Brian Jacques - Redwall #22 - The Sable Quean

"I'm sure that Sister Fumbril can treat your injury. She's very skilful at such things. I guarantee you'll be walking normally by the season's end, running, too. Oh, Bartij, would you take Axtel's hammer? The poor beast shouldn't have to limp about carrying that great heavy thing. It's not doing him a bit of good."

Buckler watched in amazement as Axtel Sturnclaw, the berserk warrior, meekly surrendered his weapon to Bartij.

"Hurr aye, mum, ee war'ammer do gets gurtly weight-ful at toimes. Hoo urr, but et bee's a wunnerful vermint stopper, even tho' oi says et moiself, mum!"

Buckler shook his head. "Well, I've seen everything now!"

Bartij winked. "Yore at Redwall Abbey now, young mate--you h'ain't seen nothin' yet!"

Friar Soogum bustled up with two kitchen helpers in tow. "Er, Abbess, marm, where do I serve brekkist today?"

Marjoram was never at a loss when it came to prompt decisions, unlike the hesitant Friar. She rattled off instructions, including everybeast. "Serve it up on the west ramparts to those who'll be keeping an eye on our foes---Mister Buckler, Skipper, Bartij, Log a Log Jango and his Guosim. Redwallers and Dibbuns will eat in Great Hall. I think it would be wise for those not engaged in defence of the

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Abbey to stay off the walltops until any threat of attack has gone. Sister Fumbril, Axtel and myself will dine in the Infirmary. Foremole, would you and your molecrew dine in the gatehouse with Granvy, just in case you're needed?"

Darbee tugged his snout respectfully. "Ut'd be moi pleasure, mum!"

Marjoram patted Soogum's paw fondly. "That's your problem solved, old friend. Now, is there anything else, please?"

Buckler had a request. "Marm, could you have the good Friar serve an extra portion on the walltop? Make it a big helping."

The Abbess nodded. "I'm sure our Friar could arrange that, but what do you require another breakfast for?"

One of the young hare's ears drooped thoughtfully. "Just an idea, really. It's been my experience that whenever fine vittles are served, Diggs is usually somewhere about. Oh, I'm not worried about the tubby glutton, wherever he is. But I'd be easier in my mind if he were here where I could keep an eye on him."

Marjoram smiled. "Oh, I think we can manage that, Buck."

Buckler made a quick, elegant bow. "Thankee, marm. An' I apologise for not bringin' the little uns safe back to Redwall. As soon as this Ravager matter's settled, I vow I won't rest 'til the babes are all inside these walls an' peace is restored."

The Abbess nodded. "I'm sure you speak truly, my friend."

Out on the flatlands, work was progressing on the battering ram. Zwilt had supervised his vermin in the making of the weapon. One end of the sessile oak trunk had been hacked into a blunt point and burned several times in the fire. This had the effect of sharpening and hardening the ramming end. Fallug and his crew had returned to the woodlands. Now they were hauling in heaps of

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thick green-leafed boughs. Zwilt outlined their use to his captain.

"I want a frame built, a canopy to go over the ram. The carriers underneath it will be protected from anything those Redwallers heap down upon them. Now, we'll have two shifts of ram carriers, one relieving the other to keep the attack going full pelt. I want archers and sling throwers constantly on the go. That'll keep the woodlanders' heads down below the walltops."

Fallug grinned crookedly. "Aye, Lord, an' 'twill 'elp our ram beasts from bein' attacked!"

The weasel was pleasantly surprised when Zwilt patted his shoulder heartily. Something resembling a smile stole across the inscrutable sable's features.

"You're a beast I can trust, Fallug. Tell me, how do you like being a captain, eh?"

Fallug puffed out his narrow chest. "I'm enjoyin' it, Sire. Ye can rely on me--I'll do me best for ye, Lord, on me word, I will!"

Zwilt toyed with the medal about his neck. "Good. I knew I could, so I want you to be in charge of all my Ravagers from now on."

