Brian Jacques - Rakkety Tam

Walt scowled. “Burr, then oi’ll raise anuther blister, zurr, roight on ee skull!”

Good food and merry banter went back and forth. Humble waited until there was a lull in the proceedings before he signalled to Skipper. The otter chieftain went to the tapestry. Standing upon a tall chair, he took the sword of Martin from its two brackets above the tapestry. A hush fell over all as he laid the blade on the table in front of Armel.

The Abbot addressed her in a voice which could be heard by every Redwaller present. “This is the sword of Martin the Warrior, made by a Badger Lord in the fires at Salamandastron. It is said that the blade was forged from the metal of a star which fell from the skies. This sword has always stood as a symbol of truth, honour and justice at Redwall. I place it in your care, Sister Armel. You must promise to bring it back here when its task is fulfilled.”

Apart from a red pommel stone, the sword hilt was a plain black grip, serviceable and strong. Armel laid her paw upon it, gazing in awe at the legendary blade. This was fashioned with a centre channel and double edges, keen as ice in midwinter, running to a point which shimmered like a searing flame.

The blade was as old as forgotten dreams and as lethal as death’s shadow.

Armel’s voice was hushed, yet it echoed round Great Hall. “Father, it is a strange thing for a maid who knows only about healing, and caring for the sick, to be bearing such a weapon. But I will deliver it to the warrior whom Martin has spoken of. When the sword has served its purpose, I swear upon my life that I will return it to you, here in this room at Redwall!”

Amid applause and cheers of approval, Humble embraced the young squirrel, whom he had seen grow from infancy to a well-loved member of his Abbey. Tears dewed in his eyes for the unknown dangers she might be facing.

16

Slow-drifting cloudbanks masked a buttercup-hued half-moon in the spring night. Somewhere off in the distant trees a nightjar churred its nocturnal melody. At the south wallgate, Skipper withdrew the bolts of the little door in the wall. The mouse Gatekeeper, Brother Gordale, eased the door back on its well-oiled hinges.

Skipper patted his niece’s cheek affectionately. “Be a good young maid now, an’ watch out for Sister Armel an’ that sword. D’ye hear me?”

Even Brooky knew that this was no time for laughter. She pressed her uncle’s big paw. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on ’em both.”

Humble assured Sister Armel, “We’ll be watching every day for your return. Go now, and may good fortune smile upon you both.”

The little walldoor closed quietly as two hooded and cloaked figures ventured off into the darkness.

Armel and Brooky went quickly over the small area of grassland which skirted the south wall. They headed for the path which curved through Mossflower Wood. Outside of the Abbey, everything looked different without the blessing of sunlight.

Armel shuddered. “I’ve only been outside the Abbey a few times, and then not far—either gathering herbs or for picnics when I was small. It feels very lonely out here with just each other for company.”

Brooky stifled a titter, trying her best to sound confident. “You stay close t’me and you’ll come t’no harm, pal. I’ve been twice to the north shores in the summer with Uncle Skip and his crew. I’m used to this sort o’ thing, y’know.”

She tripped on a rock and went headlong into a pile of broom. Armel could not help chuckling as she took hold of Brooky’s paw. “Up you come, mate. Are you alright?”

The stout ottermaid shot up immediately. “Right as rain, thankee! Though I wish that moon’d keep still an’ stop dodging behind the clouds. This cloak’s a nuisance, too. Can’t take a step without it tripping me!”

They made the path without further incident and followed it south for a while. Armel began getting used to the dark. “Watch the ditch on your right side, Brooky. Hold on a tick while I fix this sword.”

Brooky helped her friend adjust the sword, which was wrapped in a sheath of soft barkcloth. She fixed it so that the blade hung flat down Armel’s back beneath her cloak, away from prying eyes. The ottermaid took charge of both their foodpacks, toting them easily over one shoulder. “I’ll carry these. You take care of the sword, pal.”

Armel smiled gratefully. “Thanks, mate. Friar Glisum said that he thought up some travelling rations specially for us, stuff that doesn’t need cooking. He said there’s a full meal in each piece. Oh, and Burlop Cellarhog gave us a flask of a recipe he’s invented to save carrying too much weight.”

Brooky flexed her shoulder. “Feels light enough. What is it?”

Armel explained. “A syrup made from boiled-down fruit juices and honey. Burlop said you only have to add water to it and it’ll make a sweet, nourishing drink. Good, eh?”

The ottermaid commented doubtfully, “I’ll let you know after I’ve tried it. Hadn’t we better cut off west into the trees? This path runs mainly south.”

Armel agreed. “Good idea, but how do we cross the ditch?”

Brooky suddenly regained her sense of fun. “The best plan would be to jump over it, ’cos we can’t very well jump under it. Hahahaha, here goes!”

She took a short run and jumped, making the other side with ease. “See that, Armel! I should’ve been born a bird really, I just flew over. Your turn now—ready, steady, jump!”

The squirrelmaid took a short run at the ditch, but at the crucial moment of jumping, her footpaw became snarled in her cloak hem. With a small cry of dismay, she plunged headlong into the ditch.

Her otter friend came swiftly to the rescue. “Oh, bad luck, pal. Stay there, I’ll get you out!” She slid down into the ditch, which was deeper than she had thought it would be.

The moon came from behind the clouds, throwing a pale light down to illuminate the scene. Armel was flat on her back, almost rigid with fright as she called out, “Brooky, stand still, don’t move!”

There was no water in the ditch, just a deep layer of damp leaves and weeds. Right between the two travellers, a snake reared its head out of its scaly coils, hissing venomously. “Thrrrrttsss!”

Wide-eyed with horror, Armel whispered, “Brooky, I think it’s an adder. What do we do now?”

The ottermaid had been studying the reptile carefully. Slowly she took the ration packs from her shoulder. As she did this, Brooky appeared to be striking up a conversation with the snake. “Well, are you an adder?”

Its head swivelled to face her. “I am death to allbeastssssss!”

Brooky seemed quite fascinated by this declaration. “Are you really? Well, what can we do for you, Mister Death?”

The snake slithered toward Brooky, its forked tongue flickering. “I like to eat thingssssss!”

As soon as the reptile had its back to her, Armel began inching her paw slowly toward the sword hilt. However, there was no need for any action on her part because of what Brooky did next.

The ottermaid smiled engagingly at the snake. “You like to eat things . . . haha, don’t we all! Listen, we’ve got lots of nice vittles with us. Why not try some?”

She swung both the ration packs with lightning speed. Whap! Smack! Thunk! Wallop! Four hefty blows landed forcibly on the snake’s head, leaving it slack-coiled and totally senseless.

Armel struggled up and ran to her friend. “Oh Brooky, I thought the adder was going to kill you! How wonderfully brave you were, attacking it like that!”

The young otter looked up from the packs, which she was checking for damage. “Hahahaha! Wonderfully brave, my grannie’s apron! You great, fluffy-tailed buffer, don’t you know the difference twixt an adder an’ a grass snake? Huh, Mister Death, eh!”