Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

Tiria watched the stone falling through the semitranslucent sea. It fell rapidly, bouncing off the sides of the underwater rock peak. When it had vanished into the depths, Mandoral instructed the ottermaid. “You must hold on to the rope at all times. Don’t let go of it, Tiria. When you want to come up, just give one normal tug and I’ll haul you up. Is that understood?”

Tiria winked at him confidently. “Don’t worry about me, sir, I’ll be fine. Otters know their way about underwater.”

She winced as the big badger gripped her paw, his voice becoming stern. “I know you’re an otter, but you listen to me, young ’un. It’s not the same as Abbey pools or forest streams, being down under the deep seas. Nobeast really knows what dangers may lurk down there, so you hold on to that rope tight. If you get into any real danger, then give it two sharp jerks, and I’ll have you out of there.”

Tiria took a firm grip on the lifeline. “I understand, sir, and thank you for all your help.”

She slid over the prow into the cold sea, with the crew’s best wishes.

“Haharr, Tilly me gel, you keep yore eyes peeled down there!”

“Aye, miz, best of jolly good luck an’ all that, wot!”

“Toodle pip, old thing, hope it ain’t too flippin’ cold down there. Rather you than me, I say.”

Then she submerged completely into cold, eerie silence.

BOOK THREE

Across the Western Sea

24

Leatho Shellhound regained consciousness painfully, discovering that he could only see through one eye. The captive outlaw found he could not move his paws; they were bound, outspread, to the bars of a wooden cage. He tried to wriggle free, but the whole structure wobbled and shook. Leatho gave up struggling and waited until his senses were fully restored before taking stock of his situation. The cage was suspended by a thick rope, high on the fortress tower. It hung beneath the windowsill of Riggu Felis’s personal chamber.

The top of Leatho’s head ached abominably from the blow of the wildcat’s axehaft. He tasted dried blood on his lips and guessed that his eyelid was sealed shut by some of that same blood, which had flowed from his headwound. Wrenching his face to one side, he rubbed the affected eye against his shoulder, blinking until it was cleared and he could see properly once more.

Below him, the pier was crowded with otterslaves, hemmed in by armed catguards. Gazing down on the sea of upturned faces, the outlaw’s defiant spirit rose as he roared at the catguards, “Heeee aye eeee! I am the Shellhound! Loose me, cowards, an’ I’ll fight ye all with my bare paws!”

A bucket of water drenched Leatho, causing him to gasp with shock. Riggu Felis leaned over the windowsill, still holding the bucket, his chain mail mask tinkling as it hung down from his ruined face.

“Shout all you like, Shellhound, your fighting days are gone forever. I have plans for you, outlaw. Would you like to hear them?”

Leatho raised his dripping face, teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me out of here and I’ll fight you to the death, half-face. Even with my paws bound behind my back, I’ll slay ye!”

The warlord laughed. “Brave words, that’s all you have left, outlaw. Listen now whilst I speak some words of my own.”

Throwing the bucket away, the wildcat leaned out over the sill, his voice ringing out to those below. “Hear me, I am Riggu Felis, a true wildcat, and Warlord of Green Isle! No longer will my domain be troubled by runaways and rebels. See, I have captured their chief, the bold Leatho Shellhound. He will remain up here until his friends surrender. Either they can give themselves up or they may sneak back here in future days to look up at this cage. They will see the bones of Shellhound bleaching in the sun and rotting in the weather. Gulls and carrion birds will pick at his remains. That will be on their heads. If the rebels do not give themselves up, he starves to death! Nobeast defies Riggu Felis. This is a lesson every creature on Green Isle must learn!”

Below on the pier, Weilmark Scaut unfurled his whip and cracked it viciously over the slaves. “Back to work, idlebeasts! Gather the crops, forage for kindling wood, fish the lake. Tonight there will be a great feast in honour of Lord Felis’s triumph!”

The captives went back to their enforced chores, despair stamped on their faces, some openly shedding tears. The wildcat foe had finally won. Their leader, Leatho Shellhound, was a prisoner, strung up in a high cage to die. Now their last sweet dreams of freedom had truly deserted them.

That afternoon, the wildcat sat out with Scaut beneath a pier awning, watching the coracles fishing out on the lake. Just as the weilmark was beginning to doze off in the warm sun, a prod from the warlord’s axehaft stirred him back to wakefulness.

“Who’s that coming along the shore?”

Scaut blinked. “It looks like your son Pitru with some of his guards. Shall I go an’ see wot he wants, Lord?”

Riggu Felis leaned back, closing his eyes. “No, let him come to me. We’ll know soon enough.”

The young cat swaggered up and stood in front of his father, who was feigning sleep. Pitru rattled his scimitar on the pier boards to gain attention, addressing his father insolently.

“Hah, the mighty Lord of Green Isle, eh? Taking a nap while his slaves are escaping!”

Felis opened one eye disdainfully. “Oh, it’s you. What’s all this nonsense about escaping slaves?”

Pitru signalled to his catguards, who tossed a slain otter down on the pier. It was the body of Runka Streamdog, brother of Banya. Pitru indicated it with a wave of his blade. “This is one of them. He was supposed to be fishing. I spotted the empty coracle floating round by the reeds. There were two slaves—one managed to get away but we killed this one. And all the time our bold warlord was snoring the afternoon away. But I shouldn’t be complaining. The very old are like babes, they need their daytime nap.”

Instead of replying to his son’s insult, the wildcat turned upon Scaut, growling menacingly, “Didn’t you give that young idiot my instructions?”

The weilmark came to his own defence hastily. “Sire, I was half the mornin’ tellin’ everybeast yore orders, but Pitru an’ his guards weren’t to be found, Lord. I swear, I searched for’em everywhere!”

The warlord began advancing on his hapless minion, backing him toward the lake as he prodded him with a punishing claw. “My orders were that some slaves should escape! Otherwise, how would the rebels know about their leader’s capture and the fate I had decreed for him, eh? Who would deliver my message to them, you thick-eared dolt!”

He gave Scaut a final, savage shove that sent him splashing into the lake, which was fairly deep by the end pylons. Scaut went right under. He bobbed up once, banged his head on the pier’s underside and went down again.

Riggu Felis shook his head in disgust as he beckoned to the guards. “Get that buffoon out of there before he drowns.”

Pushing their spearpoles under the pier, the catguards probed about. Scaut surfaced, a moment later, hanging onto the spears and spewing out muddy water as he yowled like a madbeast. “Haaaaarggggg! Yooooaagh! Gemme out!”

They hauled him out, tangled up with the ropes that bound him to the rotting carcass of Atunra, the missing pine marten. Two guards slashed away with their spearblades, hacking through the ropes and freeing the weilmark from his horrific burden. Scaut frantically scrambled out of the decomposing Atunra’s embrace, clambered onto the pier and fainted in a pool of lakewater.