Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

The trackers returned. Buff was behind Gil and Dreel, who reported jointly.

“The way’s pretty safe up ahead.”

“Aye, but the tunnel splits off two ways.”

“Er, so we weren’t sure which is the right un to take.”

Ambling up, Buff threw a casual salute. “’Cos they never stayed long enough t’jolly well find out, sah. The tunnel we follow is the one with the sweet scent.”

Dandy wrinkled his snout. “Sweet scent, wot sweet scent?”

Buff Redspore allowed herself a huge smile as she explained, “Fresh air, m’friend. What smells sweeter than that after wanderin’ about these musty old tunnels, wot!”

The news caused a joyous uproar. Creatures leapt up and made to run off and find the exit tunnel. It was Skor Axehound’s booming shouts which stopped them in their tracks.

“Stand steady, there. You ain’t had orders t’move off! Try an’ behave like warriors—an’ that goes for you hogs, too.”

Posy retorted sharply, “Oh, does it really. Well, where have your young scouts run off to, eh?”

Log a Log Dandy chuckled. “Aye, barrelbelly, ye should see to yore Rogue Crew afore shoutin’ at others. Where’ve Gil an’ Dreel gone, pray tell?”

The big chieftain’s head swivelled this way and that as he enquired of his crew, “Where’ve those two liddle rips gone?”

Ruggan shrugged. “Prob’ly dashed off to smell the air. Let’s hope they take the right tunnel this time. Don’t worry about ’em. They’ll be waitin’ for us out in the open.”

Skor slammed his rudder down hard. “Them young uns are my responsibility. Take yore brother, Swiffo, an’ get after ’em afore they come to some harm!”

Ruggan and Swiffo sped off along the tunnel.

After a while, the rest followed at a steady pace, following the upward sloping passage. Young Ferrul was the first to smell anything, even before they reached the junction where the tunnels split. She twiddled her ears with anticipation.

“Oh, I say, chaps, can ye sniff it? Fresh air, it’s better’n a fresh strawberry’n’plum fruit salad. Mmmmm!”

At the junction, one tunnel began to slope downward but the other continued to rise. From the latter, there was a summer breeze wafting in.

Sergeant Miggory breathed deeply. “Seasons h’of flowers’n’ferns, sah, h’aint it nice!”

Captain Rake sniffed appreciatively. “Och, ’tis like a wee butterfly kissin’ mah nose!” He was almost bowled over by the return of Ruggan and Swiffo, who hurtled down on him, waving their paws for silence.

Skor Axehound scowled at the pair. “Well, did ye find Gil’n’Dreel?”

Keeping his voice low, Ruggan appeared to be stifling laughter. “Aye, sir, they been captured by vermin!”

The sea otter Chieftain waved his battleaxe. “They’ve what? Been captured by vermin, an’ ye think ’tis funny?”

Swiffo stood in his father’s path, hastening to explain. “Steady on, Pa. There’s only about a score of ’em, runty stoats an’ rats. We followed ’em to their camp. It ain’t far off, an’ guess wot? They’re havin’ a feast!”

Skor glanced from one to the other. “Ye weren’t seen by the vermin, were ye?”

Ruggan smiled cannily. “Of course not, sir. A feast!”

His father caught the irony of the situation. He grinned slyly and licked his axeblade. “I’ll wager they’ll welcome guests to their feast, eh? Are ye ready, Rake an’ Dandy? Come on, let’s eat!”

There were actually about thirty vermin, mostly stoats and rats, with a few ferrets. Their camp was on the bank of a stream; both Gil and Dreel were bound to a willow trunk. The young otters did not seem unduly put out, as they had seen Ruggan and Swiffo spying on their captors. A cauldron was bubbling over a fire whilst the brigand vermin prepared food. Some were grilling trout on green twigs; others placed flatbreads on hot stones, whilst some broached a keg of nettle beer. Their leader, a patch-eyed overweight ferret, was discussing his prisoners with an old rat.

