‘Er, yes. Er, I mean, what was that, Chief? … Oouch!’ Fangburn hopped on one leg as Sela kicked his ankle to silence him.
‘You, fox!’ Cluny snarled. ‘Where’s the special herb you went to search for?’
Sela was completely nonplussed. ‘Special herb? I—’
Cluny hurled the beaker. It bounced off Fangburn’s nose, splashing barley wine over them both.
‘Get out! Out of my sight, before I have you tortured and roasted!’ Cluny roared at the unlucky pair.
There was an undignified scramble. The door slammed shut behind the conspirators. Cluny lay back and smirked; everything was going according to plan. He had lost Redtooth, but what the devil? Redtooth had been an ambitious rat. Cluny only admired ambition in one rodent – himself.
Far off in Mossflower Wood, the night breezes stirred the treetops gently. The moon rode in a cloudless sky; its pale light filtered through the waving foliage to create the beautiful but strange effect of a shimmering, swaying carpet on the woodland floor.
‘Asmodeus, Asmodeussssssss.’
The covering of dead moonlit vegetation on the ground trembled and rustled. What better cover than a light breeze and a hunter’s moon? Glittering black eyes searched the night, a forked tongue tasted the air, the small living plants appeared to shudder as the long, scaly body brushed by them, trailing its way along.
‘Asmodeus, Asmodeusssssssss.’
Softly rustling, deceptive as the speckled shadows, the huge adder roamed his domain. Patience and stealth were acquired by long experience. Sometimes the serpent would lie totally inert, awaiting the unsuspecting paw that trod too close. Other times it would raise itself, uncoiling to look into bushes for eggs and birds on the nest. Some nights it was lean hunting: many creatures sensed the approach of the slithering evil, or scented its dry, musty, deathlike odour. The snake had often gone hungry at times like these. But, patience and stealth, patience and stealth; a lesson soon learned is a meal soon earned. At the foot of the sycamore the adder stretched itself alongside the still form of Redtooth. Well, an unexpected bonus! This was another rat that could not scurry off. No expenditure of venom or hypnosis needed – how fortunate! The huge reptile coiled itself languorously around the dead rodent.
‘Asmodeus, Asmodeusssssssssss.’
No need of burial parties. Nature and the woodlands took care of their own funeral arrangements. There was but one efficient undertaker. The adder’s jaws opened in something resembling the nightmare of a smile. The pathway to eternity was open.
MATTHIAS WAS EXCUSED duties at the gatehouse fortifications. The council had agreed that both he and Methuselah, plus any creature they chose to help them, were to be left to their own devices. The majority of the Redwall mice thought that Matthias was acting a little oddly, but the young mouse knew exactly what he was about. He strolled slowly through the Abbey grounds. Behind him hopped Warbeak on a lead with a collar about her neck. On the sparrow’s uninjured leg Matthias had tied a brick; not a very big brick, but one large enough to stop the bird getting airborne or trying any sneak attacks upon its captor. Thoroughly disgruntled, the sparrow hopped along like a feathered convict with a ball and chain, forced to follow the young mouse wherever he chose to wander.
At first, Warbeak had raved and threatened. Death was too good for Matthias! Warbeak was going to kill him twice, then cut him up and drop him from the top of a high tree for the worms to feed upon! Matthias had merely tugged the lead sharply and quickened his pace. When the savage young sparrow showed signs of good behaviour, Matthias would feed her morsels of candied chestnut.
The treatment was working.
Outside the gatehouse Matthias rested. He fed the sparrow some more of the candied nut.
‘There now, you good bird, well done,’ he said, approvingly.
Warbeak scowled fiercely, but she munched the nut readily.
Methuselah popped his head out briefly and beckoned. ‘Come into the study, Matthias. Oh, and bring that little horror too.’
In the cluttered study the old mouse produced a yellowed volume. ‘Our old friend Sister Germaine’s translation of the original Redwall Abbey blueprints. I think I’ve found what we are looking for in the main diagram. See.’
Matthias studied the blueprint carefully.
‘Brilliant!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve done it again, my friend! A route to the Abbey roof from the inside.’
Methuselah breathed upon his glasses, polishing them on his fur. ‘Really, it’s thanks to Sister Germaine for keeping such fastidious records, young mouse. Now, here’s where you’ll start.’
