Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Crinktail spoke, her voice quivery with terror. “Apples, sir.”

Raga smiled, showing several gold-capped fangs. “Haharr, apples it is then. Ferron, jam an apple apiece in their gobs, ’twill stop ’em singin’ out while they’re roastin’!”

Ferron, a tall, gaunt-faced rat, sorted through the fruit until he came up with two large, rosy apples. He strode over to the two victims, but before he could start, Flinky yelled, “Loot! Treasure! Booty an’ magic swords!”

Raga’s long blade rasped out of its scabbard. Resting the point against Flinky’s nose, the captain spoke just one word—“Where?”

The stoat answered speedily, knowing his life depended on it. “Sure, ’tis at the Abbey o’ Redwall, sir, only a good ould march from here. All the plunder yore ’eart could desire!”

The swordtip lifted as Raga looked around the ugly faces of his leering crew. “Give ’em back their stuff. Come ’ither, mates. Sit ’ere by me, where I can carve cobs off’n ye if yore tellin’ me fibs. I can’t abide fibbers, can you, messmate?”

Flinky shook his head vigourously. “Sure those fibbers are the worst ould kind of beasts ever born, ain’t that right?”

Crinktail hastened to agree with him. “Fibbers are villains!”

Raga Bol narrowed his frightening eyes and glared at his prisoners, who sat as if hypnotised. Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Aharrharrharrharr! That’s wot I like to ’ear, me liddle fishes. Avast there, Blowfly, bring grog fer our messmates!”

Blowfly, a malodourous, greasy-looking rat, brought three gigantic pottery jars and a keg of grog, which he rolled along by kicking it. He filled the jars brimful, issuing one to each of them. Both stoats quailed at the sight of the fearsome-smelling brew. Bol drained half of his at one huge swig, smacked his lips and winked broadly at them. “Good ’ole seaweed’n’fish’ead grog, ain’ nothin’ like it! Aharr, Raga Bol can’t abide prissy liddle creatures wot don’t like grog. Drink ’earty now!”

Gagging and spluttering, Flinky and Crinktail tried to sup the fiery liquor. The Searat crew gathered round, grinning and guffawing as they watched the stoats trying to cope with the grog. Finishing his swiftly, Raga observed his victims closely. “Cummon, buckoes, no shilly-shallyin’ there, bottoms up, an’ don’t ye leave none for the fishes!”

Grog was dribbling down Flinky’s chest fur by the time he finished. Something odd was happening to his eyes. In front of him sat three Raga Bols. His head was whirling, and his tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else. He hiccupped. “Heeheehee, hic! Sure, that was a prime ould, hic, droppa grog, hic hic! Ain’t that right, hic, eh, Crinky, hic!”

Crinktail gazed woozily at her empty jar and giggled. “Sh’marvelloush! Makesh y’feel like a battlin’ badger, heehee, whoops!”

She was knocked flat on her back. Raga, who had kicked her over, stood glaring down at the stoat, his sabre drawn. “Badger, wot badger? Is there a badger ’ereabouts? Have ye sighted a great giant of a stripedog? Tell me!”

Crinktail attempted to rise, but fell flat. She looked up at the Searat captain with owlish solemnity. “Wot badgersh? Heehee, we ain’t seen no shtripedogs around ’ere. Don’ worry, Bragger Roll, we’ll fight ’em all for ye, me’n Shlinky!”

She giggled again, then passed out, senseless. A fleeting glimpse of relief crossed the Searat’s face. He turned his attention to Flinky, who was swaying from side to side, and blinking drunkenly. “Ahoy, buckoe, let’s talk, me’n you. I’ll ask the questions, an’ ye give me all the answers. The right ones if’n ye value yore skin! This Abbey o’ Redwall, tell me everythin’ about it. An’ worrabout yore crew, ’ow many strong are they, who’s yore leader, wot’s ’e like? No lies, now, c’mon!”

Raga Bol’s crew listened avidly as Flinky related the entire sorry tale to their captain. The stoat was drunk, but not so drunk that he didn’t know what would please the murderous Raga Bol. A good portion of his story was outright lies. He told of witless Abbeybeasts, and a fabulous treasure, laying great emphasis on the magic sword. Flinky was good at what he did, having spent most of his life lying and pleasing others. The captain and his crew believed the yarn. There followed much winking, nudging, whispering and gleeful rubbing of paws, even from Raga Bol. This was going to be a picnic, an orgy of looting and slaughter. A real Searat’s dream come true!

The Searat crew made ready to march. Raga Bol delayed moving, since there was one thing still bothering the captain’s mind—the fate of the giant stripedog. Giving orders for the crew to stand ready, he marched back along their trail alone, looking for signs of his assassin’s return.

After an hour or so, Raga Bol glanced up at the sky. Dark rolling clouds, coupled with the distant rumble of thunder, presaged the arrival of a sizeable storm. He turned his gaze to the path ahead, where the foliage was swaying in the hot wind. The Searat’s keen eyes and ears missed nothing. He saw the shrubbery moving the wrong way at one point and heard the moans and laboured gasping of somebeast coming slowly up the trail toward him.

It was Jibsnout, leaning heavily on an impromptu crutch he had fashioned from a branch. Raga Bol hastened to intercept him, frowning with false concern. “Jibsnout, matey, are ye wounded? Have ye news of the stripedog? Where are those sons of Wirga, ’ave they deserted ye?”

The stolid Searat slumped wearily down, his tongue licking the first fat drops of rain that fell through the woodland canopy. He looked up at Raga Bol kneeling at his side.

“Cap’n, we stood no chance! That stripedog ’ad a squirrel wid ’im, they ambushed us! Two of Wirga’s sons were slayed. The other one ran away, though ’e wouldn’t’a got far, I wager. I was shot through the footpaw by the stripedog, then ’e took my blade. I thought ’e was gonna kill me, but ’e tended to the wound an’ sent me back to ye wid a message, Cap’n. The stripedog sez to tell ye that ’is name is Lonna Bowstripe, an’ that ’e’s comin’ after ye, Cap’n Bol. Aye, yoreself an’ all the crew, me too. We’re all deadbeasts, d’ye hear me, walkin’ deadbeasts! That big Lonna beast is goin’ to slay us one by one, every ratjack of us! Take me word fer it, Cap’n, ’e’s a mighty warrior but a real madbeast! I saw it in ’is eyes, they was red as fire. The stripedog’ll finish us, all of us, I believe wot ’e said!”

A jagged lightning flash lit up the gloomy woodlands; thunder rattled closer and the rain came in earnest. Raga Bol held Jibsnout close to him, murmuring softly. “Hush now, mate, no stripedog’s goin’ to harm ye. This storm’ll wash out all our tracks, nobeast’ll find us then. Besides, we’ll be snug inside of a big stone fortress, wid vittles to spare an’ more loot than ye’ve ever clapped eyes on. Hahaarr, ’ow’ll that suit ye matey, eh?”

Jibsnout blinked rain from his eyes. “That’ll suit me good, Cap’n.”

Bol held him closer, whispering in his ear, “Ye won’t breathe a word about no stripedog to the crew now, will ye, me ole mate?”

Jibsnout smiled at his captain. “You know me, Cap’n Bol. None of ’em will ’ear a word from my mouth!”

Raga Bol smiled back at Jibsnout. “So they won’t, mate, yore right.”

He slew Jibsnout with a single thrust of his stiletto. Shoving the body into the bushes, Raga Bol sloshed back through the battering downpour, muttering to himself. “They all talks sooner or later, but you was right, Jibsnout. Nobeast’ll ’ear a word from yore mouth.”

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