Skor Axehound growled flatly. “They’ll be back!”
Captain Rake nodded his agreement. “Aye, Ah doubt ye’ve seen the last of them, Father. Razzid Wearat didnae come all this way tae turn tail an’ run awa’. Skor’s right, he’ll be back!”
Fottlink licked his lips nervously. “But when?”
Sergeant Miggory replied, “When yore least h’expectin’ it, sah—that’s the way with vermin murderers. We’ve h’already seen ’is work at Salamandastron.”
Rake gripped his beaker so tightly that the earthenware cracked. “Aye, an’ we’re lookin’ forward tae the return engagement, Father, so Ah’d be grateful if ye’d leave the business of bloodshed tae me an’ Skor!” He said it with such a coldness in his voice that the Abbot felt his fur tingle.
Thibb nodded. “Just as you say, Captain, but my Redwallers will be here to offer you any help you require.”
Skor patted his back fondly, knocking the wind from Thibb. “Thankee, Father, but you look after yore liddle uns an’ keep our beasts in drink’n’vittles—that’s all we ask of ye!”
Dawn broke calmly, with ascending larks trilling beneath a sky awash with pale pastel hues. Out on the flatlands, grasshoppers set up their rusty chirruping as varicoloured butterflies flitted silently around the soft blue forget-menot, bright gold tormentil and pinky cranberry blossoms skirting the ditchside.
Lancejack Sage viewed it all from the threshold battlements, commenting dreamily, “Jolly pretty, ain’t it, wot!”
A stern voice in her ear startled her to attention. “You h’aint up ’ere to sniff the flowers, missy. Yore supposed t’be on watch for vermin. Now git those lovely eyes workin’. Do yore duty an’ don’t let me catch ye nappin’ agin, or yore on a fizzer!”
Not daring to turn and look at Sergeant Miggory, Sage sprang to attention, saluted with her javelin and set her gaze on the horizon. “Indeed, Sergeant, ’twon’t happen again, I jolly well promise ye, sah!”
Miggory nodded to four kitchen helpers, who carried a trolley up the wallstairs to the top. He beckoned the guard with a wave of his ears.
“Wilbee, Drander, Bawdsley an’ you, Lancejack, come an’ take a bite o’ brekkist, compliments o’ Friar Wopple. But eyes front whilst yore h’eatin’, d’ye hear?” He stalked off along the ramparts, still issuing orders. “When ye’ve h’eaten, these goodbeasts will take yore place for h’a while. Go straight back to the billet h’an spruce h’up. We’ll all be on parade shortly, to bury Lord Axe’ound’s young un. So look smart, best be’aviour, h’an’ the time’ll be slow march, with bowed ’eads. H’unnerstood?”
After breakfast, the sea otters and Long Patrol hares formed up in ranks of four. At their centre, Skor, Ruggan, Rake and Scutram bore the body, still bound in his father’s cloak, to the burying spot. Ding Toller rang both Matthias and Methusaleh, the two Abbey bells, to keep pace with the solemn, slow march.
At the graveside, Skor watched the bundle being lowered. Wiping a paw across both his eyes, he enquired gruffly, “I’m not good with words at a time like this. Anybeast got a song to sing or a line to say?”
Kite Slayer was weeping openly. She shook her head. “Only songs or lines I know are all about blood’n’war. Swiffo was a gentle creature. ’Twouldn’t suit him.”
Buff Redspore made a suggestion. “Beg pardon, sah, I’m a pretty hopeless singer m’self, but I’ve heard Lancejack Sage singin’ a jolly nice song. I say, Lance, you know the one—somethin’ about a dove’s wing. D’ye recall the ditty, wot?”
Lancejack Sage pondered briefly. “Hmm, a dove’s wing . . . Oh, yes, it’s a lovely song. I say, Lord Axehound, would you like me to sing it for Swiffo?”
Skor nodded his huge bearded head. “Aye, miss, I’d be beholden if’n ye did, please.”
Everybeast was moved to tears by the beauty of Sage’s voice and the heartfelt way in which she sang.
“When sunlight wanes and evening shadows fall,
old weary earth in dusky silence lies,
a small lost dove doth mournful call,
its lone lament to darkling skies.
“Hark to its cry, poor little thing,
it rests with head beneath one wing, and breeze that wends through woodland fair,
passes it by with ne’er a care.
“Throughout the night in trembling fear and dread,
until the welcome light of gentle morn,
the little dove lifts up its downy head,
and soars into the heav’nly dawn.”
The sea otters and Long Patrol hares walked away then, leaving Skor and Ruggan alone to complete the burial.
