‘Who knows, my friend? Maybe the sword does possess some magic. Personally, I think it’s the warrior who wields it.’
For the first time in many days, Matthias laughed heartily. He felt so good within himself. After all the action and mental strain, travel and grief, he felt suddenly reborn, larger than life and brimming with new-found self-confidence. Certainly there were great difficulties and hard tasks ahead of him; when the time came he would handle them. For the present he was satisfied with this feeling of immense happiness.
Holding the sword lightly, he balanced its point against the earth and laughed freely. It was infectious: Log-a-Log joined in; then one Guerrilla Shrew; then another, and still yet more, until the whole regiment and their warrior mouse friend set the countryside ringing from river to woods to farm and field with the happy sounds of their honest joy.
THE CLUNY THAT emerged from the ragged tent in the meadow was far from being sick in the head.
The members of the horde watched the way he strode purposefully about. The old glint was back in his single eye. His orders were crisp and concise. Even the long tail had a fresh crack about it. The Chief seemed sharper than he had been before.
In the aftermath of the tunnel disaster, Cluny had called off the attack for a full day, withdrawing all his followers well back across the meadow. The Warlord gave his horde time to recuperate from the fiasco; a whole day’s leisure, with no recriminations and hardly any orders.
The Captains of Redwall wasted no time in making use of the temporary respite. Repairs were started upon the gatehouse door. Teams of woodland carpenters, Abbey smiths and labourers, plus any creatures that felt the need to help were lowered down to the road in large wickerwork baskets. Should the enemy in the meadow decide to make any sudden move, the workmen could be speedily hauled back up to the ramparts. All that day the rope gangs were kept busy sending down wood, spikes, cordage, tools, and repair materials.
Cluny sat and watched them from the distance as he talked aloud to himself. ‘Good work, mice, strengthen my gates. I wouldn’t want to rule a fortress with broken doors.’
Fangburn was passing. He overheard Cluny conversing with himself. Not sure whether the remarks were addressed to him, he stopped.
‘Er, are you feeling all right, Chief?’
‘Never better!’ Cluny replied. He pointed at the repair crews. ‘See that, Fangburn? Honest industrious work, and what for, eh?’
Fangburn hazarded a guess. ‘To keep us out, Chief?’
‘No, to stop us getting in,’ Cluny chuckled. ‘Get some soldiers and light a fire down in the ditch. Make it a proper blaze, good and hot.’
Fangburn knew better than to question the reason for his Chief’s order, no matter how strange it sounded.
‘A big fire? Right you are, Chief. I’ll get them going right away.’
Fangburn hurried off, aware that Cluny was watching him.
Shortly after there was a huge fire burning in the ditch. The horde gathered close by to see what Cluny was up to. The crackling flames gave off waves of heat, causing everyone to step back. Above the ditch the air shimmered and danced.
Cluny stood in the ditch, claws on hips. He cracked his tail.
‘Scumnose, Mangefur! Bring up those dormice prisoners!’
The twenty dormice were dragged forward in a pitiable condition. They cowered on the ground in front of the Warlord, half starved and dull eyed.
Cluny pointed. ‘You, leader mouse! What’s your name again?’
‘Plumpen, sir,’ the bedraggled mouse replied.
Cluny grabbed Plumpen roughly, dragging him away from his fellow captives on the ground.
‘What are these other miserable creatures to you, Plumpen?’ he snapped.
The dormouse explained in a shaky voice: ‘My family, sir. My mother, father, brothers, sisters, and my wife and two little ones. Oh please, sir, spare them, I beg you!’
Cluny laughed cruelly. His eye was devoid of pity. He leaned close to Plumpen and whispered harshly, ‘What would you do to save them?’
The dormouse watched Cluny’s eye rove lazily from his family to the blazing inferno.
‘Anything! Anything you say! What do you want of me?’ he screamed in his fear and anxiety.
Cluny cracked his tail triumphantly, pulling Plumpen forward until their noses touched. The big rat’s voice was as foul and evil as his breath.
‘Listen carefully. You are going to open the Abbey door for me, my friend. If you fail, your precious little family will pay the penalty! Now, here is what you must do.’