An hour later Matthias left the gatehouse with Warbeak bobbing behind. As they went the young mouse muttered to himself, ‘I’ll need five or six strong climbing ropes, some spikes, oh, and a hammer. Must have a hammer. Now let’s see, a good haversack to carry it all, enough food and drink, ah, and some candied chestnuts for you, my friend.’
Warbeak uttered a stream of curses as she stumbled on the brick. Matthias waited as she picked herself up. ‘Tut tut, such language for a young sparrow.’
Constance and Ambrose Spike watched the odd pair pass by. The badger tapped the side of her head with a paw.
‘Bats in the belfry.’
‘Or sparrows,’ giggled the hedgehog.
Basil Stag Hare superintended the willing creatures who carried logs and filling to shore up the gatehouse entrance. The hare had brought a touch of military efficiency to bear upon the exercise. He had formed the volunteers into a living chain which constantly passed the defence materials along.
Basil brought his good-natured authority into play. ‘You there! Fourth from the end chappie! Liven your ideas up, laddie buck. That’s the third time you’ve spilled a basket of soil. Here, let me show you how.’
The timid mice smiled among themselves. The blustering hare was quite a kindly creature really, all bark and no bite at all. He shared the tasks with them, working as hard as anyone.
‘No, no, Brother Whatsyourname. You pass logs along like this. Look, you go and get a bite to eat. Come on, the rest of you beautiful dreamers! Stir your stumps or I’ll have your whiskers for bootlaces.’
The helpers laughed and did the best they could. Now and again there would be barely stifled giggles as they watched the performance of Silent Sam. He stood behind Basil, pantomiming the hare’s every movement, puffing up his tiny chest and strutting about importantly.
In the Abbey kitchens, Cornflower carefully wrapped Matthias’s food in fresh dock leaves. Matthias sidled up, helping himself to a candied chestnut. Cornflower rapped his paw with a wooden ladle.
‘Those nuts are for that poor little sparrow. Leave them alone, you great glutton,’ she scolded.
Matthias snorted indignantly. ‘Poor little sparrow, my eye! Listen, Miss, if I let that young hussy off her lead for five minutes, we’d all be murdered in our beds.’
The young fieldmouse helped Matthias with the haversack straps. She tried not to let her concern for him show. ‘Matthias, I know you won’t tell me where you are going, but wherever it is, please take care of yourself.’
Matthias adjusted the dagger in the black sword belt. He stood framed in the doorway, smiling confidently. ‘Don’t worry, Cornflower. I fully intend to take care of myself, for the safety of Redwall Abbey … and for you.’
A moment later he was gone.
Halfway along the top dormitory passage, Matthias halted. A stepladder was set up underneath a wooden loft door in the ceiling. Methuselah came along, leading Warbeak. The sparrow was still wearing the collar, lead and brick shackle.
Matthias looked up to the door. ‘So, that’s where we’re going, eh.’
The old gatehouse-keeper gave him a neatly-drawn map. ‘You’ll find it all marked down there, Matthias. That door leads to a loft. Turn to your right and keep walking until you touch the wall. To your right you will find a gap in the wall. On the other side of that gap you will come out about halfway up the wall of Great Hall on a l
edge between the arches of the sandstone columns. From there you must climb up to a higher row of ledges alongside the stained glass windows. Scale the rib in the centre of the first window to the left and you will find yourself on a wooden ridge that runs along parallel to the curve of the roof. Further along that ridge there is another wooden loft door. I’m sorry, but I cannot locate it exactly; you must find it yourself. When you do, go through it and you should be directly underneath the top roof attic. From there on you are on your own. I cannot help you, Matthias.’
The ancient mouse placed his paws on his young friend’s shoulders. His voice trembled as he bade goodbye. ‘Good fortune go with you, Matthias. I wish that I were young and agile once again so that I could accompany you.’
Methuselah embraced the young mouse as if he were his own son, and as Matthias ascended the ladder, the old mouse called out final instructions to him.
‘If that sparrow causes you any trouble, don’t hesitate to kick her off into thin air. She’ll come down as fast as the brick she’s tied to!’
Warbeak scowled but made no comment. She knew Methuselah spoke the truth: the brick was like an anchor against her leg.