Roogo Foremole broke the oppressive silence by calling from the walltop, “Yurr, zurrs, Oi bee’s a-seein’ summat yonder!”
Relieved to be doing something, Captain Rake sprinted up the wallstairs with a crowd of warriors at his heels.
Roogo was standing on the western threshold, with both paws shading his eyes, peering off to the horizon. “Moi ole eyes b’aint vurry gudd these days, zurr, but see far yonder? Wot do ee think that’n is?”
Rake’s keen gaze found the object. “’Tis the vermin ship, mah friend, nae doubt o’ that. Corporal Dabbs, can ye no’ see what they’re aboot?”
Welkin Dabbs, who was noted for exceptional clarity of vision, watched the distant vessel intently. “Some kind o’ maneuver, I’d say, Cap’n. She’s piled on all sail. Comin’ this way, if’n I ain’t mistaken. No, wait . . . now they’re tackin’ south an’ west. Can’t see much else, I’m afraid. She’s vanished o’er the horizon.”
“Testin’ the wind, that’s wot the vermin are up to!” It was the sea ottermaid Kite Slayer who had spoken. Rake continued staring at the horizon.
“How d’ye know, bonny lass?”
Kite leaned back against the battlements. “We’ve seen it lots o’ times, up on the High North Coast. Ships’ll do that if’n they want to sail in fast an’ launch an attack. They stands off, doin’ little trial runs, until the wind’s just right an’ strong enough. That’s when they come in, hopin’ to raid us. Hah, our scouts have seen ’em long since, an’ the Rogue Crew’s waitin’ for ’em. Lord Skor gives ’em blood’n’steel. They never come back for more, usually ’cos they’re all fishfood by the time we get done with ’em!”
Kite licked her paw, dabbing it on both eartips. She turned this way, then that. “Ain’t much wind today—it’s gentle an’ sou’west.”
Sergeant Miggory nodded grimly. “Ye know wot that means, sah!”
The captain nodded. “Aye, yon Wearat an’ his crew’ll be payin’ us a wee visit soon, eh?”
All talk stopped momentarily as Ruggan and Skor strode up the gatehouse wallsteps. There was something about the presence of the sea otter Chieftain which engendered silence. He began honing the blade of his mighty battleaxe on the side of a battlement, looking up to stare bleakly out to the western horizon. His voice was a bitter snarl. “Oh, Razzid Wearat’ll be comin’, sure enough. Sometime after midnight, I reckon.”
Lancejack Sage looked dubious. “Beg pardon, m’Lord, but what makes ye say that?”
Testing his axe edge on a paw, Skor gave her a rare smile. “Ye’ve got a wonderful voice, Miz Sage, an’ ye sang my young son peacefully to his rest. I thank ye. I’ll tell ye why I’m so sure the vermin’ll attack late tonight. I’ve lived all my life on the High North Coast, an’ I know all about sea, wind an’ weather. That liddle breeze ye feel is a sou’wester, but by noon ’twill be startin’ to blow from the due west. By dark we’ll get rain, more as the night progresses. There’ll be clouds hidin’ wot moon there is. That’s when they’ll come.”
Abbot Thibb looked to Captain Rake, who nodded, confirming Skor’s words.
Thibb heaved a sigh. “I was hoping we’d seen the last of the vermin ship.”
Skor chuckled humorlessly. “Just wot ye’d expect a peaceful Abbeybeast to think, Father—no offence meant, o’ course. Rake, my friend, would ye like to tell him how they’ll come at this
place?”
Drawing one of his claymores, the Long Patrol captain pointed straight out across the threshold.
“From yonder, with full speed, under all sail, right at us. Ah mean, Father, what better way tae do it, eh? A dark, moonless night, runnin’ with a west wind at his stern an’ thinkin’ ye’ll all be tucked up in your beds. Wearat could nae charge stone walls with fire blazin’ atop o’ them, so he’ll sail full tilt at Redwall’s front gates. They’re made o’ wood, d’ye see. Aye, a real surprise ambush, ye ken!”
Skor could not resist a smile of grim satisfaction. “Right enough, Father, but wot Razzid don’t know is that we’re here now, ready an’ waitin’ to welcome him an’ his crew. I won’t miss him a second time, I swear it!”
Recorder Fottlink had a question. “But if he rams Redwall’s gates, he’ll ruin his own ship, won’t he? Doesn’t seem to make sense.”
Lieutenant Scutram answered, “Put y’self in his position, old lad. What’d you sooner have, a ship or Redwall Abbey? I know what I’d jolly well prefer, wot!”
