all right.
Abbot Mortimer looked thankfully up at the sky. Evening had come. They had lasted out well; the rats had not breached the wall in any way. Most of the main fighting had gone into a lull and Cluny’s horde were only making spasmodic sallies from the ditch now. Taking advantage of the interval, the defenders hauled up more rocks and rubble to the ramparts. Cornflower and her band of helpers were on top of the walls. Keeping their heads low, they moved from post to post, serving each creature with a bowl of stew, some wild grapes, and a small loaf of honeyed nutbread.
‘What a calm, efficient young mouse Cornflower is,’ the Abbot remarked to Constance.
The badger passed a bundle of arrows to Ambrose Spike for distribution as she replied, ‘Aye, that she is, Father Abbot. But she looks worried. Matthias, do you think?’
‘Doubtless,’ said the Abbot drily. ‘That young mouse is on my mind as well as hers and yours.’
Constance shook her large striped head. ‘It’s not like Matthias to go off like that. I’ve searched everywhere in my spare moments, but he’s not in the Abbey.’
‘Well, wherever he is,’ the Abbot replied, ‘I’m certain that he is helping our cause, so we’ll just have to await his return and trust to Matthias’s judgement and good sense.’
The two friends thankfully accepted food from Cornflower and her helpers. Both watched, mystified, as Winifred the otter and the Foremole hoisted and pulled a seesaw into view.
It was a plaything, made in the distant past for the use of infant woodlanders. It had lain near the strawberry patch for as long as anyone could remember. Baby animals played on it throughout the year. As a seesaw it was in perfect working order.
Winifred and Foremole set it down on the parapet. Bent double, two moles staggered up carrying between them an enormous rock. The Foremole indicated the opposite end of the seesaw. ‘Arr, purrum thur, that’s a noice bowlder, my beauties.’
When the ‘bowlder’ was in position, Winifred and Foremole hugged each other tightly. With a nod they jumped heavily on to the near seat.
Whoosh!
The big rock catapulted over the top of the parapet. Several seconds of silence followed, then there was a crash accompanied by screams of pain and shock from the rats packed into the ditch below. Winifred and Foremole gravely shook paws.
‘Yurr, oi reckon they pesky varmints got’n an ’eadache,’ chuckled the Foremole, as everybody on the ramparts ran to seek cover from the retaliatory missiles hurled by Cluny’s horde.
The battle had started again in earnest.
Mouse archers sprang up and loosed their shafts down towards the ditch; otter sling-throwers whipped hard pebbles off with fierce rapidity; long rat javelins flew upwards, causing death and injury in the ranks of the defenders. But now there was a new hazard. Some inventive rat had devised a fearsome weapon: chunks of iron grave-railings from the churchyard, strung to lengths of cord. The rats would swing the cord round and round, gaining momentum until, judging the right direction, they loosed the cord. The missiles sped upwards, two or three times higher than the wall, almost out of sight; then they would plummet downwards, whistling viciously, to burst on the ramparts. Any defender struck by a missile was either instantly killed or horribly maimed. Even if the iron missed its target, the stones and shattered metal fragments ricocheted about dangerously.
Realizing the danger of this new device, Constance ordered all but a chosen few to leave the wall for the safety of the Abbey grounds. However, the strung iron bits soon proved to be a two-edged weapon. Many that were released wrongly came hurtling back down into the ditch, sometimes slaying the very creatures that had hurled them. Even Redtooth, in Cluny’s armour, guarding the standard in the meadow, had to make an undignified scurry to avoid being hit, but he could see the demoralizing effect the missiles were having on the defenders, so he ordered the throwers to continue.
Constance bravely stood her ground on the parapet, as did her small band of picked fighters. Whenever one of the missiles landed intact on the rubble pile she would seize it, standing in full view as she whirled the corded iron round and round, releasing it in a blur of speed. Constance was a far more powerful and accurate thrower than any rat. The attackers bared angry fangs at her from the cover of the ditch – of all the Redwall defenders the big badger was the one they most hated and feared.
Seated in the branches of the elm tree at the north wall of the Abbey, Cluny watched the shadows lengthen. To the west, the sky was crimson with sunset. Soon he would raise the plank to the parapet. Then let them beware! No tinpot order of mice was going to stand against the might of Cluny the Scourge.
Methuselah the gatehouse-keeper stood facing the damaged tapestry in the Great Hall of Redwall. Being too old for active battle service he reasoned that the best way he could serve his order was by putting his fertile brain to work.
Somewhere there had to be at least a clue, a single lead that might tell him where the resting place of Martin the Warrior could be found, or where he could regain possession of the ancient sword for his Abbey. But where?
Every now and then over the years Methuselah had searched through Redwall for Martin and his sword. Now he stepped up his questing activities, alas with no success. Vital clues and answers still eluded him. What he needed was a younger, fresher mind to assist him. What a pity that Matthias could not he found. Now there was a young mouse with a head on his shoulders. Long years and much mental strain had taken their toll on the ancient mouse. Wearily he swayed on his feet and, putting out a paw to steady himself, he touched the wall – the exact patch of stone over which Martin’s likeness had once hung.
