Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

Bowing his head, Kolun went on bended knee. “Nay, Majesty. I’m Kolun Galedeep, Skipper o’ the Galedeep clan, an’ I’m honoured to meet ye, yore Majesty!”

Taking his paws, Tiria raised him up immediately. “Please, Kolun, I don’t want anybeast bowing and scraping to me. Don’t call me Majesty, my name’s Tiria.”

The big otter grinned cheerfully. “Fair enough. I’ll call ye Queen Tiria, how’ll that do?”

She patted his huge paw. “That’ll do me fine, mate. You’re such a bigbeast, I thought you must be a Wildlough.”

Kolun looked her up and down. “Wildloughs ain’t usually yore size, Queen Tiria. How did ye get to be so tall?”

With a twinkle in her eyes, Tiria replied, “I told my dad I wouldn’t be long!”

It was an old otterjoke. The clanbeasts laughed heartily, pleased that their queen was not a remote and formal presence. She was one of them.

Corporal Drubblewick and his helpers joined forces with some ottercooks. Together they set about cooking for everybeast. Cuthbert, Granden and O’Cragg convened a Council of War with Kolun, Lorgo, Banya and Tiria. They sat apart from the rest, dining on turnip and mushroom soup, fresh baked farls, fruit and burdock cordial. Banya explained to the hares what had taken place. She told them of the warlord’s threat to kill Leatho and the slaves, starting at dawn. Captain Granden questioned the otters on every aspect of the fortress and the number of catguards there. Using charcoal and a piece of willow bark, Banya sketched a map of the fortress layout—pier, buildings, barracks, tower and slave compound.

Cuthbert studied it keenly. Then, moving his ears in approval, he replied, “This is splendid, just what we jolly well need, wot. Sergeant, have the Patrol ready to move out in mufti soon as ye can. Tell ’em to smoke all blades, too.”

Tiria looked at him enquiringly. “You’re moving the Patrol out now? But why?”

Dropping his monocle, Cuthbert winked with the air of a conspirator. “Quick tactics are best, doncha know? I’ve laid my plans. Ye won’t see me or the Patrol again until dawn. Now, I’ll tell ye what I want you otter types t’do, so pay attention, chaps. Kolun an’ Lorgo, take your clans along both banks. Banya, see if ye can get some o’ your creatures to knock together a raft that’ll carry about twoscore. Can ye do that?”

The tough Streamdog maid nodded. “Aye, we can steal the fishin’ coracles an’ lay a platform of logs on ’em. Shouldn’t be too much trouble, Major.”

Cuthbert gazed at her admiringly. “If ye ever decide to become a hare, I’ll have ye in my regiment, gel. You go with your queen on the raft, straight up the middle o’ the lake. Tiria, I want you standin’ front an’ centre on that vessel, lookin’ just like a queen, d’ye hear me? Now, all you otters, it’s blinkin’ well vital that ye make it to the pier at dawn, understand? Oh, an’ I want ye t’be makin’ as much noise as possible. Sing, shout, yell warcries, do what ye bally well like, but let’s have a rousin’ good din raised. So, that’s about all, chaps. Good fortune be with us all. Forward the buffs, give ’em blood’n’vinegar an’ all that. Wot wot!”

“Patrol ready t’march out h’in skirmish order, sah!”

Tiria looked up to see that they were surrounded by hares. Each member of the Long Patrol had shed their scarlet tunics, camouflaging themselves with twigs, grass and leaves. Every blade they carried had been blackened by fire smoke. Major Cuthbert Blanedale Frunk dropped both monocle and swagger stick and shrugged off his tunic. Tiria could tell by the wild look in his eyes that he was going into one of his many character changes. He leered villainously, squinting one eye.

“Hohoho, me beauties, the wild badgers are huntin’ tonight. Lord Brockfang Frunk bids ye farewell!”

Both he and the hares were gone in a trice, swallowed up by the nighttime undergrowth.

Lorgo Galedeep shuddered. “Curl me rudder, he’s madder than a mop-topped mouse!”

Tiria reassured him calmly. “Oh, I wouldn’t call him mad, exactly. Let’s say he’s a beast of many parts. I’ve seen him as a shrew chieftain, a sea otter pirate and a regimental major. But one thing you may rest assured of, he’s not stupid. That hare is a legend among his kind—a master of strategy and the most perilous warrior in all Salamandastron. I’d trust my life to him any day of the season!”

Kolun chuckled. “So now he’s a wild huntin’ badger, eh? Well, I’d hate t’be the foebeast that has to face him.”

Banya tweaked the big fellow’s whiskers. “But you ain’t no huntin’ badger, Mister Galedeep. C’mon, up with ye! Yore a log finder now. Queen Tiria has to have a raft that won’t let us down, so move yore carcass!”

Tiria squeezed Banya’s paw fondly. “I like the way you dish out orders. Maybe I’d do well to appoint you my assistant-in-chief, Banya.”

Kolun heaved himself up, pulling a wry face. “Wait’ll ye meet my missus, Deedero. You’ll make her a chief, too. She’s good at givin’ orders, I can tell ye!”

As the night wore steadily on, Tiria sat alone on the lakeside. She made ready for the dawn, buffing her breastplate, polishing the coronet and carefully brushing her short velvet cloak. After folding her cloak, she laid the regalia on it. Next she checked her sling and stonepouch. Rummaging about amid the pebbles, she came across something she had almost forgotten. It was the vicious star-shaped iron missile which Brother Perant had extracted from Pandion’s beak. Tiria recalled the vow she had made to return it to the foebeast. She loaded it into the tongue of the sling which Lord Mandoral had made for her, thinking back to when it had all started—the day she and her three friends had rescued the osprey from the rat gang. It seemed so long ago now. A wave of nostalgia crept over the ottermaid for those she held dear: her father, Brink, Girry, Tribsy, Brinty, Friar Bibble, Sister Snowdrop and Old Quelt. She reflected on the many faithful companions she had been brought up with—the funny little Dibbuns, and Abbess Lycian, so young yet so wise. And, of course, her beautiful home, Redwall Abbey. Would she ever see it again? The ottermaid sniffed, wiping a paw across her eyes and reflecting on the destiny fate had thrust upon her: Rhulain, High Queen of Green Isle.

All those otterclans with so much faith and trust in her, and she, a single ottermaid, with the task of freeing them from the tyranny of a foebeast who revelled in cruelty and brutality. What would Martin the Warrior have done in her place?

Tiria lay down to sleep, staring up at the starstrewn skies. She remembered Sergeant O’Cragg telling her that they were the spirits of brave warriors. Through the mists of descending sleep, Martin’s voice drifted into her dreams.

“You ask what I would do in your place, Tiria. I would do the same thing you are about to do. It is called the right thing!”

31

Leatho Shellhound was bone weary for want of sleep. All night the catguards had been trying to get inside the high tower chamber to capture him. Luckily the stout door held, barricaded as it was by a heavy table and thick wooden benches wedged firmly in position. The outlaw otter stood at the open window, breathing deeply of the cold predawn air to keep himself awake. Below him, the pier and lake were still in darkness. Behind him, the spears and pikes of his enemy battered ceaselessly on the door.

Leatho threw back his head and roared at his tormentors, “Don’t stand there knockin’, fools, come on in! Ye whiskeryfaced, droolin’, tabby-pawed cowards! Come on, step inside an’ meet the Shellhound! I’ll rip the heads’n’guts from the first ten of ye who come through that door! Ee aye eeeeeeeeh!”