Brian Jacques - Redwall #22 - The Sable Quean

Stung by the slight, Zwilt looked up from his sword. "Victory and conquest are the only things that are wise!"

The Sable Quean closed her eyes and waved a languid paw at her ancient confidante. "This beast is beginning to tire me. Dirva, explain our plan to him again."

Chuckling at Zwilt's humiliation, Dirva outlined the plan briefly. "There is no need for warfare. Battles are a gamble in which one side must be defeated. Redwall Abbey has never suffered defeat. The conquering tyrants and vermin hordes who have been vanquished from that Abbey's walls are lost to memory. Their bones have long turned to dust. So, how do we achieve a victory over Red-wall, and all the country of Mossflower?"

Zwilt's dead black eyes bored into the speaker. "Tell me."

The Sable Quean prowled down from her throne. Slowly circling the tall beast, she took up the explanation. "It's quite simple. We leave Redwall alone. They cannot fight what they do not see. The Abbey, and all this land, is inhabited mostly by woodlanders, would you agree? Good, honest, hardworking creatures, yes?"

Zwilt nodded, allowing her to continue.

"Woodlanders with families, relatives and friends. The young ones, their babes, their kindred, are the hope of the future, the very lifeblood of peaceful creatures. They would do anything to protect their brood, even fight. But how can they fight what is not there? The worry, the grief and sorrow at the loss of their dearest treasure. Where are

50

their young ones? Are they alive or dead? No woodlander or Abbeydweller will know until I speak to them on my terms. Give me what I want, and your families will be allowed to live. They will, believe me, because the alternative would be too awful for them to imagine. That is my plan, Zwilt."

Returning the broadsword to his belt, the Shade nodded, then paused. "When will all this happen, Majesty?"

She moved close, whispering in his ear, "When I think the time is right. Once we have control, I will need Ravagers to enforce my will. I trust only you, my loyal commander, to help me in all things. Remember, the rewards will be great, and only we two shall share them. Now go and do as your Quean bids."

Zwilt bowed his head slightly. "Your wish is my command!"

Watching the tall figure striding away, Vilaya went back to her throne. Dirva waited until he had left the side chamber.

"I think he got your message, but I keep feeling that Zwilt the Shade would rather wage war on Redwall."

The Sable Quean produced a slim knife from the end of her snake fang necklace. "He would be dead and at Hell-gates before he could shout charge. One scratch from my little toy would see to that."

Carefully, she withdrew the knife from its slender crystal sheath, watching the drops of adder venom collecting at its needle tip. She smiled. "On the day that Zwilt is no longer useful to me, he will learn the real power of Vilaya the Sable Quean."

With their bonds and gags removed, the two little shrews were thrust roughly into the holding chamber. This was the largest of the subterranean caverns. It had an oaken door, complete with a small grille aperture. As the guard bolted the door from outside, the younger shrew broke out

51

crying again. "Waaaaah--I wan' my daddy'n'mamma ... waaaah!"

The older of the pair, a little shrewmaid, hugged her brother, soothing him. "Hush now, Borti. Don't cry."

"Aye, tell Borti t'keep quiet, or we'll all suffer!"

Midda, the shrewmaid, looked around to see who had spoken.

The place was poorly lit by three guttering lanterns. She could see shapes of other creatures huddled around the walls in groups. The speaker was a young otter--he strode through the gloom to her side.

"I'm just warnin' ye, miss. Keep the liddle feller quiet. Thwip'll take the lanterns away, an' we'll all be left in the dark. If'n Borti makes a sound after that, we won't get any vittles. That scum's just lookin' for an excuse to punish us, so don't give 'im the chance."

Midda picked her little brother up, rocking him gently. "He'll drop off t'sleep soon--we're both very tired. My name's Midda. We're Guosim shrews. D'ye know what our name stands for?"

The otter nodded. "Aye. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. My name's Flandor--ain't got no kin. I'm from the Eastlands. We've got a few shrews in here. Maybe ye might know some of 'em, Midda."

The shrewmaid peered into the shadowy interior. "Maybe I might, Flandor, but who's Thwip?"

A gaunt squirrelmaid appeared at her side. "Here, let me take the little un. Ye look about ready t'drop. Sit down here an' try to get some rest. I'm Tura."

Midda was grateful to Tura, who laid Borti down on a pile of rags and dry grass. They sat beside each other, with Flandor squatting before them. He kept his voice to a low murmur.

"You'll soon find out about Thwip. He's a wicked ole fox who's in charge of us. Him an' his mate, Binta--she carries a cane, an' he uses a whip. 'Spect that's how he got 'is

52

name. Don't do anythin' to anger either of 'em. They enjoy bein' cruel an' tormentin' us. Best thing t'do is just be quiet an' do as they tell ye."

Midda leaned back against the rock wall. She felt bone weary "I'll do as I'm told, but the first chance I get, me'n Borti are goin' to escape."

Tura grasped Midda's paw tightly. "That's foolish talk, friend. Have ye heard of the Ravagers, a big vermin mob? The one called Zwilt is their commander--nobeast can run from them. Huh, escape? D'ye know where you are? None of us do. Even if'n ye did get out o' here, where would you run to, eh?"

Midda roused herself indignantly. "I'm a Guosim, an' my father's Jango Bigboat. He's a Log a Log, Chieftain of all Mossflower shrews. So if'n me'n Borti are prisoners here, he'll find out. Hah, an' when he does, that Zwilt, aye, an' the one they call the Sable Quean, they'll be sorry, believe me!"

A gaunt-eyed bankvole nearby scoffed, "Huh, everybeast says somethin' like that when they first get here. Ferget about escapin'. YeTl soon see it ain't no use, right, Flandor?"

The young otter gritted his teeth. "Maybe, maybe not. Someway, somehow, there's got t'be a way out to freedom. I'd sooner die now than spend the rest o' my days rottin' in here, mate. But we can't rush things. First we've got to make a proper plan. Another thing, we'll only tell those we can trust."

Midda was surprised. "Y'mean there's prisoners here who'd tell Thwip that we were escapin'?"

Tura nodded. "Aye, poor sillybeasts who'd do any-thin' for an extra mouthful o' food. That's the way it gets some, after a while in here. Quiet now--here comes Thwip an' Binta!"

The door was opened. Two guards dragged a steaming cauldron in, followed by another two lugging a tub of water. Then the foxes swaggered in. Thwip was large

53

and fat; he flourished a long whip, making it crack. Binta leaned on her yew cane, favouring a limp. Thwip folded his whiplash.

"Well, ain't yew lot the luckybeasts? A nice, dry roof over yore 'eads, comfy'n'warm. Good vittles an' drink aplenty--huh, ye don't 'ave t'do a thing to earn 'em. Just sit there nice an' quiet, eh, Binta?"

The vixen drew an imaginary line with her cane. "Line up single file an' be still. Anybeast pushin' or shovin' will get a taste o' this rod an' no vittles. Two pawfuls apiece, then line up over there for water."

As they hurried to get into line, Thwip pushed his whip stock under Midda's chin. He leered at her.

"New, are ye? Well, git t'the back o' the line, go on!"

Tura went with her, whispering, "You'll have to fetch Borti, or he'll get none."

Midda glanced at her baby brother sleeping peacefully. "Leave him there. He needs his rest. I'll try to get enough in my paws for both of us."

The gaunt squirrelmaid replied, "I'll see if I can manage to grab a bit extra, too."