Methuselah gave a sigh of satisfaction and allowed a small smile to creep across his features. His search had not been in vain. Beneath his paw there was writing carved into the dust-covered wall.
BOOK TWO
THE QUEST
MATTHIAS CAME AWAKE slowly. He blinked, yawned, and stretched his body luxuriously. The sun was setting, turning the little stream into a flow of molten red and gold tinged with deep shadow. He lay calm, savouring the peace and quiet of the woodland summer evening.
Reality stuck him like a thunderbolt. He sprang to his feet, instantly forgetting the beauty that surrounded him. Lying there snoring and sleeping like a lazy little idiot, and all the while Redwall Abbey and his friends were under attack!
Furious with himself, Matthias strode off angrily into the darkening trees. He could find no words strong enough to express his self-contempt. It was not until he had blundered and crashed along his way for some time, wildly upbraiding himself, that he calmed down with the realization that he was well and truly lost. No tree, path or landmark looked remotely familiar. He despaired of ever seeing Redwall again. Night closed in on the small mouse wandering alone in the depths of Mossflower Woods. Strange, imaginary shapes flitted about in the gloom; eerie cries pierced the still air; trees and bushes reached out their branches to catch and scratch like living things with claws.
Trembling, Matthias took refuge in an old beech trunk that had once been riven by lightni
ng. Gradually he became critical of himself again: the great warrior, frightened of the dark like a baby churchmouse. From somewhere overhead he heard a scratching noise. Summoning up all his courage he banished his fears. Drawing Shadow’s dagger he stepped out into the open, calling aloud in what he hoped was a gruff voice.
‘Who’s doing all that scratching and scraping? Come out and show yourself if you are a friend. But if it’s a rat out there, then you’d best start running, otherwise you’ll have to deal with me, Matthias the warrior of Redwall.’
Having spoken his piece Matthias felt his confidence surge back. He stood tense and alert. However, he received no answer, save the mocking echo of his own voice ringing back at him through the dark woodlands.
A slight noise at his back caused Matthias to wheel about with the dagger upraised. He found himself confronted by a baby red squirrel. It gazed up at him curiously, sucking noisily on its paw. Matthias practically dropped the dagger through laughing so much. So, this was the nameless terror that stalked the night?
The tiny creature continued sucking its paw, shifting from foot to foot, its bushy tail curled up over the small back, higher than the tips of its ears.
Matthias stooped, he spoke gently for fear of frightening the infant. ‘Hello there. My name’s Matthias. What’s yours?’
The baby squirrel continued sucking on its paw.
‘Do your mummy and daddy know you are out?’
It nodded its head.
‘Are you lost, little one?’
It shook its head.
‘Do you talk?’
It shook its head.
‘Do you often wander about like this at night?’
It nodded.
Matthias smiled disarmingly. He threw his paws open wide. ‘I’m lost!’ he said.
The paw-sucking continued without comment.
‘I come from Redwall Abbey.’
Suck, suck, suck.
‘Do you know where that is?’
The baby squirrel nodded.
Matthias was overjoyed. ‘Oh my little friend, please could you show me the way?’ he asked.
It nodded.
‘Thank you very much.’
The tiny squirrel hopped and shuffled a short way into the woods. Turning to Matthias, it took its paw from its mouth and beckoned him to follow. He needed no second urging.
Suck, suck, suck.
‘Well at least,’ Matthias thought aloud, ‘if I lose sight of this fellow I’ll be able to hear him.’
The baby squirrel smiled … and nodded … and sucked.
ABBOT MORTIMER SAT in the grass of the Abbey cloisters. All around him the defenders who had been sent down from the wall lay in slumber. Not knowing when the rats were going to stop fighting, and realizing that they might not, the kindly Abbot advised those who had been relieved to try and get some sleep.
Methuselah came shuffling up. With a sigh and a groan he sat down on the grass alongside his Abbot who greeted him courteously.
‘Good evening, Brother Methuselah.’
The old gatehouse-keeper adjusted his spectacles and sniffed the air. ‘And a good evening to you, Father Abbot. How goes the battle against the rats?’
The Abbot folded his paws within his wide sleeves. ‘It goes well for us, old one, though how I can say that anything goes well which causes death and injury to living creatures is beyond me. We live in strange times, my friend.’
Methuselah grinned and wrinkled his nose. ‘But still, it goes well.’
‘Indeed it does. But why do you smile, Methuselah? What secret are you keeping from me?’
‘Ah, Father Abbot, you read me like a book. I do have a secret, but trust me, all will be made known to you in the fullness of time.’
The Abbot shrugged. ‘No doubt it will. But please make it soon. We are not getting any younger, you and I.’
‘Come now,’ said Methuselah, ‘compared with me, you are still a mouse in your prime. Yet like many others that think my senses are failing, you cannot see half the things that my old eyes observe.’
‘How so?’ inquired the Abbot.
Methuselah touched a paw to his nose knowingly. ‘For instance, did you notice that there is a southerly breeze tonight? No, I don’t suppose you did. Then look at the top of that old elm tree sticking up above the wall. Yes, that one over by the small door. Tell me what you see.’