Constance hauled upon her rope. It was no hard task for a fully grown badger. On the other ropes there were creatures that could not compare with her for strength. but they hauled and pulled with an equally good will. Cornflower and Silent Sam kept busy supplying cool drinks and sweat cloths. The repair work went ahead at a steady pace.
No one noticed that there was an extra mouse labouring among the workers in the roadway.
Plumpen!
Cluny had supplied him with a habit taken from the body of one who had fallen slain from the ramparts. Plumpen had concealed himself in the ditch and travelled under cover until he was level with the gatehouse. At the appropriate moment he slipped out with a plank upon his shoulder and joined the work force. They toiled away industriously until Jess Squirrel, who was acting as overseer, decided that the work was completed, as indeed it was. The old gatehouse door looked as good as new. All the tools and spare timber were gathered up and the roadway was swept. Satisfied with a job well done, the work crews stacked up their materials, and were hauled up to the ramparts in the large grain baskets. Plumpen sat between Brother Alf and Brother Rufus. Across the meadow he could see Cluny, watching, always watching.
Plumpen cursed the fate that had put him and his family in the hands of the rats. What a happy friendly lot the Redwall creatures were. He was served afternoon tea sitting on the grass in the cloisters. The dormouse felt the good food turn to ashes in his mouth at the thought of his betrayal of fellow mice, but there was no alternative if he wanted to save his family. After tea he wandered off on the pretence of carrying out some fictitious task. When there was nobody about he hid himself in the old gatehouse den which had once been Methuselah’s study. Locking the door, Plumpen lay down lonely and miserable to await nightfall.
Inside Cavern Hole the Father Abbot addressed a morale-boosting speech to his Captains.
‘Friends, it will avail Cluny little to put the Abbey under state of siege. As you know, Redwall is virtually self-supporting. All we require to sustain life and comfort is here within these walls. Therefore, I suggest we carry on as normally as possible.
‘However, the walls must always be guarded. I leave it to you, my Captains. Stay ever vigilant against Cluny and his horde. I know that with your counsel and good judgement, we will soon see the day when the enemy are forced to go elsewhere and leave Redwall in peace.’
There was loud applause for the Abbot’s heartening words, but Constance was not convinced. She whispered her thoughts to Basil and Jess. ‘Never. Cluny won’t leave us alone until either we are dead, or he is!’
Basil Stag Hare nodded in agreement. ‘I know, old scout. But the Abbot’s such a decent old buffer that he believes there’s good in everyone, even Cluny. What?’
‘And so do I,’ Jess muttered. ‘I believe Cluny will be good some day. Good and dead!’
Gradually the day drew to a close. Lights dimmed as Redwall prepared for a well-deserved night’s rest. The meadowland and woods grew quiet and peaceful. On top of the walls, sentries leaned on the parapet listening to the evening birdsongs. Across the meadows the enemy campfires burned low into the soft June night.
Plumpen waited another hour as Cluny had instructed: then it was time to make his move. Stealing quietly out of the gatehouse study the dormouse headed north, staying well within the deep shadow of the wall. At the small north wall gate, Plumpen drew a scarlet cloth from his habit. Smearing the bolts wit
h grease from the cloth he silently worked them loose.
Killconey lay watching the gate from behind a sycamore in the woods. Near to every other entrance one of Cluny’s most trusted soldiers was concealed, awaiting the signal. It was the ferret who was rewarded by the sight of the scarlet cloth being shoved through the door jam. He hurried away to tell Cluny.
It was dead of night when Cluny’s horde moved out of the meadow. Around the embers of each campfire bundles of grass and twigs had been wrapped in blankets. To the unsuspecting sentries on the wall the bundles looked like sleeping forms: they sensed nothing amiss. The horde circled northwards through the meadowlands until Cluny judged they were far enough from Redwall to escape detection. He crossed the road at the head of his army.
They filtered back through the leafy cover of nighttime Mossflower towards the Abbey. Now that his goal was in sight, Cluny used all the stealth of a stalking hunter waiting until the entire horde was in position. Each soldier crouching quietly among the ferns and bushes knew the penalty for making any sound that would betray their presence; not death from the defenders, but death at the claws of their own Chieftain.
