Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The ancient molecook took charge of the operation. Soon, she and several Dibbuns donned bandannas of wet cloth to protect their noses and mouths against the fiery hotroot pepper. Carefully, they ladled measured portions of the pepper onto flimsy squares of thin, birch-bark parchment. Each of these was fashioned into a tiny bundle, tied at the top with thread. Toran weighed one in his paw. “Just right for throwin’. Hoho, these’ll cause a few sneezes if they land on some scummy noses!”

Yooch the molebabe had scrambled up onto a windowsill. Jumping up and down, he waved his tiny paws and squealed, “Look out, look out, d’vermints bee’s cummin’!”

Badredd kept a paw on the broken cutlass in his belt, not drawing the weapon lest they see it was only a half-bladed thing. Behind him stood the rest of the available vermin crew—Halfchop, Floggo, Rogg, Slipback, Plumnose and Juppa.

The little fox shouted boldly. “Where’s yore chief? I wanna talk!”

Abbot Carrul showed himself at the dormitory window. “Say what you have got to say, fox!”

Badredd puffed out his narrow chest. “Lissen, we’ve got ye well boxed in up there. You ain’t warriors, ye can’t fight back or hurt us. So I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. Open yore doors, we won’t attack. Just let me’n one o’ my crew come in. When we’ve found yore magic sword, an’ other bits o’ loot that we fancy, we’ll leave ye in peace an’ go.”

The Abbot shook his head firmly. “Never! You’ll not set paw in Redwall Abbey, none of you!”

Badredd passed a paw signal to Rogg from behind his back. The weasel casually notched an arrow to his bowstring.

Keeping his temper in check, the fox replied, “Never? We’ll see about that. Wot ye got to unnerstand is that yore under siege—we could starve ye out or keep attackin’ until one by one yore all slain. Oh, I’ve got lots o’ bright ideas, mouse, take yore pick. Either that or just do as I command. ’Twill save ye a lot o’ grief.”

Carrul stood his ground. “No matter what you say, you will not enter this Abbey. Now, let me make a suggestion. Take your vermin, plus all the fruit you have stolen from our orchard, and leave here. If you do this, you will save yourself a lot of grief. Take my word for it!”

Badredd shrugged. “Ain’t no use of talkin’ to ye, mouse.”

As the vermin leader stepped aside, Rogg hurried forward and let fly. Inside the dormitory, some of the pepper dust had got to the Abbot, causing him to sneeze. “Yaachooo!”

As Carrul’s head went down with the force of the sneeze, the arrow tipped his headfur, ending up quivering in the dormitory ceiling.

Cursing inwardly, Badredd forced himself to stay nonchalantly calm, even to smile. “Saved by a sneeze, eh? Yore a lucky mouse!”

Suddenly Toran appeared at the window, a pepper bomb in each paw. “You won’t be so lucky. Sneeze on this, snottynose!”

In quick succession, two bags of pepper struck Badredd’s face. Then the dormitory windows were packed with Redwallers, hurling their new weapons and shouting.

“Try a sniff of this, uglychops!”

“Yurr, stuff this’n oop ee nose, zurr vurmint!”

“Och, take a whiff o’ this, ye wicked rabble!”

“Sorry we ain’t got no salt, so here’s a little more pepper for ye!”

Literally peppered by bags of the stuff, the vermin crew fled—spitting, sneezing and rubbing at their burning eyes as the fierce hotroot pepper did its work. Between sneezes, they bumped blindly into one another, wailing and screeching.

Martha held up a paw. “Stop now, no use wasting pepper. They’ve learned their lesson, a good hot one!”

A rousing cheer went forth from the Abbeybeasts. “Redwaaaaaallll!”

Martha hugged Toran’s waist from her chair. “We did it, friend, we defeated the vermin!”

The ottercook stood watching the vermin as they hurled themselves into the Abbey pond. He stroked the haremaid’s head absently. “Aye, beauty, we did it for now. But they’ll be back, an’ next time they do, those vermin will try to slay us all.”

Sister Portula was in agreement with him. “Right, Toran, so what’ll we do then?”

Martha surprised herself by shaking a clenched paw. “We’ll just have to give back as good as we get. Don’t forget, there’s more of us than them. I’d risk my life willingly any day if it meant defeating those scum!”

Growls of agreement rang out, even from the Dibbuns. Abbot Carrul was taken aback by the warlike mood of the Redwallers, and even more so by Martha’s fighting spirit. He held up his paws until order was restored.

“You are right, of course, my friends, but let us not do anything haphazard. There has to be a proper plan to rid our Abbey of these vermin!”

Flinky and Crinktail were in no special hurry to run about seeking recruits for Badredd’s gang. The pair wandered deep into Mossflower, glad to be away from the bickering and squabbling of the small vermin gang. They rambled onward, consenting with each other to desert their fellow vermin and find a new life together, far away from it all.

Unfortunately, they walked right into trouble and ambled straight into the camp of Raga Bol. A huge, fat Searat with one milky, sightless eye grabbed the luckless pair by the scruffs of their necks. Both their stomachs churned in fear at the sight of the savage Searat crew. For the first time in his life, Flinky was rendered speechless as he beheld a real Searat captain.

Raga Bol was the complete picture of a barbarian chieftain—from his hooped brass earrings and tawdry silk finery, to his silver hook, gold teeth, curved scimitar and the lethal stiletto he was using to pick at a roasted pike. He spat a fishbone into the fire and picked at his teeth with the hook. Looking both stoats up and down, Raga Bol consulted the fat rat.

“Who are these two barnacles, Glimbo?”

Flinky began stammering out an answer. “If it please, yore ’onour, we was just . . .”

Splat! Raga Bol leaned forward and struck Flinky a slap across his mouth with the pike. “Did I speak to ye, stoat?”

The hook shot out, catching Flinky’s jerkin. He was yanked forward, under the cold glare of the wickedest eyes he had ever looked into.

He felt the Searat’s hot breath on his face as the rasping voice growled out, “Guard yore tongue, mudbrain, or I’ll carve it out an’ feed it to ye. Speak now, wot’s in those sacks?”

Flinky’s throat bobbed as he gasped out, “F . . . f . . . fruit, sir!”

Raga Bol stuck his stiletto in the sack Flinky was holding. He booted the stoat backward, causing the blade to rip through the sack. Flinky went sprawling amid the fruit which spilled out onto the ground.

The Searat scowled. “Fruit? Is that all ye brought? No booty, weapons, not even a brace o’ birds or a decent fish. Just fruit!”

Glimbo wrenched the sack from Crinktail. He emptied it over Flinky, who lay cringing on the ground. “Sink me! This ’un’s brought fruit as well, Cap’n. They must be both stoopid in d’brain!”

Gripping hold of Crinktail, Glimbo shook her until her teeth rattled, bellowing in the hapless stoat’s face. “Yore stoopid in d’brain, wot are ye?”

Crinktail gabbled out something that sounded like “Stooballainnabrab!”

The Searats crowded round laughing. They tore the jerkins from both stoats, and robbed them of their belts and knives.

Stripped to the fur, Flinky and Crinktail huddled together, eyes wide with terror as the Searats licked their knifeblades and winked wickedly at them.

Raga stroked under his chin, with the polished curve of his pawhook. “The woodlands round here are packed with fruit, an’ ye bring me two sacks o’ the stuff? Right then, me beauties, I’ll tell ye what we’ll do. What’d ye like, an apple or a pear?”