The Abbot’s eyes followed Methuselah’s paw until he saw the tree in question. He studied it for a moment, then turned to the old mouse. ‘I see the top of an old elm tree growing out in the woods. But what is unusual about that?’
Methuselah shook his head reprovingly. ‘He still cannot see. Dear me! If the breeze is blowing from the south, then the elm tree would move its leaves and branches in a northerly direction as it has always done. But that particular tree is choosing to disobey nature. It is swaying from east to west. This can mean only one thing. Somebody is using that tree for a purpose. At least, that is what I think. Do you agree?’
Without replying or showing any sign of alarm whatsoever, the Abbot arose. Walking calmly over to the gatehouse wall, he beckoned silently to Constance. The badger descended the steps. She held a whispered conference with the Abbot, nodding in the direction of the elm. Less than a minute later, Constance, accompanied by Winifred the otter, Ambrose Spike and a few others, padded carefully along the top of the wall, taking great pains not to be seen.
On the woodland side, Cluny whispered commands to his followers as they pushed the plank towards the wall from their perch in the elm tree. ‘Steady now, Cheesethief you moron. Keep your end up! Keep it going upwards, not down!’
Cheesethief struggled to obey. It was all right for the Chief, sitting back there giving out his orders. He didn’t have to balance with one claw while pushing a silly plank about with the other. Cheesethief slipped. With a squeak of dismay he let go of the plank. It clattered against a branch.
Fortunately, Scragg the weasel was on the alert. He caught the end of the plank, steadying it. Cheesethief regained his balance and clung miserably to his perch as Cluny hissed in rage at him.
‘Clown! Bungling buffoon! Get out of the way! Shift your fat idle carcass and let Scragg take over.’
Burning with resentment, Cheesethief was shoved unceremoniously aside. Cluny aimed a kick at him as the efficient weasel took his place. ‘You just sit there and be still,’ Cluny snarled. ‘And try not to make enough noise to waken the entire Abbey.’
Scragg moved with skill and economy, issuing quiet confident directions to the others. ‘Up a bit, left a touch, take it forward steady now, good, hold it.’
The long plank snaked out and upwards, coming to rest gently but firmly on the parapet edge. Scragg saluted Cluny. ‘Plank in position and ready, Chief.’
Cheesethief shot Scragg a venomous glance.
Cluny climbed on to the plank and tested it. The improvised bridge wobbled and sprang a bit, but it held.
Cluny turned to the raiding party. ‘I’ll go first. We’d better have only one at a time on the plank. When I’m on the parapet I’ll steady the other end. Scragg, you come next. The rest of you follow.’
Cluny held on to branches for as long as he could. Soon he was out on the middle of the plank with nothing to steady him. Trying hard not to glance downwards at the dizzying drop, he inched his way up the plank, towards the wall.
Cluny was almost in reach of his goal when Constance appeared on the parapet. She gave the plank a mighty kick, sending it off into space!
With a shout of dismay Cluny plunged earthwards, snapping branches as he went. Winifred fired off a pebble from her sling, knocking a ferret clean out of his perch into empty space. Scragg still held one end of the plank. He leaned precariously out from the elm to see where Cluny fell.
Seizing his opportunity for revenge, Cheesethief shoved Scragg hard in the back. The weasel dropped like a stone with the plank on top of him. Cluny’s followers were kicking at each other and screaming as they tried to cla
mber down from the high elm branches.
Leaning across the parapet, Constance and her friends watched the panic-stricken animals descending. Winifred the otter managed to speed up the retreat with a few well-aimed stones from her sling. The defenders viewed their work with grim satisfaction.
Ambrose Spike squinted short-sightedly down at the darkened woodland floor. He tried to assess the casualties.
‘How many did we get?’ he inquired.
‘Hard to tell in this light,’ replied Winifred. ‘But I’d swear that was Cluny Constance tipped off the plank.’
The badger’s brow creased. She shot a quizzical glance at the otter. ‘So you saw him too? I’m glad you did. I thought I was seeing double for a moment back there. How could Cluny be in two places at once? I’m sure I saw him standing in the meadow not ten minutes ago.’
Winifred shrugged. ‘Well let’s just hope that it was Cluny. Personally, I’d like to think that he’s lying somewhere down there now, dead as a doornail.’
Constance peered downwards. ‘Difficult to say, really. There seem to be around half a dozen or so laid out down there. Can’t tell for sure; too much shadow and darkness. Still, I don’t think any creature could survive a fall from this height.’
‘Maybe we’d better go and see,’ suggested Ambrose.
The defenders looked towards Constance.
‘Maybe not,’ said the badger thoughtfully. ‘No, I don’t like it. It suddenly strikes me that this could be a diversionary tactic to draw us away from the gatehouse wall. If it was Cluny who fell from the plank, all well and good; but if it wasn’t, then he’s still around the front. It won’t serve any useful purpose counting dead bodies. Let’s get back to the main action.’
Led by Constance, the defenders filed hurriedly off.