Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

an’ yore scared to raise yore head,

just be glad that you ain’t dead,

keep yore heads down!

Ye won’t win no medals here,

keep yore heads down.

Don’t be fools who know no fear,

keep yore heads down.

We can all lay low an’ sing,

duckin’ spears an’ stones from sling.

Let ’em chuck most anything,

but keep yore heads down!”

Amid smothered giggles and hoots, Slipback and Juppa made disparaging remarks behind their leader’s back.

“Haw haw, lookit the way ’is bottom waggles when ’e puts on a swagger. Looks like two sour apples in a sack!”

“Aye, an’ if’n ’e don’t stop wavin’ that blade around, ’e’ll chop ’is own tail off. Wot d’ye reckon, mate, does that liddle smidge look like a vermin warrior who’d terrify those Abbeybeasts?”

“Maybe they’ll laugh theirselves to death at the sight of ’im. Heeheeheee!”

Flinky gazed up in awe as the impressive red sandstone Abbey loomed closer. He muttered to Rogg and Floggo. “Huh, if Badredd gives the order to charge that place, well, I’ll be chargin’, shore enough. I’ll be runnin’ the other way, like a duck wid its tail on fire!”

The weasel brothers were not much given to merriment, but Flinky’s remark tickled them so much that they guffawed loudly.

Badredd came running back brandishing his cutlass. “Wot’s so funny, eh, can I share the joke?”

Flinky shrugged disarmingly. “Ah now, we wasn’t laughin’ at ye at all. ’Twas just that we’re ’appy for ye. Yore a good chief, an’ soon the magic sword’ll be yores. Ye deserve it fer bein’ a grand ould leader, so ye do. Ain’t that right, mates? Badredd’s the best boss we’ve ever ’ad!”

Half believing Flinky’s flattery, Badredd eyed the gang and nodded approvingly. “Lissen, mates, we could be a good crew if’n we tried. Now wipe the grins offa yore gobs an’ form up in twos. We’ll march straight up to that Abbey an’ put the fear o’ Hellgates into those peaceable bumpkins. Try t’look more like a gang o’ killers. Wave yore weapons about an’ snarl loud, as if yore ready t’do murder!”

Flinky glanced up at the high battlements. Already he saw heads poking up over them in the gathering gloom. Thinking quickly, the stoat slid down into the ditch on the path’s opposite side. He beckoned Badredd. “A nighttime charge might go wrong, Chief. D’ye not think we oughta figger out some kind of ould plan, afore we go rushin’ at a buildin’ that size?”

The little fox turned his attention to the walltops. Lots of heads were beginning to appear there. He climbed down into the ditch, alongside Flinky, knowing that what the stoat said made sense. “Aye, let’s, er, make up a scheme. . . . Everybeast down ’ere!”

The remaining gang members obeyed promptly. Flinky patted Badredd’s back. “Sure, that’s wot I likes about ye, Chief, yore a true fox, a born slayer, but a grand an’ crafty ould planner. Hoho, those creatures in there’ll get the shock o’ their lives when we turns up outside their doorstep tomorrer!”

Badredd was puzzled. “Tomorrer?”

Crinktail caught on, knowing her mate was trying to put off invading Redwall for as long as possible. She backed Flinky up. “Haharr, clever move, Chief. Tomorrer’s the best time t’do it!”

Beyond a straight charge, Badredd had no real plan. He decided to hear Flinky out, knowing the stoat was no fool.

Flinky explained eagerly. “ ’Tis dark now, y’see, an’ we’re in strange territory. The gang can get a good night’s rest down ’ere. When you’ve thought up yore scheme, we’ll be ready fer a fresh start, an’ catch ’em nappin’ at dawn! Now that’s wot I calls a smart move, thought up by a smart fox!”

Unaccustomed to compliments, Badredd enjoyed the feeling of having everybeast waiting on their leader’s word. Flicking his tail round slowly, he stroked it as foxes do when they are pleased. “Right, we rest ’ere, gang, that’s my orders!”

He missed the nudge exchanged between Crinktail and Flinky as they lay down and closed their eyes. Flinky murmured but loud enough to be heard by all. “Ain’t we the lucky ones, havin’ a gangleader like Badredd.”

Starlit darkness had fallen as Abbot Carrul made his way up the north wallsteps onto the ramparts. A frown creased his brow when he saw the throng of Redwallers crowding the parapet.

“Friends, listen to me, please. There’s no need for all of you up here. With vermin about, it’s not safe to stand looking over the battlements. Anybeast who is not required up here, please go down now. Sister Setiva, Sister Portula, will you see those Dibbuns down the stairs, it’s time they were in their beds anyhow.”

Toran and Junty, who had already joined Foremole Dwurl and Brother Weld, were at the northwest wall corner. Carrul hastened to join them. “Is there really a vermin band out there? Where are they now?”

Toran answered reassuringly. “There’s no great army o’ them, Father, I only counted about eight. Might be more to come, but I ain’t spotted ’em yet.”

Junty made way for the Abbot to look between the battlements as Toran pointed. “Look, they’ve lit a small fire, in the ditch, just further up the path there. Wonder wot they’re up to?” A red-gold glow showed from the ditch, where Toran was pointing.

Foremole blinked. “Oi aspeck they’m cooken ee supper.”

The Abbot looked to Toran. “What do you think?”

Thumping his rudder thoughtfully against the wallside, the ottercook speculated. “Well, there’s no way a crew that size could attack Redwall. I think we’d best do nothin’ for the present, Father. But let’s watch every move they make. We’ll post sentries on the walls, just a few who can watch ’em, while keepin’ low. Who can tell—maybe they’re only passin’ by this way. Per’aps they’re bound someplace else. I wish Bragoon an’ Saro would’ve stayed a day or two longer—we could really do with ’em right now!”

Foremole smote the wall with a heavy digging claw. “Boi ’okey we’m cudd, they’m udd know wot to do abowt ee varmints. But thurr bee’s h’only us’n’s, yurr!”

Toran could sense that the Abbot was waiting for him to take charge. He waved down to Martha, waiting in her chair on the lawn, then spoke. “Father, maybe ye an’ Martha could get a few helpers an’ search around for anythin’ that would be useful as a weapon. I’ve got a feelin’ they won’t make a move ’til tomorrow. We should be ready for ’em by then, though it prob’ly won’t come to that. I’ll stay up here with Junty, Weld an’ Foremole on watch.”

The Abbot went down to the lawn and pushed Martha back to the Abbey, explaining what was happening and what he had seen. The young haremaid could tell by Abbot Carrul’s face that he was very worried.

Wirga was long past her best seasons, a wrinkled, toothless old Searat, yet Raga Bol kept her with his crew. She was useless as a fighter or a forager, but she possessed other skills. There was little that Wirga did not know about wounds and the treatment of injuries. Her powers as a healer and her knowledge of herbs, nostrums and remedies made the old vermin invaluable to the ignorant crewrats. But there was yet another art Wirga practiced—that of a Seer. Raga Bol, as captain, was the only one she allowed to consult her, and then only in times of crisis.

Wirga crouched by the fire, watching Bol. They were camped among some wooded hills where the red sandstone rocks of Mossflower jutted out in shelflike formation. It was twilight. The Searat crew had slain a small colony of woodmice, and were leisurely plundering their shattered dwellings. Raga Bol and Wirga sat on a hilltop, isolated from the noisy rabble below.