Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

Snowdrop went straight to the door, brushing away the cobwebs and dust which lay thick upon it. “I can’t find a handle or a latch, but there’s some letters carved on the lintel.”

Lycian held the lantern close. “What do they say?”

The little Sister read out the graven script. “As far as I can make out, it says ‘I say regiments!’ ”

The Abbess sounded bemused. “Are you sure, Sister? ‘I say regiments’? I can’t recall hearing of any regiments in the attics of our Abbey!”

Snowdrop replied, almost apologetically, “Well, that’s what it says, Mother Abbess. ‘I say regiments.’ ”

Girry narrowed his eyes as he scanned the words. “Put the lantern down, Abbess. Over there, where the dust is still undisturbed, please.”

Unquestioningly, Lycian placed the lantern on the floor. Using a pawnail, Girry traced the words “I say regiments” into the dust in a circle, like the figures on a clockface. After studying the ring of letters for a moment, he nodded to Sister Snowdrop.

“Well, do you see it, marm?”

She stared a while and nodded knowingly. “Yes, indeed. I see it now.”

Lycian looked from one to the other. “See what? Will you please tell me?”

Girry swept his paw around the dusty circle. “It’s another anagram. I’m getting pretty good at them. This is the place we’re looking for, Mother Abbess. Huh, ‘I say regiments’! It’s only a mixed-up name, and guess whose name it is?”

Lycian recognised it suddenly. “Sister Geminya!”

Girry dusted off his paws. “Correct. So let’s get that door open, shall we?”

In the big chamber on the lower floor, Quelt shuffled to the foot of the stairs. He peered up into the darkness, twitching his grey whiskers impatiently. “What in the name of confounded seasons are they doing up there all this time, eh?”

Grudd Foremole replied, with typical mole logic, “Oi aspeck they’ll tell ee, arter they’m cooms down, zurr.”

Sister Doral, who was trying to stop otterbabe Smudger from climbing out of the window, confided to Burbee, “They have been up there for rather a while now. I’m beginning to feel concern for them.”

The molemum dusted little Smudger off absentmindedly. “Hurr, an’ so’m oi, marm. But no matter ’ow us’ns bee’s a-feelin’, t’won’t affeck they’m beasts up ee stairs.”

A loud bang suddenly came from the room above. This was followed rapidly by the most unearthly shriek and clattering noises. The Redwallers rushed to the door at the foot of the stairs, with Skipper in the lead, roaring, “Stand by, mates. I’m comin’ up!”

He bounded onto the stairs, which shattered in a rending crash of ancient timbering. There was another earsplitting screech. Then thick clouds of dust billowed out into the chamber, enveloping everybeast.

22

Under cover of darkness, the Purloined Petunia sailed in toward the mystic mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Somewhat puzzled but obedient to her captain’s orders, Tiria manoeuvred the tiller, steering the vessel into the broad, curving bay. Twin beacons on the shoreline burned holes into the night, guiding her in. The ottermaid could make out figures running to and fro onshore. She surmised that these must be the legendary fighting hares of the Long Patrol, the Badger Lord’s perilous warriors. Cuthbert had gone forward, concealing himself in the tiny lean-to between galley and prow. Tiria guessed he had his own purpose in doing this; she had long given up questioning her odd companion. Vast and primitive, the mighty mountain loomed above her as she hove in, blocking out the eastern sky.

A hare waded into the sea. Standing waist deep, he waved a torch as he hailed the Petunia. “Ahoy the ship, identify yourself!”

Cupping paws to her mouth, Tiria shouted the answer, as Cuthbert had instructed her to. “The Purloined Petunia, bound for the destruction of all vermin and the protection of goodbeasts!”

She heard the hare chuckle as he replied, “Heave us a jolly old headrope, an’ we’ll bring you in.”

A line was already fixed to the bowsprit. Tiria ran forward. Separating the coils, she slung it in the hare’s direction. He was joined by a score or so of his comrades, who set their weight on the rope and pulled the ship to shore. More hares came to assist, throwing down logrollers and hauling the vessel over the tideline until it was fully beached, high and dry. Looking over the side, the ottermaid saw that she was surrounded by Long Patrol hares, all uniformed and fully armed. They parted, leaving an aisle through which came striding the biggest badger Tiria had ever imagined. Torchlight shimmered off his armoured breastplate as his dark eyes gazed up at her.

The huge beast’s voice was a thunderous rumble. “Permission to come aboard?”

Tiria was in a quandary. Her captain had not warned her of this. She was taken aback as a clipped military voice rapped out a reply to the badger.

“Permission granted, by all means, sah, but one’d much rather toodle ashore to bandy words with you, wot wot!”

Cuthbert emerged from hiding, completely transformed into a full-blown regimental major. Gone was the musselshell eyepatch and tawdry captain’s rig. The odd hare had waxed his moustache into two fine points, and he was wearing a monocle. Around his waist was a broad black silk sash with a straight sabre thrust through it. A short pink mess jacket was draped elegantly about his shoulders, tasselled, goldembroidered and bearing two rows of medals pinned to it. Cuthbert was carrying a silver-tipped swagger stick, which he waved in salute.

The big badger nodded, smiling. “Step ashore, Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw, and be so good as to bring your friends with you.”

As two young subaltern hares assisted her ashore with needless gallantry, Tiria introduced herself and the osprey. “I’m Tiria Wildlough from Redwall Abbey. This bird is Pandion Piketalon of Green Isle.”

The badger bowed solemnly. “Welcome, friends. I am Lord Mandoral Highpeak of Salamandastron. Come along, Tiria. Subs Quartle and Portan will attend to you, though I imagine that fine osprey can take ample care of himself.”

They strolled toward the mountain, with Mandoral and Cuthbert chatting animatedly in the lead. Tiria walked behind with the two young subalterns, who were obviously fascinated with the pretty young ottermaid. Both talked incessantly.

“I say, Miz Tiria, are you actually a jolly good chum of Old Blood’n’guts Blanedale?”

Tiria nodded. “I am indeed, Portan. Why do you ask?”

Portan grinned self-consciously. “No need for full titles, marm. Y’can call me Porters, an’ that flippin’ great droopears is Quarters, wot!”

His companion made a swift leg, tripped and almost fell. “Hawhaw, a pal of Old Blood’n’guts, eh? How many vermin have you slain between you? A jolly good few, I’ll wager!”

The ottermaid shook her head. “None, really. I only met him a short while ago. But what’s all this about slaying lots of vermin? I’d like to know more about my friend Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw.”

The company entered the mountain through an impressively large oaken double door. From there they went straight to the main mess hall. There was a host of other hares already there. The place was filled with noise. Long Patrol members laughed, joked, sang barrack room songs and banged on the tables, demanding dinner.

“I say, wheel in the bally tucker before I jolly well perish!”

“Good show, old chap. You carry on an’ perish. I’ll scoff yours an’ look sad for you later. Hawhawhaw!”