Matthias gave the loft door a strong shove upwards and slid it to one side. He covered his eyes and coughed as the dust of ages poured down upon his head.
Tugging the sparrow behind him, he climbed into the loft.
It was very dark and gloomy. Matthias peered over to his right; faintly he could make out a strip of wan, greyish light filtering in.
‘Him be gap in um wall like old worm mouse say about,’ Warbeak chimed.
‘Hey, keep a civil tongue in your head, sparrow! That’s my friend you’re talking about,’ gritted Matthias as he strode off to the right, tugging the lead. His concentration broken, he stepped awkwardly upon a joist and tripped heavily into the thick dust.
Warbeak was upon the young mouse in a flash!
The sparrow scratched hard at Matthias’s neck and pecked at the back of his head, forcing it down to the floor.
Matthias felt the suffocating dust clog his mouth as he struggled to turn his body over. Warbeak pecked and scratched frantically, her target obscured by the bulky haversack. Reaching up behind himself, the mouse felt around until he grasped the sparrow’s leg. Giving it a hard pull, he rolled over, plucking out his dagger in the same movement. Matthias lay across Warbeak, pinning her to the floor, the point of his dagger pricking the sparrow’s throat.
‘Listen, Warbeak,’ Matthias panted. ‘One more move like that and it will be your last. Do you hear me?’
Both creatures lay still awhile, their faces close together, breathing heavily. The sparrow was still defiant. ‘I gettum chance, Warbeak killee mouse. Sparra not give up, you see!’
Matthias sprang to his feet, tugging the lead viciously. He dragged the sparrow stumbling and tripping to the crack of light. Swinging the bird forwards, Matthias pushed her through the narrow aperture, squeezing through after her with great difficulty.
They were on the first ledge, high above Great Hall.
Without warning, Matthias shoved Warbeak roughly off the ledge.
The startled sparrow shot downwards and stopped with a jerk, only thick neck feathers saving her from strangulation. Matthias held the lead tightly with both paws, straining backwards as the sparrow dangled and fluttered over Great Hall.
‘Now, you promise to behave yourself, or down you go, my friend,’ Matthias shouted.
With her heart hammering at the surprise attack and her predicament, Warbeak realized that she was completely at the mercy of her captor. Burdened with the brick, she had no chance of flying. As she hung flapping uselessly, Matthias called down, ‘Make up your mind! My paws are getting tired. This lead’s beginning to slip.’
A forlorn little voice answered. ‘Warbeak not wantum die. Mouse win. Pull sparra up. Be good. Give um word.’
Bracing himself against a stone arch, Matthias pulled the sparrow back to safety. Together they sat on the ledge sharing a canteen of water, both weary and dusty. Matthias was still wary of his prisoner.
‘How good is the word of a sparrow?’ he asked.
Warbeak puffed out her chest. ‘Sparra word always good. Warbeak no say um lie. Me swear by mother’s egg. That big swear.’
Matthias reflected that he had used desperate measures to secure a promise, but with justification. He was being uncompromising with himself as well as his captive. No more could he afford to be the silly little novice that had bumbled about the Abbey before the start of the present troubles. He was maturing, learning the warrior’s way. This mission was vital: Redwall depended upon him, just as it had once depended upon Martin the Warrior.
Warbeak cocked her head quizzically to one side. ‘What um Matthias think about?’
The young mouse repacked the water canteen into his haversack. ‘Oh, nothing much, Warbeak. Come on, we’d better get on.’
With an odd feeling, Matthias realized that he and Warbeak were now on first name terms.
Cluny might be making promotions. There were now three rat officers on the list of the dead.
First it had been Skullface, killed beneath the wheels of the cart. Next to go was Ragear: there was talk of a serpent; he was never seen again. Now Redtooth, Cluny’s first officer, was missing, presumed dead.
Most of Cluny’s army had an eye to promotion; not only for prestige – there were the extra shares of loot to be considered.
Killconey the ferret extolled the virtues of his weasel friend, Scragg, who had met his death at the foot of the big elm tree. ‘Aye, let me tell you, buckos. Scragg: now there was a weasel with a head on his shoulders! Officer material he was, definitely. D’you know, I still can’t figure how a smart boyo like that could let himself be killed in a fall from some old tree.’
