Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

A light lake breeze rippled across his mask as he spoke out scathingly. “I wish I had twice your number. Then would I slay all ye standing before me now, dead where ye stand!”

The wildcat chieftain paused, then watched the ranks jerk with shock as he roared at them, “Fools! Addle-pawed idiots! Brainless buffoons! I, Riggu Felis, Lord of this isle, watched ye being made sport of by a few riverdogs last night! The captives whom I had sentenced to death! Where are they now?”

He raised the axe, pointing at the fortress. “My home was put to the torch, almost burned! Where are the slain bodies of all the otters who did it?”

Leaping down from the rock dais, the wildcat prowled along the first rank of catguards, prodding them on their chests with the axe handle as he repeated, “Tell me! Where? Where? Where?”

Halting abruptly at the end guard on the line, Riggu Felis faced him, dropping his voice to a conversational tone. “Gone, all of them, escaped. What do you think should have happened to them?”

The catguard’s voice took on a dithering tremble as he replied, “Th . . . they sh . . . should have been s . . . s . . . slain, Lord.”

The warlord exploded with a sudden angry bellow. “Slain! !”

With a single devastating swing of the axe, he killed the unfortunate guard on the spot. “Slain, just like this one!”

The ranks stood in stunned silence, each catguard keeping his or her eyes straight ahead, scarcely daring to breathe, terrified to look at their fallen comrade lest they draw the attention of the maddened wildcat.

Brandishing the dripping axe, Riggu Felis pounced up onto the rock platform. “Hear me! More of ye will follow that one if my domain is not shortly rid of outlaws and runaways. We will scour this isle from coast to coast, we will root out these accursed otters! The rivers and streams, even the very tidal waters, shall run red with their blood, old or young, all of them! I promise ye, I will make warriors of ye once more!”

Whilst the wildcat had been haranguing his army, Lady Kaltag had come out onto the pier. She stood looking across at Riggu Felis. Atunra and Pitru joined her. The young cat was garbed out like a chieftain himself. He wore a steel helmet with a purple scarf streaming out behind it, a cloak of dark blue and a breastplate set with jet stones. In one paw he carried a small polished shield; in the other, a curved scimitar.

Kaltag pointed at Riggu Felis accusingly, her voice scornful and unafraid. “Look at the mighty wildcat! He is very good at slaying those who serve him. First my son Jeefra and now one of his own guards. Why do you not go and slay some real enemies, the outlaw they call Shellhound and his followers? Or are you afraid that they might fight back?”

Riggu Felis could not keep the sneer out of his voice. “I am planning on seeking out my enemies right away. Why don’t you go and attend to your own affairs and keep that overdressed kitten out of my way! Atunra, attend me.”

Kaltag stopped the pine marten as she stepped forward. “Atunra stays here, with me and Pitru. Go! We will defend the fortress against attack whilst you are out playing your games!”

Inwardly the warlord cursed himself for neglecting to think of having the fortress defended in his absence.

Leaping down from the rock, he growled to Scaut, “Weilmark, take fourscore guards and attend Lady Kaltag.”

Scaut headed the two long ranks of catguards, but on reaching the pier he found Pitru barring his way with drawn scimitar. “I have no need of you here, Weilmark. Get back to your master. I’m in charge of this fortress!”

Scaut was taken by surprise at Pitru’s haughty manner. “You? But your father said nought of this to me!”

Kaltag intervened, her tone cold with authority. “I have appointed my son as commander of this fortress. You will address him by that title from now on. Now leave us!”

Though Riggu Felis did not contest Kaltag’s words, he sneeringly called out so that all could hear, “So, the fancydressed kitten is becoming a dangerous beast at last!”

Before he turned to march off, the warlord exchanged a secret and meaningful glance with Atunra, his faithful lifelong aide. The pine marten blinked briefly in acknowledgement. She understood the unspoken order. To her, there could be only one Lord of Green Isle and Commander of the Fortress—her master, Riggu Felis.

11

In the attic above the Abbey Library, the window shutters had been removed. Sister Snowdrop sat on a heap of books, framed in a shaft of early evening sunlight swirling with red-gold dust motes. Books, scrolls, volumes and ancient archives lay thick about the little old mouse. Her reverie was broken when Tiria came pounding in, followed by her three friends along with Brink and Skipper.

“Sister, what is it? What have you found?”

Enveloped by dust, Snowdrop pulled a kerchief from her sleeve as she attempted to reply. “I fou . . . A fou . . . Aaaaaaachoo!”

Scrambling up, she raced to the open window, sneezing several more times. Breathing in gulps of fresh air, the Sister glared over her tiny square glasses at them. “Really! Do you have to come stampeding in here and raising all that dust? Most inconsiderate!”

Snowdrop paused to clean her spectacles. “You well may ask what I’ve found, but I’m not showing it to anybeast in here until I’ve had my afternoon tea on the west walltop. We’ll talk about it there.”

Brink scratched his headspikes. “But why would ye be takin’ tea up there, Sister?”

Skipper interrupted his friend. “Wait, Sister, I’ll tell this ole buffer. That’d be ’cos Friar Bibble ain’t servin’ on the lawn. Afternoon tea’s ended. But if’n ye was to go to the walltop, ye’d find our Abbess there with molemum Burbee. Without lookin’ I can tell ye. They’ll be sittin’ on those liddle foldin’ chairs, sharin’ a pot o’ tea an’ a tray o’ goodies. Same as they do every mornin’, noon, late noon an’ evenin’, every day. Right, Sister?”

Snowdrop beamed at him. “Right, Skipper Banjon, very observant of you, I must say. You go on now, I’ll get my beaker from the library and meet you all up there with my discovery.”

Having installed herself on top of the gatehouse steps at the west walltop, Sister Snowdrop took full advantage of the generosity of the Abbess and Burbee. Dunking arrowroot and almond biscuits into a steaming beaker of mint and comfrey tea, she indicated a large, thick, green volume she had brought with her.

“Feast your eyes on this, my friends. What do you think of it?”

Abbess Lycian topped up Snowdrop’s beaker from her seemingly ever-full teapot. “Pray, what are we supposed to think of it? The thing looks very much like a dusty old green book to me.”

Snowdrop spluttered on a soggy biscuit, as though she could hardly believe what the Abbess had just said. “Can’t you see? It’s the rare, original Geminya Tome, that’s what it is. Dusty old green book, indeed!”

Abbess Lycian was completely unruffled by the revelation. “How nice, but what exactly is a rare original Geminya Tome, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

The little Sister was wide-eyed with disbelief. “Surely you’re joking, Mother Abbess! You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of it?”

Breaking off, Snowdrop stared around at the others. “Have none of you ever heard of the Geminya Tome?”

Molemum Burbee came out with one of her gems of mole logic. “No, we’m bain’t, moi dearie, an’ oi aspeck we’m never will, unlest you’m tell us’n’s. Boi ’okey, scholarybeasts can bee’s gurtly aggurvatin’, hurr aye!”