Skor patted the mouse Recorder’s head. “Don’t worry, old un. He won’t ruin either ship or gates, ’cos we’ll leave the gates unlocked for him, eh, Rake?”
The captain sheathed his claymore. “Aye, so we will. Ah want Razzid an’ his crew in here. We’ll lock the gates behind him an’ trap ’em within these walls. Now that’s what Ah call a canny plan!”
Abbot Thibb seemed quite upset with the wild scheme. “What, here inside my Abbey, a ship and its vermin crew? I . . . I’ve never heard of such a preposterous thing!”
Sergeant Miggory threw a friendly paw around Thibb’s shoulder. “Don’t ye fret, sah. We’ll take care h’of h’everything. Er, by the way, wot’s for lunch today, sah?”
Abbot Thibb looked totally bemused. “Lunch? You can speak of lunch at such a time as this?”
Big Drander coughed politely to gain Thibb’s attention. “Beg pardon, Father old chap, but every bloomin’ Patrol an’ Crewbeast is lookin’ forward to a spot o’ the famous Redwall vittles—at a time like this, or any flippin’ time y’care to mention, wot!”
The Abbot took a glance at the hulking hares and burly otters, all young, and all ready to eat at the drop of a crust. It was difficult not to smile.
“How about a big extended picnic luncheon in the orchard? I could have our good Friar run it on into afternoon tea.”
Big Drander’s ears waggled with anticipation as he added, “Mayhaps it could carry on through dinner, then into supper.”
Thibb chortled as he waved them down the wallsteps. “Aye, why not indeed, as long as you keep eating!”
Captain Rake patted Thibb’s paw sympathetically. “Och, ye braw mousey, Ah think ye’ll regret those words afore the day’s out, mah friend. These walkin’ stomachs will be eatin’ as lang as yer Friar keeps sendin’ more.”
Thibb shrugged. “That’s because they’re young and full of life. Don’t fret, Captain. We’ll feed ’em like heroes—’tis the least Redwall can do for those who’ll be defending our Abbey.”
Uggo Wiltud overheard Thibb. He piped up boldly, “Does that include me, Father?”
The Abbot shook his head. “No, I have other plans for you.”
The orchard lunch was up to Redwall standards—in a word, delicious! Sister Fisk sat sharing some apple and blackberry flan with Skor. The sea otter Chieftain interested her, and she plied him with questions as he did full justice to the lunch.
“Pardon my asking, sir, but doesn’t it put you off food, knowing that you’ll be fighting a war with the vermin soon?”
The big beast took a long draught of October Ale. “Why should it, marm? Warriors never give such things much thought.”
Fisk topped up his tankard. “Forgive me. I’m not a warrior, so I wouldn’t know.”
Reaching for bread and cheese, Skor touched her paw lightly. “Let me tell ye somethin’ about warriors, Sister. We always eat well and never worry, because tomorrow we may be hungry, or dead. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past or the future. Take me, now. Today I laid my young son to rest. ’Twas a sad an’ hard thing t’do. But I’m a chieftain—my Crew look to me. I can’t sit round for a season, mopin’, weepin’ an’ tendin’ a grave. There’s others to think of, my other son, an’ the Rogue Crew, an’ my friend Captain Rake, with his Long Patrol, d’ye understand?”
The Sister nodded. “Indeed I do, sir, but I just wish there was something us Redwallers could do to help you.”
Skor chuckled gruffly. “Feedin’ this lot is a big help, marm, but I’ll tell ye wot else ye can do. When the action starts, ’twould help if’n the Abbeybeasts stays out of our way. Lock yoreselves up in Cavern Hole, take care o’ yore babes an’ Dibbuns. Then after the battle’s end, ye can serve us with yore healin’ knowledge. I’m told yore good at bandagin’ an’ salvin’, eh?”
Sister Fisk smiled modestly. “So I’m told, sir. Thank you for your advice, and now perhaps you’d best take care of that great appetite, before your otters and those hares clear the board of every crumb!”
The feasting continued until early evening, when Sergeant Miggory whispered in Abbot Thibb’s ear. “H’it’s startin’ t’cloud over, Father. Captain Rake says the breeze is freshenin’ from westward, an’ ole Drogbuk’s just felt a spot o’ rain. No panic, Father. Get yore Redwallers inside, h’in a h’orderly manner.”
In a short time the Abbeybeasts had gone from the orchard, leaving only the Rogue Crew, Shrews and the Long Patrol.
Rake drew his twin blades. “Which d’ye choose, Axehound, the main gates, or walltops?”
