Brian Jacques - The Rogue Crew

Razzid murmured, almost to himself, “Not much, just some sacks an’ a stone wall. There’s stuff hangin’ from nails. Herbs an’ veggibles, I s’pose. No, wait, hush, somebeast’s comin’.”

Friar Wopple could be heard calling out, “Bring some onions, an’ a bunch of parsley, too, Brugg.”

A moment later a mole appeared, answering, “Bunions an’ parsee, marm, roight away.” Taking the vegetables, the mole went away.

Razzid whispered to Badtooth, “It’s a storeroom leadin’ out into the kitchen. Ye couldn’t find a better place to break in, eh, mate?”

The fat cook looked distinctly nervous. “Cap’n, mightn’t it be better if’n I waited out ’ere? I ain’t never done no breakin’ in—”

The Wearat’s claw actually pierced Badtooth’s ear as he dragged him close, gritting the words out. “You gotta choice, lardtub—either come inside with me or stay outside here, after I slit yore throat.”

The weasel cook gulped. “I’m with ye, Cap’n!”

Jamming the trident prongs under the gap between sill and shutter, Razzid began trying to pry it outward. It was a heavy oaken shutter and refused to budge. The Wearat had several attempts at the shutter, even having Badtooth prying with him, but it was a futile task. Removing the trident, he leaned on it, breathing heavily as he surveyed the window as a whole.

Badtooth was immensely relieved. “Ye’ll break yore trident on that shutter, Cap’n. Let’s go back to that orchard place. We could lie low an’ eat all sorts o’ fruit’n’berries.”

The trident butt struck him hard in the stomach, bending him double. Razzid hissed fiercely, “I’m goin’ to split that shutter through its middle. So stand clear, an’ keep yore slobberin’ trap shut!”

The trident prongs thudded into the shutter’s centre. Razzid began wresting it free, giving Badtooth an order. “Look through that crack at the bottom after I strike it. Tell me if’n the coast’s still clear, right?”

Badtooth peered beneath the gap. “Nobeast must’ve’eard anythin’. All clear, Cap’n.”

Razzid battered the shutter with his trident points several times. The wood began to splinter and crack.

Next time Badtooth went to look, he had something to report. “Hold on, Cap’n. One o’ those mouse things, a vole, I think, has just come in. I think it musta heard ye. . . . No, wait, now it’s gone away. All clear agin!”

Razzid dealt the shutter another shuddering blow, then crouched down to look for himself. He chuckled wickedly. “There’s a whole pile of ’em come to see wot the noise is about. Huh, cooks an’ kitchen skivvies, they look scared out o’ their wits. I’ll give ’em somethin’ t’be scared of. You keep an eye out for any wavedogs or rabbets!”

He attacked the shutter with renewed vigour, causing further damage as the old timber creaked and splintered.

Friar Wopple stopped her workers from crowding into the storeroom.

The mole Brugg looked anxiously to the Friar. “Hurr, wot’ll uz do, marm?”

Never having been faced with a vermin attack, Wopple was frightened. However, she tried to stay calm and reassure her helpers. “Stay back, please. I’ve sent Milda to bring a warrior who can deal with this. Oh, dear, look at that!”

The shutter trembled as it was struck again. This time three sharp metal prongs burst through.

Razzid went at it in a frenzy. Thud! Whump! Bang! Crash!

Between blows, he issued instructions to the fat cook. “When the shutter bursts, you get right in there. Kill the nearest one, then jump to one side. I’ll be straight in behind ye. Unnerstand?”

Badtooth saluted miserably. “Aye aye, Cap’n!”

Two more thunderous strikes, and the shutter collapsed, falling inward and leaving the window open to the night drizzle, with both vermin waiting outside. Razzid prodded Badtooth with the trident.

“Right, mate, in ye go!”

34

As the two young hogs followed the volemaid into the kitchens, Posy was throwing questions at Milda. “You say there’s vermin trying to get in. How?”

Milda waved her paws in agitation. “Through the storeroom window, miss. They’re bangin’ on it really loud. I’m sure ’tis vermin!”

Uggo was trying hard to feel like a warrior. He growled, trying to stem the fear welling up in his throat. “How many of the scum d’ye think there are?”

Milda looked distracted. “Couldn’t say, sir, but there’s more’n one makin’ all that din. Could be a gang of ’em!”

Everybeast crammed into the storeroom doorway moved out of Uggo’s way as with sinking heart he heard the hammering racket on the window and saw the shutter disintegrating in a shower of splinters and timber chips.

Behind him, Milda was shouting, “Leave it to the warrior! He’s carryin’ Martin’s sword. Stand clear an’ give him room!”

Even as the words left her lips, the entire shutter burst inward. Uggo was inching hesitantly forward when the big fat weasel, Badtooth, came bounding in. Martin’s blade slashed his throat as he landed on top of the young hog.

The sword went flying from Uggo’s faltering grasp, clattering against the far wall.

Then the Wearat scrambled over the windowsill, wielding his trident. He stepped on Badtooth, cursing as he stumbled.

“Serves ya right, ye fat idiot!”

At the sight of Razzid, kitchen staff fled screaming. It was like seeing a living nightmare. Uggo lay stunned beneath the slain cook, his head having been banged on the floor when Badtooth landed on him. The Wearat kicked Badtooth aside, exposing Uggo lying there.

Razzid wiped at his leaky eye, staring down at him. “Hah, the liddle ’edgepig who escaped from my ship. Well, yore runnin’ days are done!”

He stabbed down with the trident, spearing Uggo’s footpaw. Uggo screeched out in agony as Razzid pushed the weapon hard. The Wearat taunted him cruelly. “Now, ’old out yore other footpaw. I likes t’make sure o’ my work. Hahaaarhaar! This is gonna hurt ye!”

“You leave him alone, you dirty old Wearat!”

Razzid let go of his trident, which was still stuck in his victim’s footpaw. He turned, surprised that any kitchen lackey would challenge him.

Posy put her whole weight behind Martin’s sword. She lunged, with both eyes tight shut.

Razzid seemed to lose the power of speech. He stood stock-still, looking down at the venerable blade which had impaled his stomach. Time stood still in the frozen tableau. Uggo lying on the floor with his footpaw transfixed by the trident; Posy with a shocked expression on her face; the Wearat, glaring with his good eye at the sword of Martin the Warrior protruding from his midriff.

Then Razzid gave out with a wild roar. “Hayaaaar! Do ye think ye can kill me? I’m Razzid Wearat!” He staggered to one side, grabbing the trident out of Uggo’s footpaw. Still with the sword in him, he lurched at Posy, snarling, “Die, liddle spikepig . . . die!”

There was a deep bellow from behind him.

“Redwaaaaaalllll!”

Despite his age, size and weight, Jum Gurdy bounded through the open window, swinging his hefty stave. Before Razzid could turn, the Redwall otter dealt him a blow which broke both the stave and his skull. Razzid Wearat collapsed in a limp heap.

This time there was no doubt about it—the Wearat had been truly slain.

Uggo hauled himself into a sitting position. “Mister Gurdy, where’d you come from?”

Jum withdrew the sword from his enemy’s body. “My ole uncle Wullow can rest easy now. Eh, wot’s that ye say, young Wiltud?”