Cheesethief sneered. ‘Clumsiness, I’d say. I was there and saw it all. Besides, Cluny wouldn’t have a weasel officer ordering rats about.’
‘And why not?’ challenged the ferret. ‘I’ll wager the Chief would promote any creature that showed good sense and a fightin’ spirit. Will you look at me now? I’m a fine figure of a ferret. Why, if I was the Chief I’d make me a Captain just like that!’ The ferret snapped his claws.
Cheesethief spat upon the ground in contempt of Killconey, knowing there was not much chance of promotion for himself. He was only rated as a minor sort of officer. If it came to a decision, Darkclaw was the natural choice. Fangburn had fallen from favour since the incident with Sela and Redtooth. Nevertheless the weasels, and their brethren the stoats and ferrets, argued their case hotly. Why shouldn’t others be promoted? What was so superior about rats? Mangefur, Scumnose, and Frogblood considered rats to be the élite of Cluny’s horde. Darkclaw sided with them while trying to placate the others, attempting to keep a foot in either camp should it come to a vote. One never knew!
Little chance there was of anything democratic being allowed by Cluny the Scourge, who lay on the bed with his eye closed, ignoring the whispered bickering and backbiting around him. He would promote only when he was good and ready. Meanwhile, just let any of his horde dare try to press the issue!
Sela and her son skulked in a corner. They felt trapped. Nobody had spoken to them since the demise of Redtooth. It was as if they were being blamed.
Suddenly, Cluny called over to Sela, ‘Hey, fox, take that brat of yours outside for a bit! Get some fresh air, and remember, no wandering off! Send Darkclaw in here to me, and that gabby ferret, whatsisname, Killconey.’
The foxes hastened to do as they were told, glad to be out of the oppressive atmosphere of the sick room.
Darkclaw and the ferret came marching in, not knowing whether to be confident or apprehensive. You never knew with Cluny.
They both saluted. ‘Chief?’
Cluny got out of bed. He paced back and forth, testing his legs. Each day they grew a bit stronger. He walked past the pair and spoke without turning to face them, ‘Who knows anything about tunnelling?’
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Killconey stepped smartly forward. ‘Ah, the tunnels, yer honour. You’re talkin’ to the very creature.’
Cluny rested upon his standard. ‘You?’
‘Who else but meself, sir?’ the ferret wheedled. ‘And don’t I know some grand ould animals that could help? Ferrets like me, stoats and weasels; why, sure, we’re as good as any mole when it comes to the tunnelin’, so we are; shorin’ and bankin’, sinkin’ shafts and galleries—’
Cluny banged the standard against the floor. ‘Enough! Where are these others that you mentioned?’
Killconey cocked a claw over his shoulder. ‘Sure, they’re all outside, your worship. Shall I go and fetch them?’
‘Go, and don’t be all day about it,’ Cluny replied.
Killconey threw a fancy salute and departed. Cluny pulled Darkclaw close to him. He spoke confidentially, ‘Don’t you know anything about tunnels, Darkclaw?’
The rat shook his head unhappily. Cluny put his claw around Darkclaw’s shoulder. ‘Well, never mind, I’ve got other work for you. We can’t let ferrets, stoats and weasels take all the glory, can we? You’ve always been a good solid rat, Darkclaw. You help me and I’ll see that you get a rich reward when the time comes.’
Darkclaw nodded obediently.
Some time later, Cluny was deep in conference with Killconey and his squad. It was interrupted by a scuffle and commotion from outside. Cheesethief strode in, dragging Chickenhound and prodding Sela ahead of him with a spear.
‘What’s going on here?’ Cluny demanded.
Cheesethief smirked triumphantly. ‘It’s these two foxes, Chief. I caught them with their ears against the door; they were listening in.’
He skilfully tripped Sela and Chickenhound with the spear butt. They fell in a heap at Cluny’s feet, where they lay shivering and protesting their innocence.
‘Not us, sir. We weren’t eavesdropping.’
‘We were just leaning there for a rest. We’re only simple healers.’
Cluny nodded understandingly. ‘I see. You just wanted to help with the digging, is that it?’
Eager to please and panic-stricken, Chickenhound blurted out, ‘Yes, that’s right, sir. Give us a chance and we’ll tunnel with the best of them.’