Flexing both paws, Skor gripped his battleaxe haft. “We’ll come to the walltop with ye. Then when the vermin ship is sighted, I’ll take my crew down t’the gate. Agreed?”
Rake felt raindrops beginning to patter on the rising wind. “Agreed, mah bonny friend. Let’s get tae it!”
32
Out at the western horizon, Razzid Wearat had kept all the Greenshroud’s canvas furled. Leaning on the tiller, he wiped his injured eye, watching night descend amidst dark, heavy cloudbanks rolling overhead. Rain hissed against the stern timbers, as further west lightning flared briefly, followed by a distant roll of thunder. Shekra stood sheltered beneath the aft stairway. She hurried forward as Razzid beckoned her with his trident. The vixen quailed as Razzid reached out, drawing her close. “So then, my Seer, shall I tell ye what ye see?”
Without waiting for a reply he continued, “A night for storm! For swift sailing! For blood an’ slaughter! For death! For victory! For Redwall Abbey, which will be mine by morning light! Is that what ye see?” His voice rose to a harsh roar; he shook Shekra until the teeth in her head rattled and her limbs did a crazy jig. “Is that what ye see? Tell meeeeee!”
The vixen could hear herself wailing in terror as the Wearat’s grip tightened on her throat. “Aye, Lord, aye! ’Tis as ye say, truly it is, Lord!”
With a burst of insane laughter, he cast her aside. Pointing the trident at his crew, who were gathered, rain drenched, amidships, Razzid bellowed, “Haul in the anchor cable! Put on all sail from stem to stern, every stitch o’ canvas! Let’s hear the storm singin’ through the ratlines! Jump to it, ye rakin’s an’ scrapin’s o’ Hellgates!”
Corsairs and searats clambered aloft, loosing all sail. Ropes were swiftly hauled through blocks and made fast to cleats and bollards. As the last vermin slid to the decks, a mighty gust of wind smote the vessel’s stern. Greenshroud lurched forward, sent on her voyage of evil by a mighty thunderclap and a sheet of lightning.
Razzid pointed his trident at Mowlag and Jiboree. “Haharr, attend yore cap’n, messmates!”
The pair approached him warily, saluting.
“Aye aye, Cap’n!”
He could see fear stamped on both their faces. Leering wickedly, he snarled, “Come here an’ stand by me!” Enjoying the distress he was causing them, Razzid tapped the tiller arm. “Git yore paws on this, both of ye!”
As their t
rembling paws rested on the tiller, the Wearat’s mood changed abruptly. He winked roguishly at them. “Stay true to yore ship an’ trust yore cap’n, mateys. Will ye do that for me, eh?”
The relief was so great that they babbled readily.
“Aye, Cap’n, we’ll stay true t’the Greenshroud!”
“We’d trust ye with our lives, Cap’n, we swear it!”
He grinned, nodding his head cheerfully. “That’s the spirit, mateys. Now you hold ’er on course, dead east. Hahaarrr, this time tomorrer we’ll be livin’ like lords inside Redwall. Waited on paw’n’tail, the finest o’ vittles, barrels o’ grog an’ soft beds to lay our heads on. Wot d’ye say t’that, mates?”
Together with the rest of the crew, Mowlag and Jiboree took up the cry. “Razzid! Razzid! Razzid!”
As the chant continued, Razzid strode for’ard, acknowledging their shouts by waving his trident.
Mowlag blew rainwater from his snout, exchanging looks with Jiboree. “The scabby-eyed fool don’t suspect a thing, I’m sure of it!”
Jiboree spat over the side bitterly. “Puttin’ the fear in us like that. Hah, just wait’ll that Abbey’s ours. He won’t live to enjoy it!”
Mowlag glared hatred at Razzid Wearat through the storm-swept night. “Aye, the length o’ my blade through’is gizzard is all our cap’n will get from me!”
Razzid had reached the big bow set up on the forward peak. He turned, leaning against it, staring back at the two grasping the tiller, his good eye unblinking, regardless of the wind-driven downpour.
As though fearing to be overheard, Jiboree muttered to Mowlag, “Keep chantin’, mate, ’e’s watchin’ us.”
As the mate and the bosun resumed chanting, Shekra, who was still crouching nearby, slid off silently. She had heard all that went on between her one-time conspirators.
Now Greenshroud’s sails were stretched tight, thunder boomed as lightning flashed overhead. The wheeled vessel sped east like a juggernaut, jouncing and lurching over tussock and hollow, timbers groaning, rain sheeting along its length as it clattered over the flatlands, straight for Redwall Abbey. Razzid ordered crewbeasts to load the big bow on the peak.