Fallug looked fit to burst as he puffed in more air. "Me, Lord?"

Zwilt nodded. "You'll need a bit of help, so why not pick out a few trusty comrades and make them captains?"

A worried look furrowed the weasel's brow, but Zwilt reassured him, "Of course, you won't need to be a captain any longer. I'll promote you to chief, or general. Which title d'you think suits you best?"

Fallug replied without hesitation, "Chief, Sire! Sounds good, don't it? Fallug, Chief of all the Ravagers. Aye, chief suits me fine, Lord!"

Zwilt watched the ram point shaping up. "Right, Chief Fallug, these are your orders. You'll be in charge of this whole attack--archers, slingers, ram carriers, everything!"

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The new chief looked slightly perplexed. "But where'll you be, Sire? Wot'll you be doin'?"

Zwilt stared at the distant Abbey walls. "I'll be doing what I do best--being Zwilt the Shade. You just carry on obeying orders. Don't look for me. I have a plan of my own. If it goes the right way, I may be inside Redwall whilst you're still knocking on the doors. Leave me now. I'll put the word about that you are in command here."

Back on the ramparts, Bartij, who had no experience of warfare, shielded his eyes against the sun, peering at the distant vermin encampment. "There's smoke a-risin'. See, they've lit a fire. Looks like they're burnin' one end of the big log. Why d'ye suppose they'd do a thing like that, eh?"

Jango dipped a crust of toasted nutbread into his hot mint tea and sucked it with relish. "I'd say they're makin' a batterin' ram, eh, Buck?"

Buckler put aside a bowl of oatmeal. "Yore right, mate. Skipper, fetch Foremole, please. I need to speak with him."

Foremole Darbee did not like high walltops. He sat down with his back to the battlements, concentrating his gaze on the walkway. "Hurr, 'ow can oi 'elp ee, zurr?"

Buckler sat down next to him. "This stone-throwin' catapult thing your crew are making in the cellars, can we get it up here?"

Darbee shook his velvety head glumly. " 'Tis all in bits, zurr. Oi knows nuthin' abowt cattypults, but if'n us gets it up yurr, 'twill need t'be resembled."

Skipper quaffed off what was left of his hotroot soup. "Granvy's the beast who'd know about assemblin' it. Come on, we'll lend a paw to carry it up here."

It turned out to be a far harder task than they had expected. Some of the timber donated by Cellarmole Gurjee was huge and weighty. Long-seasoned lengths of elm, beech and oak, devoid of bark or branch, were hauled laboriously up to the walltop.

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Old Granvy the Recorder inspected the material doubtfully. "Hmm, wish I'd bothered to look at this lot earlier. I'm afraid most of it is far too ancient and dried out t'be of any use. It'd snap under pressure."

Bartij flicked a woodlouse off a chunk of beech. "Can't we make any use of it, Granvy?"

The old hog sighed wistfully. "I wish I knew. I dug out an ancient parchment which had the plans for a ballista-- that's what they're called, you see. But I've never seen a real one, and I'm not sure how it works. What we need is a creature who knows all about such weapons."

Oakheart Witherspyk mounted the battlements, dramatically gesturing toward the vermin foe. "Hearken, comrades, our present dilemma is how to counter a battering-ram attack. What to do, eh? If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, what about fire?"

Skipper assisted the portly hog down onto the walkway. "I knows wot yore thinkin' of, mate, hurlin' fire down on it, to set the ram ablaze. Well, it won't work, Oakie. Once that batterin' ram was on fire, they'd lean it up agin' our gateway. Then they'd just sit back an' watch the whole thing burn down. No, sir, we'll have to come up with somethin' better'n that!"

Foremole Darbee had a typically molelike solution. "Zurrs, 'ow abowt soil'n'urth. Hurr hurr, they'm villyuns wuddent git far a-tryen to shuv ee rammerer through a gurt 'eap o' soil'n'urth!"