Brian Jacques - Redwall #21 - Doomwyte

Dubble had a strong feeling that he was on the right trail of his foe. He dashed onward, hoping soon to catch sight of the Painted One. Seething for revenge, the young Guosim shrew never thought to act with caution. He ran straight into an ambush.

Leaping out from behind a sycamore, Jeg lashed out with his staff. The swinging blow would have stunned Dubble, but for a speedy reaction. Instinctively he threw up both paws, taking the major force of the staff upon them. He narrowly missed grabbing hold of the weapon, but Jeg was already striking again, this time from the other direction. Dubble was struck between neck and shoulder, he toppled off balance and fell.

The young tree rat was shrieking with delight as he thrashed at his adversary. “Yeeeheee, I killya this time, foolbeast, yeeeeheeee!” Some of the blows connected, others missed, thus was Jeg’s haste to finish his enemy.

Dubble wriggled and rolled about furiously, his paws numbed by the initial strike of the staff. He pushed forward, grabbing Jeg’s footpaw, and sank his teeth in savagely. The tree rat hopped about, screaming, as he tried to dislodge the shrew, but Dubble hung on grimly. Jeg kicked out at his head, but his foe caught the other footpaw, twisting it and laying him flat on his back.

This was the chance Dubble had been waiting for. Ignoring his various hurts, he threw himself upon Jeg, flailing away with all paws. Over and over the pair rolled, into the squashy compound of mud and leaf mould on the poolbank. Spitting stagnant water, Jeg managed to gain the upper position, forcing Dubble’s head down into the mess. One mouthful sent the young shrew into an ungovernable panic—he bucked and jerked so wildly that he threw Jeg to one side. Dubble was up to his waist in the soggy bank morass. He was extracting himself, with some difficulty, when he saw Jeg, whom he had thrown up onto solid ground, take to his paws and run off. The young Guosim shrew yelled after him, “Ye can run, scumface, but-ye won’t escape me. No matter wot it takes, I’ll get ye!”

Thus began a second chase, this time it went in no particular direction. Jeg was really frightened now; he went in circles, sometimes going off at a tangent, dodging amongst the huge trunks of venerable woodland giants, and crashing through fernbeds, but always with Dubble close behind. Gritting his teeth, the Guosim pursued his quarry relentlessly, getting closer by the moment. Now they were running along a streambank, with Dubble almost on Jeg’s tailtip. Both beasts were going so hard that they hardly noticed the low-flying crows between the trees.

Jeg had no time for such observations, running as he was, with the pursuer hard on his tail. Trying a swift ruse, he angled off amidst the trees, casting a backward glance to ascertain where Dubble was. It was to be the young Painted One’s final error. Dashing along, as he looked backward, Jeg ran slapbang into a raven. The bird was hobbling along, dragging one wing. It squawked in alarm. Such was his speed that Jeg went tumbling, tail over snout. It was an unfortunate and fatal landing for the son of Chigid and Tala. Straight into a dark, moist, fetid opening. He managed one last horrified shriek, then the jaws of Baliss closed upon him like a steel trap.

Dubble saw the dreadful sight looming ahead of him. A squawking raven scrabbling upright, and beyond that, the monstrous head of the great serpent. The Guosim shrew saw that it was not the reptile’s forked tongue protruding from betwixt its lips. It was Jeg’s limp tail. Skidding to a halt, Dubble turned and ran for his life. Emerging from the trees he hurried toward the stream, only to find himself suddenly hemmed in by carrion crows. With cruel, beady eyes glinting, and sharp, heavy beaks poised, the birds closed in on him.

After camping the night under the five-topped oak, the great march back to Redwall got under way. Once they were out of their immediate territory, the entire tribe of Painted Ones appeared very subdued, obeying commands without question.

This suited Bosie fine when they reached a broadstream bank. He had been walking in the vanguard, downwind of the captive band. Whether it was from their lack of bathing, or the noxious plant dyes which they were liberally daubed with, Bosie could not tell. The fastidious hare held a lace kerchief to his nostrils, to avoid the odour emanating from the conquered tree rats. Halting them on the edge of the broadstream, he pointed at the water.

“Mayhaps ye’d like tae take a dip an’ give yersel’s a guid scrubbin’. It pains me tae tell ye that Ah cannae abide breathin’ the same air as ye. So in ye go, ye braw wee stinkers!”

Skipper shook his head dolefully. “’Tis the pore liddle fishes I pity, mate.”

On the opposite bank, Bisky and his friends assisted Nokko and his Gonfelins, hauling out the freshly cleaned-up prisoners. Spingo remarked to her father, “Those Painty Ones don’t look very scary, widout all that muck plastered over ’em, Da.”

Nokko agreed. “Yer right, darlin’, they ain’t nothin’ but a bunch o’ skinny, wet rats. Hoi, yew, git back in an’ scrub be’ind yer ears!”

Tugga Bruster threw Samolus a surly salute. “Is it alright fer me to cross with my Guosim now?”

The sprightly old Redwaller nodded. “Aye, go ahead.”

Skipper watched the shrews wading through the stream. “Wot was all that about, mate?”

Samolus eyed the Guosim Log a Log shrewdly. “Bullyin’, Skip. I’ve been watchin’ Bruster. He’s been bullyin’ the prisoners, so I kept him over this side. I don’t like that sort o’ thing.”

Bosie hitched up his kilt as he entered the water. “Och, yon Brusta would’ve slain those Painted Ones tae a beast if we hadn’t stopped him. Ah tell ye, though, he’s plain feared o’ that ratwife, the dead leader’s mate. If looks could kill, he’d be long slain, the way she glares at him!”

Samolus waded into the shallows, nodding. “Aye, she’s a vengeful one, alright. The sooner we loose those rats on the flatlands an’ Tugga Bruster parts company with us, the happier I’ll be.”

Skipper plunged into the broadstream, adding, “Right, mate, I’ve got a feelin’ this whole thing could end badly, if’n we don’t keep a tight rein on the situation.”

Bisky, Dwink and Umfry marched alongside Spingo, being constantly plagued with questions and enquiries about their home. The Gonfelin maid was good company, and so pretty that they suffered her prattling gladly.

“So then, who’s the Pike’ead at yore Abbey, eh?”

Umfry scratched his headspikes. “Wot’s h’a Pike’ead?”

Spingo scoffed. “A Chieftain, my da’s the Pike’ead of all the Gonfelins.”

Bisky smiled. “Oh, I see, a leader. We have an Abbot, Glisam is his name, though I think he might object to being called a Pikehead. You’ll like our Abbot, he’s a friendly, wise, old dormouse.”

Dwink interrupted, “You’ll like Friar Skurpul, too, he’s the best cook in all of Mossflower!”

Spingo nodded. “Sling beltin’ nosh, can he?”

Dwink and Umfry were both mystified, but Bisky had come to learn a few Gonfelin expressions. He explained, “That means, does Friar Skurpul cook good food? Hah, let me tell you, missy, once you’ve tasted our Friar’s breakfast, you won’t be able to wait for lunch!”

Umfry’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Nor h’afternoon tea, followed later by dinner, then supper. But best h’of h’all is Friar’s feasts!”

Spingo looked the picture of wistful innocence. “I’ve never ’ad a feast, wot’s it like?”

As if on cue, Dwink broke out into an old Redwall ditty.

“A feast is a feast, an’ that’s the least,

that any good beast can say.

You’ll want it to start, you won’t want it to end,