Cluny could wait. He gave it another half-hour until he could actually see some of the guards on top of the wall nodding off at their posts. What was thirty minutes after he had waited so long for this moment? With practised skill he slid from his hiding place and crossed to the wall door. One gentle push and the small iron door swung slowly open on its greased hinges. Cluny stood in the doorway as his soldiers filed past him on their way to the Abbey building. There was little need to worry about the wall guards. Those who were awake would be watching the road or the enemy camp, their backs turned on the secret invaders.
Plumpen stood by anxiously watching the Warlord. At least his family would be safe now. The dormouse had faithfully carried out his part in the dreadful scheme; Cluny must surely keep to his word. He did not see the look that passed between Cluny and Fangburn.
Fangburn swung the heavy club and brought it crashing down on the back of Plumpen’s head from behind. The unlucky doormouse crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Cluny the Scourge bared his fangs, grinning wickedly into the dark. He had finally brought his horde into Redwall!
THE LAST RAYS of the sinking sun streamed through the open barn doorway, lighting up formerly darkened corners. Matthias lay on the hay amidst the remnants of an epic celebration feast. The Guerrilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower had really outdone themselves laying out this spread. He picked up a truffle and tossed it away with a sigh of satisfaction, fearing he might burst if he forced another bite into his mouth.
On one side of the young mouse the gifts from Squire Julian Gingivere, Captain Snow, and the shrews were piled high; on the other was his sword, reflecting the rays of the afternoon sun. The Guerrilla Shrew regiment had chosen to sleep off the effects of the party outside in the sun. They lay about the farmyard, too full even to argue.
Log-a-Log shuffled lazily in and flopped down beside his mouse friend.
‘Greetings, oh mighty warrior,’ he giggled. ‘Saviour of the shrews; slayer of Poisonteeth; he who speaks with cats; friendmaker of owls and united of—’
‘Oh shut up, you noisy little devil!’ Matthias chuckled as he kicked Log-a-Log off the hay into the dust.
‘D’you know much about birds?’ Log-a-Log said. ‘What about sparrows?’
Matthias yawned. ‘Well, what about sparrows? I’ve had some dealings with ’em. What do you need to know?’
‘Nothing really,’ the shrew murmured sleepily. ‘But there’s been one reported over at the edge of the woods. Of course, no one can understand a single word that the savage heathen is saying. She’s screeching away back there, hopping and dancing about, working herself up into a right old tizzwozz, or so I’ve been told.’
Matthias sprang up, grabbing his sword. ‘Come on, Log-a-Log. I speak the Sparra language. We’d best get over there and find out what’s upsetting her.’
With a score of Guerrilla Shrews in their wake the two companions set off for Mossflower at the double.
Above the long grass in front of the woods the Sparra warrior could be seen. She fluttered up and down creating a raucous din. Log-a-Log and the shrews were taken aback when Matthias ran ahead of them, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Warbeak Sparra, thattum you, old worm warrior!’
Joyfully the two friends reunited. They rolled about in the grass like a pair of mad creatures, pounding each other on the back.
‘Matthias mouse! Um old wormfriend! Biggee fat brave now! How are you?’
The shrews were completely baffled. They sat about scratching their heads at the strange behaviour of the sparrow and the mouse. Matthias chattered to Warbeak in the rapid Sparra tongue, telling of all that had happened since they last parted. Warbeak for her part told Matthias of her fortunes to date.
Upon the death of King Bull Sparra, Warbeak had been crowned Queen. Dunwing, her mother, had wished it to be so. The tribe were happy under the wise rule of their youngest-ever Queen. No more would sparrows have to live under the claw of an unpredictable maniac.
After Warbeak had related her story she became grave. ‘Matthias, um Redwall have big trouble. We watch, see from um roof. Ratworm makum lotta plans, um mice brave warriors. Alla time fight back, beatum ratworms plenty. But Warbeak watchum ratworm King. He um badworse than King Bull. Him make bad plan, catchum Abbey. Ratworm soon be inside Redwall. Matthias mouse come quick. Bringum sword.’
An icy claw of fear gripped Matthias’s stomach. He sat down hard in the grass.
