Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

Tiria cheered up, accepting the hares’ compliments and putting up with their jokes. When the meal was finished, Captain Granden gave the order for everybeast to inspect arms.

“Before ye fall in t’march, look to those weapons. All lance an’ spearpoints to be correctly tipped. Pay special attention to your blades, sharpen ’em blinkin’ well. Bowstrings t’be waxed an’ tested, you archers, check your quivers. Slingbeasts, I don’t want t’see any frayed slings or half-filled stonepouches. This beach is full of bloomin’ good pebbles. Make bally sure your arms ain’t goin’ to let ye down if push comes to shove, buckoes. Then y’can fall in, formed in three ranks. Major Frunk an’ my goodself will scout ahead. Sarn’t Major O’Cragg, will ye take over please?”

He murmured in Tiria’s ear, “Ye’d best march with the Patrol, Lady. We don’t want to risk losin’ you just yet!”

The advance scouts had departed by the time the Patrol were ready and formed up. Tiria marched alongside Quartle and Portan, with Sergeant O’Cragg leading off at the front of the columns. The hares sang a marching song, though not too loudly, just to keep them in orderly stride.

“Left right, left right,

put those paws down lively now.

One two, one two,

come on chaps let’s show ’em how.

’Tis on to death or glory,

for every willin’ beast,

an’ what’ll we have to show for it,

a song a fight an’ a feast!

Left right, left right,

every mother’s son of ye.

One two, one two,

o’er shore’n’hill’n’vale’n’lea.

The Long Patrol are on the march,

from dawn ’til evenin’ light,

as long as we can end it with

a song a feast an’ a fight!

Left right, left right,

eatin’ dust an’ poundin’ earth.

One two, one two,

’tis all a warrior’s worth,

a dash o’ blood’n’vinegar,

for that we’ll string along,

while we’re alive we’ll all survive

on a fight a feast an’ a song!”

Sunlight glinted brightly off Tiria’s armour. Her short emerald cloak swaying jauntily, she picked up the words of the hares’ tune and sang it a second time. As she marched, thoughts began to tumble through the young ottermaid’s mind. She had come all the way from being an Abbeymaid who had hardly been far outside of Redwall, to a would-be warrior queen marching across Green Isle with the Long Patrol. And all in the space of one season! If only her father and all her dear friends—Brink Greyspoke, Abbess Lycian, Brinty, Girry, Tribsy, Friar Bibble and the rest—could see her now! A resolve rose within Tiria. She would not let any of them down, especially the gallant hares of Salamandastron. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she marched onward regally. Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was right: Handsome is as handsome does!

29

Leatho Shellhound had decided on a course of action. His first job was to break out of the cage. But where then? It was far too high up for him to reach the pier below, so he planned on going upward. He would climb into the chamber above, through the window, from whence his prison was suspended. It would be a risky business, but the outlaw realised it was his only avenue of escape. Looking down through the floor bars, he checked below, lest any guards were watching. The pier and the lake beyond it lay deserted. Leatho did not stop to wonder why. Instead, he focussed on trying to loosen one of the roof timbers. Attempting to prevent the cage from hitting the side of the tower—and doing so with as little noise as possible—was no easy task. The roof bars were made of heavy wood, quite thick, and were firmly nailed in place with iron spikes. The outlaw otter attacked them with his bare paws, pulling, pushing, clawing and scrabbling, but to no avail. Clearly, it was going to be a long and painstaking chore. He began working on the iron spikes, desperately trying to budge just one. After a while his paws were skinned and bleeding from the effort, forcing him to take a rest.

As the Shellhound was licking his scratches and wishing he had some sort of tool to help, he heard the door creak in the upper chamber. Quickly he wrapped the severed rope ends around his paws and hung there limply, as though he were still bound and helpless.

Weilmark Scaut had decided to look in on the prisoner. He leaned over the windowsill and rattled the cage bars with his whipstock. “Hah, still alive, are ye, Shellhound? Wot’s it feel like, hangin’ up here without any vittles or water, eh?”

Determined not to rise to the bait, Leatho hung limply, head lolling forward, feigning unconsciousness.

Scaut thrust the whip through the bars, managing to tickle his victim’s ears with it. He whispered scornfully, “Ain’t so bold an’ sprightly now, are ye? Well, you just stay there like a goodbeast ’til yore rebel friends surrender. Aye, then we’ll take ye down, an’ I’ll give ye a proper taste o’ this lash. Pleasant dreams!”

Leatho heard him retreating back into the chamber, slamming the door as he left.

A dark shadow hovered over him, and a voice nearby whispered, “Raaaark! He is gone. Ye could do with some help.”

Leatho found himself looking up into the savage, goldenrimmed eyes of a mighty hawk as it hovered over the cage. He loosened his paws from the ropes.

“Who are ye, mate, an’ what’re ye doin’ here?”

The big bird perched on the cage roof. “Kraagarr! I am the enemy of all cats. I have been watching ye trying to get out of this thing.”

The otter smiled ruefully. “Ain’t havin’ much luck, am I?”

The hawk shook its head. “I will help ye. Push upward on this middle bar, an’ I will pull. Ready!”

Leatho began pushing, grunting with exertion as he set his paws to the bar. The big bird wrapped its fearsome talons around the bar. Flapping its powerful wings, it strained upward, pulling as Leatho pushed.

Crack! The bar snapped straight through its centre. Releasing its hold on the broken bar, the hawk hovered in the air for a brief moment, its fierce unwinking eyes scanning the area. “Yeeaakkah! Pandion Piketalon must go before cats come with bows and slings!”

Leatho waved to his newfound friend. “My thanks to ye, Pandion. I am called Leatho Shellhound. I, too, am an enemy of the cats. Mayhaps we’ll meet again.”

The osprey circled overhead gracefully. “Hayaarr! We will make the cats weep blood, Leatho. I will bring the Rhulain and her warriors to help ye!”

Without waiting for a reply, Pandion soared off swiftly into the distance, leaving the outlaw with the name pounding through his brain: Rhulain! Rhulain! The High Queen of Green Isle was coming, just as Ould Zillo had prophesied. He repeated the word aloud like a magic spell. “Rhulain! Rhulain!”

A quick downward glance assured Leatho that all was still quiet below. There was neither sign nor presence of catguards watching. By grabbing one end of the broken roof bar and yanking it sharply downward, he managed to pull it loose. It was a jagged length of timber with an iron spike through the top—crude but nevertheless a fearsome weapon in the paws of the outlaw. Clambering out onto the roof of his former prison, Leatho shinned up the short length of rope and hauled himself over the windowsill. He went into a fighting crouch, wielding his improvised club, ready to face anybeast who stood in his way. But the room was empty, save for a table and a few benches. Leatho crept quietly to the door, holding his ear to it. The two catguards out on the stairhead were talking. Leatho eavesdropped on their conversation.