“Theez muz be der ones Lord Ketral was chasin’ after, ya!”

The old rat bared toothless gums. “Ayarr, but uz catchered dem, so worra we do, Viglat? Give dem ter Ketral, or roast ’em inta vikkles? I ain’t never et riverdog, ’ave yew?”

Viglat the patch-eyed ferret grinned. “Ketral won’t mizz two liddle uns like dem, wotja t’ink?”

The old rat sniggered. “Riverdogs fer brekkist tamorrer!”

“Ahem!”

The sound got the pair’s attention. They turned to see Sergeant Miggory leaning against a beech tree. He was unarmed and smiling rather simply.

“H’excuse me, friends, but could h’either of ye tell me the way to Redwall Abbey? I’m lost, y’see.”

A quick nod from Viglat brought the closest six vermin to surround Miggory. The patch-eyed ferret drew a rusty dirk from his waist sash, swaggering around the sergeant. “Lookit ’ere, mates. We got uz a rabbet!”

The old rat nodded eagerly. “I et rabbet once—’twas nize!”

To their surprise, Miggory showed no fear, but joined in amicably. “H’I don’t think ye’d like me, though. H’I’m a hare, not a rabbit. We’re tough, y’see.”

A nearby stoat poked him in the back. “Tough, eh? ’Ow tough?”

Rounding on the stoat, the sergeant knocked him out cold with a thunderous straight left. “H’is that tough h’enough for ye, scumnose?”

Viglat was about to thrust his dirk into the hare’s back when a commanding shout rang out. “Drop that frogsticker or yer a deadbeast!”

Sea otters, Long Patrol hares and Guosim shrews emerged from the trees on the streambank. Now that the position was reversed, Viglat found that he and his crew were surrounded.

As Skor Axehound was releasing Gil and Dreel with a few slashes of his axeblade, he consulted Lieutenant Scutram. “Have ye got a head count o’ these rascals?”

Scutram confirmed his total. “Aye, sah—thirty-two, all told.”

Skor nodded. “Right. Read ’em the rules, Lieutenant.”

The astonished Viglat was about to protest when Captain Rake kicked his rear end sharply. “Hauld yer wheesht an’ dinnae speak ’til you’re told. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

Scutram laid out the rules of engagement to the vermin. “Listen up now, you scabby bunch! This is a contest—we’ll match you beast for beast, wot. Now, all into the stream, quick as y’like. Come on, move y’selves, you idle vermin!”

Viglat and his followers were ushered roughly into the water by some sea otters as Scutram continued, “It’s t’be a jolly old scrap, a fight, actually. Thirty-two of our chaps’ll face ye in the water. Winner takes the feast. No rules, really—winnin’s the thing, eh, wot!”

Viglat finally spoke, in indignant protest. “Dem’s our vikkles—diz ain’t right!”

Captain Rake waved a dismissive paw. “Och, away with ye an’ quit whinin’. Ah’ll tell ye what. If ye defeat us, we’ll surrender to ye. That’s fair, ain’t it? Och, Ah’m fed up arguin’ with ye. Go to it, braw beasties!”

The thirty-two consisted of fourteen sea otters, an equal number of hares and four Guosim shrews, who were in the minority. Without further ado, they charged the vermin, roaring their war cries.

“Yaaaylahooo!”

“Eulaliiiiiaaaa!”

“Logalogaloooooog!”

Startled by the fury of the onslaught, most of the vermin scrambled deeper into the water and swam off downstream. The rest threw away their weapons, flinging up their paws in surrender. Sitting on the bank, Skor lifted up the keg of nettle beer and took a deep draught. He shook his great bearded head in disgust.

“Ah, ’tis a sad ole life, Rake, after havin’ to run away from vermin, we finally get the chance to fight ’em. Hah, an’ wot d’they do? Turn tail an’ run away! It ain’t fair!”