Log-a-Log shook his friend. ‘What’s she saying, Matthias? You look as if you’ve seen the ghost of Poisonteeth. For goodness’ sake, what’s going on?’
‘It’s my home, Redwall,’ Matthias said in a hollow voice. ‘Cluny the Scourge is about to capture it!’
Log-a-Log spoke urgently to the shrews. ‘Quick, get the regiment ready as fast as you can. We’re off to the Abbey at Redwall. Tell them to catch us up. I want no argument or votes! Tell every shrew to be fully armed. We must march night and day if we are to save Matthias’s friends.’
Matthias picked up the sword of Martin. ‘By thunder, Log-a-Log! You’re right! I fought hard for this sword in order to save Redwall! Come on!’
‘Shrewmouse helpum you. How many warrior him got?’ Warbeak chimed.
‘A full complement,’ Log-a-Log answered. ‘About five hundred shrews.’
Warbeak spread her wings. ‘I bring alla tribe Sparra warrior. We come, help.’
Matthias shook Warbeak’s claw warmly. ‘Thank you, Queen Warbeak my friend. Now we must go. A strategy can be worked out on the way to the Abbey. Let’s hurry. There’s no time to lose. It’s do or die now!’
The mouse, the shrew and the sparrow plunged off into the green wooded world of Mossflower together.
One thing Matthias was certain of as he strode swiftly through the trees; it would be he and he alone who faced Cluny the Scourge at the bitter end.
THE FATHER ABBOT was awakened by a swordpoint at his throat. He was completely surrounded by snarling rats. Jess, Basil, Winifred and Foremole all found themselves in similar situations. The iron claw of Cluny’s discipline was strongly evident throughout the manoeuvre. Complete silence had been observed. Only those held captive were aware of the horde’s presence.
The main danger to the attackers was Constance. As always, she slept out upon the grass in the Abbey grounds. More than two score of rodents carrying a strong rope net between them had stolen up on the sleeping badger. They threw the net over Constance, fixing it into the ground with long stakes and bludgeoning her senseless before she was properly awake. Cluny watched the proceedings with grim satisfaction. Redwall was his!
Small creatures rubbing sleep from their eyes in confusion were dragged out into the Abbey grounds. Woodland infants wept fitfully as they clung to their parents: bullying rats pushed and harried everyone out into the open where they made them sit on the grass.
Abbot Mortimer in his homespun nightshirt was kept to one side with his Captains. Their paws were cruelly bound behind them. They stood in stolid silence as sniggering rats referred to them as ‘The Ringleaders’.
Cluny the Scourge stood in the Great Hall, surveying the marvellous tapestry. He did not need to steal scraps of it now; it belonged solely to him. Fangburn, Frogblood, Scumnose, Mangefur and Killconey came marching smartly up. They saluted him.
‘The Abbey is yours now, Chief.’
‘We’ve got hands outside, Chief.’
‘Any further orders, Chief?’
Cluny ran his tail reflectively through his long claws. ‘Yes. Bring the Abbot’s chair out of the place they call Cavern Hole. Have it set up for me on a platform by the gatehouse. I’ve got some judgements to deliver.’
The horde Captains swaggered off jauntily. Cluny addressed the picture of Martin upon the tapestry.
‘Well, warrior mouse. What do you think of your brave Redwall defenders now? Huh, not much, I imagine! I’m going to let you stay up there and witness some drastic changes.’
Cluny jabbed a claw at Martin, his voice laden with menace, ‘No more will you haunt my dreams! A voice inside me spoke as I waited in the woods tonight outside your precious Redwall. It said that before sunset this day I would be free of my nightmares forever. What do you think of that?’
Martin continued to smile fearlessly down upon Cluny. The Warlord cracked his tail, shattering the silence of Great Hall. He seemed driven to great anger by the apparent unconcern of the Warrior.
‘Henceforth this place shall be known as the Hall of the Scourge,’ he shouted insanely. ‘No more will the Abbey be known as Redwall, it shall be called Cluny’s Castle! Everything will change!’
The Warlord went off into a berserk rage, stamping about the Hall, slashing and whipping at the shadows with his tail as he invented new titles, screaming them out as the echoes bounced back off the walls at him.
‘The Great Rodent Wall!’