Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Mowlag was inclined to agree with her. “Aye, the cap’n’s the one to have on yore side in a battle.”

The impulsive Jiboree was not happy, but he was forced to agree. “So be it, then, we wait. But lissen, mates, once we’re inside that Redwall Abbey or wotever ye calls it, then our cap’n’s a deadbeast. Right?”

On the walltop, Abbey creatures were carrying wood up from below. Ding Toller and Dorka Gurdy were piling it at the northwest gable whilst keeping an eye upon the ship’s progress. Roogo Foremole and his crew arrived with a pile of old barrel staves from the wine cellars, which they placed on a heap of dried moss, dead grasses, withered branches and other combustibles. Roogo dusted off his huge paws, winking at Dorka.

“They’m barrel stavers makes gurt flames. Yurr, b’aint ee vurmint boat arrived yet, marm?”

The otter judged the distance from Greenshroud to the Abbey. “Nay, sir, ’twill be some time a-comin’ yet. When do we light the fire, I wonder?”

Milda, a helpful young volemaid, tossed a bundle of dried bracken onto the pile. “Not yet, marm. Abbot said he’d do it when the time comes.”

Sister Fisk called down the wallstairs, “Has anybeast seen Abbot Thibb?”

Friar Wopple was hauling a large cauldron up the steps, assisted by some of her kitchen helpers. “I’ve seen him not long ago. Excuse me, but would some of you lend a paw with this thing? It’s very heavy.”

Willing volunteers hurried to help with the cauldron. Having delivered her contribution, the tubby watervole sat on the top step, mopping her brow with a dockleaf.

“I saw Father Abbot not long ago. He was standing in front of Martin the Warrior’s tapestry, so I thought it best not to disturb him. I expect he’ll return here when he’s ready.”

Sister Fisk sniffed the contents of the cauldron. “Phew, that smells a bit ripe. What is it, Friar?”

Wopple explained. “That’s some waste vegetable cooking oil. I find it excellent for lighting fires—it burns for quite a while. Be careful how you use it, Dorka.”

Morning wore on toward midday as the tension increased. Trundling along at an unhurried pace, the big green-sailed ship drew closer to the Abbey. It was clearly visible now, a very threatening sight. Searats and corsairs lined the rails and forepeak, armed with a fearsome array of weapons, ready and eager to use them. Razzid Wearat held his position at the tiller, with Mowlag and Shekra attending nearby, at his command.

He sized up the huge, red sandstone building, nodding in admiration. “Well, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this. Wot d’ye say, Mowlag, do we attack?”

Confused that he should be consulted, the searat mate merely lowered his eyes. “I’m here t’do wotever ye say, Cap’n.”

Razzid turned to Shekra. “An’ you, fox, wot do you say, eh?”

The Seer had been expecting this. She had a ready reply. “Lord, if ye are set on attackin’, I cannot stop ye.”

Razzid raised one scarred eyebrow. “But?”

The Seer chose her words carefully. “But I would counsel caution, sire. This is a big stronghold and unknown to us. What number creatures wait behind its walls? Mayhaps if we were to sound them out first, talk to their leaders, let them know who ye are. We might not have to fight, once they know yore name an’ reputation.”

Razzid stared pointedly at Mowlag. “A wise decision, I think. Wot d’ye say, Mowlag?”

The searat maintained his humble attitude. “Like ye say, Cap’n, a wise decision.”

The Wearat stamped his trident butt on the deck. “Good! we’ll halt within hailin’ distance o’ the wall.”

In the Abbot’s absence, Ding Toller had taken charge at the walltop. Roogo Foremole levered himself up, noting how close Greenshroud was.

“Hurr, Ding, they’m almost yurr. Do ee loight ee fire naow?”

The gaunt squirrel drew in a deep, nervous breath. “Aye, I think ’tis about time, but where’s the Abbot got to?”

Friar Wopple dipped a tankard in the cauldron, then spread oil over the waiting heap of kindling. “I don’t know, friend, but we’d better do somethin’ fast!”

Dorka Gurdy lit a fir twig from a lantern. At that moment, the top of a mainsail drew level with the wall.

Redtail, the corsair stoat lookout, climbed into view. Grinning nastily, he swept off his battered hat, addressing them. “Good day to ye, gennelbeasts—”

As the words left his mouth, Dorka touched the lighted twig to the pile and flames shot up with a whoosh.

Redtail yelled out in shock, falling backward. His footpaw caught in the rigging, and he hung there upside down.

Fear gripped Razzid at the sight of the sudden blaze. Memories of his blazing ship at the High North Coast flooded back. He roared at the crew.

“Take ’er back! Back, I say, take ’er back!”

The vermin on the poles shoved hard, reversing the course as the vessel rolled back from the inferno on the walltop. The Wearat ran the length of his ship, heart pounding. He made it to the prow, followed by Mowlag and Shekra.

The vixen stared up at the flames. “Just as well we never attacked right off, Lord. They have a stone fortress, but we’ve only got a wooden ship!”

Jiboree pointed to the battlements. “Lookit there!”

Razzid stared, wiping moisture from his injured eye, dumbfounded at the sight which confronted them.

Standing astride the battlements was the mouse warrior from his dreams. He was wearing armour and holding forth a flaming sword.

28

Startled by the sudden invasion, Long Patrol, Rogue Crew, Guosim and hedgehogs ducked into the water. The very air above them thrummed with noise and ear-splitting squeaks. Gasping for air, Swiffo broke the surface, still holding the smouldering torch. Dimly he could make out masses of black shapes wheeling and swooping everywhere. He struck out with the dead torch, left and right, trying to defend himself. However, he hit only empty air, no matter how hard he tried.

Skor Axehound came up for air. Swiftly sensing what was going on, he grabbed the torch from his young son.

“Don’t harm ’em—stay still!”

Hugging himself and closing both eyes tight, Swiffo obeyed. One by one, the others emerged from the water, with Skor still calling the same advice to them. Everybeast stood stock-still, some covering their ears to shut out the deafening sounds. Then as suddenly as it started, all was normal again. They were left standing waist deep in the watery, dark tunnel. Fresh torches blossomed into light, bringing relief to the gloom.

Lancejack Sage shook herself. “I say, what’n the name o’ blinkin’, blitherin’ seasons was that, wot?”

Skor lifted her onto the ledge with a single huge paw. “That was bats, missy. Hundreds, nay, thousands o’ the things. They must roost up there inside yon hole.”

Captain Rake chuckled. “Och, ’tis nae wonder our foebeasts didnae pursue us. They’re affrighted o’ the beasties!”

Big Drander exclaimed, “Well, I don’t bloomin’ well blame ’em. They gave me a few nasty moments, I tell ye.”

Sergeant Miggory agreed. “Aye, me too, h’I must confess, but those batbeasts ’ave gone now. Let ’em go an’ frighten the rascals who were shootin’ poison darts h’at us.”

Lieutenant Scutram mounted the ledge. “Indeed! There certainly were a lot o’ bat blighters. How many would ye say, sah?”

Rake Nightfur scratched an ear. “Och, as many as ye like. Mahself, Ah wasnae countin’, just wonderin’ how we’re goin’ tae get oot o’ this place!”