Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The old Searat knew that her captain wished to consult her. He had given her half a roasted dove and a goblet of his personal grog—this was always a sign that she was needed. Wirga took out her pouch of charms and selected half a large musselshell. It was edged with yellow on the inside, glistening grey at the centre, with three partially grown purple mussel’s pearls protruding from its broad end.

Filling the shell with water, she gazed into it. “Thy appetite is not good of late?”

Raga Bol licked the sharp tip of his silver pawhook in silence as Wirga continued.

“Sleep eludes thee, thou are weary. None can rest easy in thy presence. Even I fear to speak of certain things—aye, things that trouble thee.”

With a curt nod, the Searat captain dismissed the four guards who attended him from twilight to dawn. When they had gone off to join the others, he took a furtive glance over his shoulder.

Drawing close to the Seer, Raga Bol dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Fear not, speak openly to me, ye won’t be harmed.”

Keeping her eyes on the water-filled shell, the old Seer proceeded, her voice now a sibilant hiss. “If thine enemy lives, he must die. Only then can Raga Bol find peace of mind. Thy foe’s death will release thee.”

The Searat captain’s eyes shone feverishly. “Does the stripedog still live? Tell me!”

Wirga turned away from the shell, confronting him. “When did thou last see this stripedog?”

Bol’s red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. “This very noon, aye, in full sunlight. ’Twas when we stopped to rest. I was so tired that I dozed off awhile. The sun beat through my closed lids, makin’ everythin’ go red. That’s when I saw the stripedog. Gettin’ off a strange craft he was, where that broadstream from the nor’east bends away from the trees an’ woodlands. Ye recall the spot, ’twas where we slayed those two shrews. The stripedog pointed to the bodies an’ looked straight at me. ‘They will be avenged, I am coming for ye, Raga Bol!’ Those were his very words.”

Wirga went back to contemplating the water in the shell, then continued. “Thee told him to go away and join the deadbeasts at Hellgates, because he was already slain by thee. But the giant stripedog kept coming. He was frightening to look upon, with his face cleaved wide, but scarred an’ stitched together by somebeast. Do I not speak truly?”

Raga Bol gasped, in awe of the Seer and her powers. “Aye, true, but how did ye know? Did ye see the beast, too?”

She smiled. “Wirga sees many things unknown to others.”

What she did not say was that she had been observing her captain for days—listening, watching, taking all in. Every nightmare, every time Raga Bol called out, in the brief times he did sleep, were memorised by Wirga. She had a complete picture of it all—from the moment Raga Bol had struck the badger to every event since.

The Searat captain brought his face even closer to the Seer. His breath was hot on her jaw, his voice half threat and half plea. “I can’t fight a dream, so I’m waitin’ on yore word. Tell me wot t’do, I must be rid of the stripedog!”

Wirga replied. “Knowest thou my three sons?”

Bol knew the ones she spoke of, though not too well. They were a furtive trio, a bit undersized for Searats, always last to fight but first to grab the plunder. He was not impressed with them, and saw the three as background vermin who never put themselves forward or appeared bold, like proper Searats often do.

The captain shrugged. “Aye, I know ’em, they ain’t no great shakes as fighters. That big stripedog could eat the three of ’em!”

Wirga rocked back and forth on her haunches, chuckling. “Heehee, well said. But give ’em a skilled tracker, one who could lead ’em to the place of thy dream, an’ my sons will make an end of thy stripedog, believe me!”

Raga Bol drew his scimitar, allowing the firelight to gleam across its lethal blade. “If’n’ I never finished the bigbeast with a blow o’ this, how could three runts like that do the job?”

Wirga drew from her pouch a section of bamboo, cut off near the joint and sealed at one end with beeswax. Carefully, she broke away the wax and upended the cylinder. Six long thorns spilled out, each one tipped with crimson dye and plumed with the short feathers of some exotic bird. She stayed Raga Bol’s paw as he reached to pick one up.

“Keep away from such things. They can kill ten times more swiftly than the most venomous snake!”

The Searat captain pulled back his paw. “Poison?”

Using her long pawnails, the Seer divided the thorns into three groups of two. “Once one of these little beauties pricks the skin, even the greatest warrior cannot stand. Poison, from far isles across the southern seas. My three sons know how to use these darts. Warriors they may not be, but assassins they surely are. Give ’em a tracker to lead ’em to the streambend. They will seek out thy stripedog an’ slay ’im.”

Raga Bol stood abruptly, peering over the hilltop rocks at his crew below until he saw the one he required. “Ahoy, Jibsnout!”

A big, competent-looking Searat saluted. “Cap’n?”

Raga Bol called back to him. “Bring Wirga’s three sons up ’ere. I’ve got a task for the four of ye.”

Night had fallen as the sons of Wirga left the hilltop, following Jibsnout. The tracker had a blanket with some food rolled into it thrown over his shoulder, and a well-honed dagger dangling from a cord around his neck.

Once they were off the hill and bound back along the trail, Jibsnout halted and glared contemptuously at the three smaller rats. It was obvious he did not enjoy their company. He pointed the dagger at each of them in turn.

“Lissen t’me, slimesnouts. I don’t like yew three one liddle bit. But I gotta do the job wot Cap’n Bol gave me—to take ye back to where the broadstream bends at the edge o’ this forest. Wot ye do then is carry out the cap’n’s orders. ’Tis up to ye how y’do that, an’ nought t’do wid me. But get this straight: Ye do yore job an’ I’ll do mine. So stay outta my way an’ mind yore manners around me. Step on my paws or look the wrong way at me an’ I’ll gut all three o’ ye wid this blade o’ mine! Unnerstood?”

The sons of Wirga never answered; they merely looked at one another and exchanged sly leers. This did not improve Jibsnout’s opinion of them. Turning on his paw, he set off at a rapid pace into the dark woodlands, growling back to the odd trio.

“Move yoreselves! We’ll be marchin’ night’n’day, an’ only stoppin’ for a bite or a nap when I says so. If’n ye don’t keep up, I’ll leave ye behind. Hah, try explainin’ yoreselves to Raga Bol when ye get back then, I dare ye!”

17

Three days earlier, Lonna had bid farewell to Garfo Trok at the broadstream bend. The last he saw of the otter was Garfo singing loud ballads about food, or the lack of it, paddling back upstream to the northeast country. Lonna had enjoyed his time with the garrulous otter aboard his boat Beetlebutt. The big badger felt lonely as he trudged off into Mossflower, but soon his loneliness was replaced by rage, as he remembered the pitiful bodies of the two dead shrews. Before they parted, he and Garfo had buried them on the bankside.

All that day the scar across Lonna’s face felt sore and tight. His head ached whenever he thought of Raga Bol and his murderous crew, and his back wound began bothering him, causing him to limp as he pressed doggedly onward. The woodlands were quiet and peaceful, with sundappled green light cascading through the overhead foliage. Distant birdsong sounded muted, bees droned lazily in the midday calm. Lonna ignored the beauties of nature, his eyes constantly darting from side to side, paws ever ready to seek bow and shafts.