Brian Jacques - Redwall #20 - Eulalia!

Magger had stopped running, he crouched amid some ferns, regaining his breath. Then he smelled the acrid odour of burning feathers. The weasel straightened up, judging the breeze direction until he knew the source of the pungent reek, a small, grassy knoll, only a short walk from where he stood.

The vole pulled the bird clear of the heat, raking away the black ash of burned feathers with the sword.

From directly overhead, a scornful voice caught his attention. "Hah, it's der 'airymouse!"

Bending backward, he looked up into the leering face of Magger. The weasel was standing atop the knoll, holding a boulder over his head. Before the startled vole could move, the big stone crashed down, slaying him outright.

Chuckling to himself, Magger kicked the deadbeast callously to one side. Sitting in his place, he continued roasting the magpie, commenting, "Shouldn't never waste good vikkles!" A moment later, the weasel was crunching into the carcass and spitting out feather stubs. He glanced at the dead vole, treating the body to another kick. "Ain't much of a cook, are ye, 'airymouse. Aye aye, wot's dis yer 'idin' from ole Magger?"

The vole's body had rolled over, to reveal the sword. Magger pulled it from the vole's deathgrip, appraising the wondrous weapon as he wiped it on his ragged jerkin. "By de 'ellfires, worra beauty!" Ignoring the roast birdmeat, he

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sprang up, waving the blade about, marvelling at its lightness and clean lines. "Hoho, blood'n'spit t'the bucko who tries ter stan' in my way, dis is a real cap'n's blade!"

Dashing headlong into the ferns, Magger swished about left and right, whooping with joy as the blade sent fronds willy-nilly, revelling in the feel of the thrumming weapon. He halted, to plant a smacking kiss on the red-stone-pommeled hilt. "Haha, king o' de forest, king o' de sea, king of everyt'ink, dat's me!" Surprised at his own rhyming eloquence, Magger sat down, gazing lovingly at his newfound acquisition. "Hah, I even feels cleverer now I gotten dis!"

Back at the deserted campsite, Rangval took food from his haversack, beckoning to his companions. "Take a rest now, mates, let's have a look at these tracks. Orkwil, try not to disturb anything."

Orkwil and Maudie made their way over to the rogue squirrel. Both opened their packs, they were hungry from hours of tracking.

Maudie cast a cynical eye about as she munched on a scone. "Hmph, it'll be jolly difficult tryin' to make one blinkin' track out from the other. It looks like there's a bloomin' stampede passed through here, wot!"

Taking a pull from a flask of damson cordial, Orkwil knelt. He outlined a broad footpad close by. "Well, here's where Gorath was, headin' that way toward the ditch. Lots of other prints, too."

Rangval gave them a cursory glance. "Brownrats, shure I'm no stranger to their trails. Nobeast passed over the big feller's marks, y'know wot that means?"

Maudie finished her scone. "Indeed, it means our badger was pursuin' the rascals. The way those rats kicked up dirt one could see Gorath was the last chap they wanted to face."

Rangval selected an apple. "Shure, an' I wonder why that was, Maudie darlin'?"

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The haremaid replied nonchalantly, "Who knows, old scout? Gorath never looked to me like a chap who'd be fond of vermin. Perhaps he just got peeved with the blighters, wot!"

Orkwil snorted. "Peeved? Look at the way those Brownrats churned up the grass to get away from him. Gorath's in the grip of Bloodwrath, that's why they were in such a rush to get away!"

Rangval took a bite of his apple. "Hmm, Bloodwrath, is it. I've heard o' that afore, ain't it supposed to drive badgers mad?"

Maudie nodded. "Somethin' like that. Oh well, chaps, up an' at 'em, wot! I suppose we'd best follow his trail. What d'ye say?"

Orkwil began packing his haversack. "You two go ahead, I won't be comin' with ye. I've got to bring Martin's sword back to the Abbey, so I'll have to cast about until I find that vole's tracks, he's the rascal who'll have the sword."

Maudie pointed to the main tracks. "But what about my blinkin' badger?"

Rangval found himself in the position of mediator. "Ah, c'mon now, Maudie me ould beauty. We know where the big feller's bound, he's chasin' the Brownrats. They'll run straight back to their boss, Kurdly, an' he's camped south o' the Abbey wall. Let's lend young Orkwil a paw to find his vole. We can always catch up with Gorath an' Kurdly's bunch later."

Maudie relented. "Oh well, righto, but remember, Orkwil, if we find your sword then you owe me one."

The young hedgehog was frankly relieved. "Good, I'll be in yore debt, marm, let's go this way."

They marched off north, on Orkwil's supposition that the vole would be making for the River Moss. All three spread in a forage line, keeping their eyes out for tracks. Rangval was the first to break trail, he was slightly east of the other two.

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"Ah shure, and ain't I the grand tracker! Look, here's the ould villain's pawmarks. I can tell 'tis him, 'cos there's the dragmarks he made by lettin' the sword point scrape the ground. See, an' here's a slash on this rowan trunk, where he's made a swipe at it, testin' out his fine, new blade I'll be bound, eh!"

Maudie cut across Rangval, getting ahead of him. "I say, chaps, blood'n'fearners on the ground here. The bounder's killed a bird. Hold on, can you smell scorchin' feathers? Quiet now, an' keep your eyes peeled!"

Rangval, who prided himself on his woodcraft, nodded toward the small hillock, which he glimpsed through the trees. "Smoke's still arisin' yonder, that's where yore vole will be, Orkwil."

Maudie took charge. "Rangval, you come over the rise from the back. Orkwil, skirt the hill from the left. I'll take it from the right. When you hear me shout a Eulalia, then charge the blighter. Spread out now."

Glurma, the old, female ratcook of the Bludgullet, looked up from her stockpot, as Ragchin and his group came wandering into the new camp, beneath some willows on a streambank. She challenged them in a harsh voice. "Tell me ye've caught fishes, or kilt birds, but don't say dem scabby ole roots is all yew got?"

There was a good number of the crew sitting about in groups. They watched in disgust as Ragchin's patrol threw their meagre offering on the wilted heap of vegetation, which was all that had been brought in.

Ragchin spat out moodily, "Dat wuz all we could find, ain't nuthin' much out dere."

Glurma flung a few pawfuls of their find into the pot. As steam rose from the boiling mixture, she wrinkled her snout distastefully. "Ugh, ramson bulbs, I could tell dat stink anyplace!"

Jungo's stomach rumbled aloud, he shrugged. "Smells awright ter me, I'd eat anyt'ink, I'm 'ungry!"

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There was a whoosh of flying metal, the mace and chain missed Glurma by a hairsbreadth. The missile struck the cauldron, knocking it over. Sizzling steam and cascading hot water extinguished the fire noisily Vizka Longtooth strode through the camp, and retrieved his weapon. He stood looking about in the hushed silence which followed his dramatic entrance. "Well, did ya t'ink I wuz dead?"

The haglike Glurma cackled aloud. "Heeheehee! I knowed ye'd come back, Cap'n, dat's why I kep' der crew t'gether fer ye!"

The crew did not know how to respond to their captain's appearance, everybeast kept dutifully silent.

The golden fox draped the chain of his mace round Ragchin's neck. He drew the petrified ferret close to him. "I left Magger in charge, where is he?"

Ragchin swallowed hard. "Gone, Cap'n, Magger's gone. We ain't seen 'im since dose big Brownrats attacked."

Vizka showed his long fangs in that familiarly dangerous smile, he spoke almost playfully. "Gone, eh, an' yew thought ye'd take 'is place as leader of der crew, is dat right, shipmate?"