Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

He roared with laughter as the ferret held a paw tenderly around his bruised nose and pointed to the gatehouse. “Nodd me. Badredd’s in dere, he did idd!”

The little fox was half asleep as the gatehouse door crashed off its hinges. He was dumbstruck at the sight that greeted him. Raga Bol strode forcefully in, squinting one eye as he glared ferociously around.

“Which one of ye is Badredd?”

The crew, terrified out of their wits by half a hundred Searats leering through the doorway at them, pointed quickly at the fox. Raga’s polished pawhook latched into Badredd’s belt, jerking the fox face-to-face with him. The barbaric captain’s murderous eyes bored into the fox’s numbed gaze. “So then, liddle laddo, yore the mighty Badredd?”

Speech deserted him, Badredd could only stammer. “Y . . . Y . . . Yu . . . Ya . . . y-y-y-”

Raga Bol shook him like a rag doll, covering the little fox with spittle as he roared into his face. “Don’t stan’ there makin’ noises like an idjit! Are ye or aren’t ye Badredd, ye runty buffoon?”

The fox nodded furiously, as he heard his own voice squeak out, “Yis!”

The sea captain turned to his crew, gold fangs asparkle as he grinned at them. “Well now, ain’t that nice. Say ’ello to our new cap’n, buckoes!”

There was loud guffawing and shouts of ridicule from the Searats.

“Pleased t’meet yer, I’m shore!”

“Mercy me, ’e do look fierce, don’t ’e?”

“I’d watch ’ow ye talk to ole Badredd. Looks like an ’ard master t’me, a cold ’earted killer!”

“Hawhawhaw! Aye, lookit ’is sword. Hawhawhawhaw!”

The Searat captain wrenched the broken cutlass from his victim’s belt. He held it under Badredd’s nose. “Does your mamma know ye’ve been playin’ wid this? Dearie me, yew could cut yerself. Naughty fox!”

Raga Bol’s crew laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. When the fox’s own crew began smiling and chuckling, the big Searat turned on them savagely.

“Wot are you lot laughin’ about, eh? Stupid clods, lettin’ yoreselves be ordered about by a liddle oaf with a busted sword. Gerrout of ’ere, all of ye, clear out!”

The vermin scurried to obey, cringing and ducking as they had to pass Raga Bol, who was partially blocking the doorway. Still dragging Badredd along by his belt, Raga strode out into the sheeting rain, issuing orders to his Searats.

“Glimbo, Ferron, Chakka, you stay in the liddle ’ouse wid me. Ringear, lock that big gate, nobeast gets in or out. Post a watch on it. The rest of ye, take shelter where ye can find it. Blowfly, take a rope’s end an’ keep an eye on this lot.”

He indicated the fox’s crew with a nod. Finally, Raga turned his attention to the hapless Badredd. Thrusting the broken cutlass into the fox’s shaking paws, he snarled, “Now then, me laddo, yew’d better be a good cook, or ye’ll find yoreself bein’ served up as vittles. D’ye hear me?”

Badredd nodded miserably as Raga Bol continued barking out orders. “Git yoreself down t’that pond an’ take yore crew along. I wants fish fer me brekkist, a good fat ’un, an’ no excuses. Just ’ow yer catches an’ cooks it is yore bizness. But if’n it ain’t on the table, done perfectly, when I wakes up . . . then ye’d best cut yore own throat wid that toy sword, ’cos ye won’t wanna face Raga Bol. Now get to it sharpish!”

He flung Badredd face first into the mud. Then, turning on his paw, the big Searat strode inside the gatehouse.

The little fox raised his head, weeping and spitting out wet soil, thankful he was still alive. But for how long? The barbarous rat had set him a near impossible task. How was he going to catch a big fish and cook it in the midst of a thunderstorm, with rain pounding furiously down?

Thud! A blow from a knotted rope’s end made him arch his back. Blowfly landed another one, this time across Badredd’s rump.

“Up on yore hunkers, foxy! Yew ’eard wot the cap’n said. Step lively now. Youse others, bring that blanket t’make a tent fer me. I ain’t sittin’ round in the rain watchin’ ye makin’ Cap’n Bol’s brekkist. All down t’the pond now, at the double!”

He drove them forward with the rope’s end.

A horrified silence had fallen over the Abbey dormitory. One word from Old Phredd cut the air like a knife. “Searats!”

Shilly followed this up with a question. “Wot bee’s a Searat?”

Toran bent down to the small truckle bed and pulled up the covers to the squirrelbabe’s chin. All around the dormitory, Dibbuns were sleeping peacefully. The ottercook wrinkled his nose at Shilly.

“A Searat, me dear? Just some naughty ole beast. Nothin’ for ye to get upset about, go t’sleep now.”

Abbot Carrul sat down on a hill of slingstones in the middle of the floor. “How many of them are in the grounds of our Abbey?”

Martha replied from her seat at the window. “Hard to count in the dark and rain, Father, but there’s certainly more than twoscore of them, all rats, and armed to the fangs. Surely we can’t overcome that many!”

An old mousewife called Mildun began sobbing in a panic. “We’ll all be dragged out of our beds and murdered, I know we will, us and those poor little babes. Ooooooohhhhhhh!”

The haremaid immediately issued a harsh scolding. “Stop that right now!”

Shocked into silence, Mildun shrank from the sharp reproof, listening intently as Martha continued in a stern voice. “There’s no call for that behaviour, marm, all you’ll do is cause worry to everybeast. Don’t let me hear an outburst like that from you ever again. Now if you’ve anything to say, then make it helpful. Don’t be a beast of ill omen, and keep your voice down. We don’t want the little ones taking fright. Do you hear me?”

Mildun sniffed and mumbled into her kerchief. “Sorry, Martha.”

Abbot Carrul turned grateful eyes to the haremaid. “Thank you, miss. Well, the whole situation has changed now—for the worse, I’m sad to say. An attack against such numbers of those savage rats is out of the question. So what do we do now? I’m open to helpful suggestions.”

Foremole Dwurl raised a powerful digging claw. “Tunnels owt, zurr, me’n moi moles can make ee gurt tunnel. Uz’ll all be safe frumm ee vurmints then, oi reckerns!”

As hope sprang anew in the Redwallers, they began chattering and clamouring aloud.

Toran silenced them with a sudden bark. “A fine idea, sir, but let’s not be too hasty. Yore plan calls for a bit o’ discussion. Now one at a time—you first, Father Abbot.”

Carrul folded both paws into his wide sleeves. “Thank you, Toran. First, let me say this. Our Foremole’s plan is a sensible one. The Dibbuns, and anybeast who chooses to go with them, will be safe from harm. As for myself, I must remain here where my duty lies. I could never desert my beautiful Abbey.”

The ottercook seconded him. “Nor I, Carrul. It ain’t right leavin’ Redwall wide open to Searats an’ vermin. I stay!”

Martha struck the arm of her chair resolutely. “Redwall Abbey is my home, the only home I’ve ever known. I’m not moving from here!”

Every voice in the room was raised. “We stay! We stay!”

Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his nose apologetically. “Oi bee’s sorry oi menshunned et naow.”

Abbot Carrul placed a paw about the faithful mole’s shoulders. “You’ve no need to be sorry, friend, it was a good idea. The trouble is that nobeast wants to go now. So what do we do next?”

Muggum would not be denied his say. The molebabe waved the copper ladle, which had become his chosen weapon. “Us’n’s foights, zurr, that bee’s wot us do. Foight!”

Sister Setiva relieved Muggum of the ladle to stop him from giving anybeast a whack as he waved it about. “Och, ye wee terror, hush now an’ pay heed tae yore elders!”