Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Dusting off his paws and breathing heavily, Bragoon took the sword from the astounded young hare. Putting the swordpoint at the lizard, he growled, “In the future, mind yore manners an’ be polite to visitors!”

The lizard clutched onto the coils of the senseless grass snake around its neck. The snake was looped to the branch above, keeping the lizard on tip-paw. Bragoon put his face close to the reptile and roared thunderously, “Yore all deadbeasts if’n I clap eyes on ye agin! D’ye hear me, slimeguts?”

Dipping a paw into one of the gourds, the otter tasted the water and spat it out in disgust, then called to his companion. “Git yore gob out o’ that stream, young ’un. Wash these things out an’ fill ’em wid fresh water. I’ll get the fish.” He stowed the sword over his shoulder. “Don’t dillydally, mate. Fenna an’ the others’ll be waitin’. Put a move on!”

Horty hurried to do Bragoon’s bidding, holding a conversation with himself as he rinsed and filled the containers. “Seasons o’ soup’n’salad, ’pon my word! That crackpot must’ve been a right terror in his younger days, wot? Curl me crusts! A chap’d do well to stay the right side o’ that otter, he’s a bloomin’ one-beast army!”

Bragoon’s voice cut sharply into his meanderings. “Stop chunnerin’ an’ get ’em filled, ye great gabby windbag!”

Horty filled the last gourd with one paw, saluting furiously with the other. “Chunnerin’, sah, who, sah, me, sah? No, sah, not never, nohow. Last one filled, sah, all correct, wot wot!”

Bragoon had chopped branches with his sword. He and Horty carried the gourds, strung on the wood and yoked across their shoulders, two to each of them. They had drunk sufficient water and chewed on the cooked fish as they trekked back to their friends.

Sighting the lean-to in dawn’s pearly light, they dashed forward, slopping water, with Horty yelling, “Toodle pip there, you idle lot, here come two handsome water carriers. I say, we’ve got fish, too! Jolly good, eh?”

There was no reply from the shelter. Bragoon hurried forward, only to find it deserted.

BOOK THREE

“We lived one summer

too long”

29

Morning sunlight filtered like molten gold through the gatehouse. Raga Bol picked his teeth with the silver pawhook, spitting a bone back onto the remains of a well-grilled fish, which he had breakfasted on.

The Searat captain was in a expansive mood, having slept dreamlessly without any giant stripedog nightmares. The whole incident surrounding Lonna had faded into the background since his arrival at the Abbey. He felt a sense of power, sheltered by the monumental red walls which he knew would be his new home. No more scouring the cold northeast seas. This was a place of fair weather, a fortress from where he could rule all Mossflower. Lord Raga Bol, he liked the sound of his new title.

Badredd quaked with pent-up tension as he awaited the Searat’s verdict on his cooking. Blowfly stood behind him, twirling his knotted rope’s end. Relief flooded through the small fox at the sound of the captain’s coarse but satisfied chuckle.

“Haharr, I’ve eaten worse an’ lived! Wot kinda fish was that ’un, matey? Wot ’erb did ye use on it, eh?”

Badredd answered promptly. “ ’Twas a grayling, sir, grilled with button mushrooms an’ dill. I did it special.”

Bol patted his stomach. “Graylin’, that’s a nice-soundin’ name. Blowfly, wot are we goin’ t’do wid this cook—flog ’im to a jelly wid yore rope’s end or gut ’im wid this ’ook?”

Blowfly smiled, not a pretty sight. “Gut ’im, Cap’n, go on!”

The hook lunged out, capturing Badredd around his neck. He was dragged forward until Bol was breathing in his face.

“Make yoreself useful round ’ere, me liddle graylin’. Clean this place up, scrub it out an’ make the bed. Blowfly, you stay ’ere, tickle ’im up wid yore rope’s end if’n ’e slacks!”

Thrusting both scimitar and stiletto in his sash, the captain swaggered out onto the sunlit lawn. “Glimbo, rally the crew. ’Tis time we went for a parley wid our new friends!”

All night long, Foremole and his molecrew had been carrying rubble up to the dormitory to be used as extra defence material. Martha sat close to the window with Toran and Abbot Carrul.

Granmum Gurvel laid breakfast out on the windowsill for them. “You’m bee’s h’eaten ee brekkist naow, ’tis gudd furr ee!”

The trio had already laid their plans. Toran poured honey and beechnut flakes over his oatmeal, pointing to the gatehouse. “Stand ready, everybeast, they’re comin’!”

Raga Bol sauntered up with twoscore of Searats, as though he was out for a morning stroll. He waved up at them.

Toran grunted. “Don’t look like they’re goin’ to attack right now.”

“It wouldn’t pay to!” Martha muttered grimly, reaching for one of Redwall’s latest pepper bombs. Abbot Carrul stayed silent, polishing his glasses nervously on his habit sleeve.

A Searat brandishing a rusty axe snarled up arrogantly at the dormitory windows. “Get yerselves out ’ere, or we’ll come in an’ drag ye down!”

Drawing his scimitar, Raga Bol dealt the Searat a swinging blow to the jaw with its bone handle. He placed a sea-booted footpaw on the sprawled-out rat and spoke reprovingly. “Tut tut, I’m surprised at ye, mate. Is that anyways to be addressin’ gennelbeasts?” Returning the blade to his sash, the Searat captain lectured the rest of his brutish crew. “Mind yore language when ye talks to the goodbeasts up there, that’s an order!”

He winked broadly and turned away from them, performing a flourishingly elegant bow. His gold fangs glinted as he smiled up at the dormitory windows. “My ’pologies, an’ a good day to ye all, messmates. Me name’s Raga Bol, fer want of a better ’un. I’m ’ere to parley wid yore cap’n. ’Twould be a kindness if’n ’e’d speak t’me.”

Abbot Carrul showed himself. “I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. What exactly do you want, sir?”

Raga Bol put his head to one side, almost managing to look coy. “Ho, a bit o’ this an’ a bit o’ that. Nothin’ fer you to bother yore dear old grey ’ead about, Father Abbot. I’m nought but a simple beast who likes pretty trinkets.”

Toran felt that Carrul had taken enough verbal fencing. Recalling the arrow which had been shot to slay his Abbot, he came forward, placing himself in front of Carrul. In one paw he held a long cook’s knife; in the other, a pepper bomb.

“Wot would ye like, silvertongue—a bit o’ this or a bit o’ that?” He indicated both weapons as he spoke. “Make yore choice, ’cos that’s all ye’ll get from us. Redwallers aren’t born fools. We know scum, even when they try to talk fancy!”

Realising that the otter could not be cajoled or wheedled, Raga hurled himself at the Abbey door, hacking at it with his sabre and knife and yelling to his Searat crew, “Attack! Break this door down!”

“Redwaaaaaallllll!” A warcry rang out as the defenders fired slingstones and pepper bombs down upon the foebeasts. A slingstone pinged off Raga’s jaw, leaving it gashed.

He retreated from the door, bellowing, “Back! Out o’ their range. Back!”

They stumbled back across the lawn to where they could see missiles coming and better dodge them.

Martha was shocked but elated. It had all happened so fast: one moment she was listening to the talk going back and forth, the next moment she was screeching like a wildbeast and madly launching off slingstones. She held her trembling paws up to her eyes, willing them to be still.