Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Toran winked at her. “Well done, beauty!”

His attention was distracted by Raga Bol, shouting, “Ahoy there! Is that the way ye treat creatures wot comes in peace? Aharr, ye wretches, I’ll show ye the Searat way o’ fightin’ back. I’ll burn ye out!”

The Searat captain marched off, back to the gatehouse. Some of his crew were nursing wounds, while others fled blindly, their eyes streaming as they sneezed uncontrollably and headed for the pond.

Martha could feel panic welling inside her. She clasped Toran’s paw. “Will they really try to burn us out?”

Seating himself on the windowsill, the ottercook stared down at the Abbey’s main door, directly below. “Aye, I thought they’d get around to that, sooner or later. But the Searats’ plan won’t work. How much of that soil an’ rubble is there, Dwurl?”

Spreading his hefty digging claws, Foremole shrugged. “Much as ee loikes, zurr. We’m gotten gurt ’eaps o’ durt’n’rubble, hooj marsess uv ee stuff!”

The Abbot looked over his glasses at Toran. “What are you thinking of, friend?”

The ottercook turned from the window. “Our Abbey is built o’ stone, Father. Ain’t many ways they can burn an entrance in. The big Abbey door is the one way. If that went afire, we’d be lost, sittin’ on the other side of it, waitin’ for the door to burn down. So I plan on blockin’ it completely. We’ll do it right now. Ain’t no sense in losin’ time, so we’d best work hard’n’fast. Pay attention, everybeast, this is the plan. . . .”

Raga Bol’s mood had turned sour. He had supposed that his show of force would have gained him an easy victory rather than a shameful retreat. But it had become apparent that the Abbeybeasts were not afraid to fight, no matter how great the odds. He retired to the Abbey pond where he sat sullenly watching those of his crew who had been struck by pepper bombs dousing their heads in the shallows. Flinky and the rest of Badredd’s gang were there, ineptly trying to catch another grayling. The captain took his spleen out on them, booting Flinky headfirst into the water.

The stoat rose spluttering, as he tried to placate the irate Searat. “Sure we was only tryin’ to catch a fat ould fish for yer ’onour’s supper. Ain’t that right, mate?”

Halfchop nodded enthusiastically. “Kachunk!”

Raga Bol drew his scimitar menacingly. “Gerrout o’ me sight, ye witless idiots, make yoreselves scarce. Now!”

Avoiding the keen blade, Flinky and the rest fled the scene.

Ferron, the gaunt rat, slung a flat pebble, bouncing it over the pond surface. “I wouldn’t give ’em ’til sunset, Cap’n. I’d burn those beasts out now!”

Bol was loath to destroy any part of his new home. He looked to Wirga, his Seer. “Wot say ye, old one?”

Wirga was drawing patterns in the banksand with a stick. She shrugged. “If the sons of Wirga were here, they could use their darts on anybeast who showed at the windows.”

Raga Bol glared at her. “But they ain’t ’ere, are they? So do we burn ’em out, or have ye got a better way?”

The Seer sensed the danger in his tone. She made her reply diplomatically. “Set a fire in full view of the windows. Then send a messenger to give them one last warning. The sight of flames should alter their minds.”

This was the answer the captain desired. He gave orders. “Ferron, Glimbo, gather wood an’ get lamp oil. Then set up a blaze on the lawn, where they kin see it. Wirga, take Chakka wid ye. Go an’ warn those fools wot’ll ’appen if’n they don’t surrender t’me!”

Badredd had just finished mopping the gatehouse floor clean and was about to unbend when Blowfly slapped his rump smartly with the rope end.

“Yew missed a corner be’ind the door!” The fat Searat caught Flinky peering in through the open window at him. “Now then, slysnout, wot do yew want?”

The stoat smiled apologetically. “Beggin’ yore pardon, sir, but ’tis the cap’n, ’e wants ye down by the pond.”

Blowfly gave Badredd another sharp rap. “This place better be shipshape when I comes back, or I’ll flay the back offa ye. Ahoy there, stoat, lend ’im a paw. I kin find me own way t’the pond.” Blowfly waddled off, twirling his rope end skilfully.

The small fox tossed Flinky a damp rag. “You start on the windows, I’ll see t’the floor.”

The stoat pulled him upright, whispering urgently. “We’re gettin’ out o’ this place. Come on now, while they’re all at the pond we can make a run fer it!”

Badredd gazed dumbly at Flinky, as if not understanding what he had said. The stoat grabbed the cleaning rag from him and flung it away. “Don’t stand there wid yore jaw flappin’! Are ye comin’ wid us, or d’ye like bein’ a slave? The rest o’ the gang are hidin’ by the gate, waitin’. All the Searats are down by the pond, there’s not a sentry on guard at all!”

Badredd’s limbs began trembling. “But wot if they catch us?”

Flinky could not keep the contempt out of his voice. “Huh, some grand ould leader ye turned out t’be. Yore better off stayin’ here if’n yore too scared. We’re goin’!”

He ran from the gatehouse to where the others were waiting. “Get that gate open, quick now!”

Soon Badredd came running from the gatehouse to join the escapers, shouting out, “Wait for me, mates. I’m comin’, too!”

A moment later they were off, dashing south down the path and cutting off east into Mossflower Wood, leaving the main gate swinging lazily in the summer breeze.

Raga Bol was putting an edge to his blade on a stone he had found on the pond’s edge. He glanced up sourly at Blowfly’s approach. “Wot do y’want, eh?”

The fat Searat saluted with his rope’s end. “Dat liddle stoat, the gabby one, ’e said yew wanted ter see me, Cap’n.”

Blowfly dodged a swipe from the silver hook as Bol roared, “I never said no such thing. Get back to that gate’ouse an’ see wot they’re up to. Go on, move yer fat bum!”

He glanced up despairingly at the sight of Wirga and Chakka arriving back from the Abbey building. Both were caked from eartips to tails in a mixture of soil, rubble and sloppy debris, which clung to their bodies. The Searat captain shook his head in disbelief. “Well, make yore report. Wot ’appened to youse two?”

Wirga spat out grit. Pawing soil from her ears, she hawked and coughed to clear her mouth. “They didn’t give us a chance to speak. We went round there like thee told us, but they wouldn’t listen, would they Chakka?”

She waded into the pond and began washing the mess off as Chakka continued. “They was pourin’ muck outta the winders, Cap’n. We tried to give ’em yore warnin’, but a crew o’ those moles lobbed a big ’eap o’ rubble down on us. Not only that, but they kept tippin’ stuff down until we was knocked flat. We ’ad to dig our way out afore we was buried. It looks like they’re coverin’ the Abbey door, so we can’t put a light to it, Cap’n. Those beasts are killers, we was near suffocated!”

Raga Bol put aside sharpening his scimitar. “Have the others lit the fire on the lawn yet?”

Wirga emerged dripping from the pond. “Aye, the wood is burning.”

Raga Bol hurried up from the pond, past the orchard and out onto the lawn at the front of the building where he could take in the full scene. He could see the top few timbers of the Abbey’s main door. The rest had disappeared under a heap of debris, which was still pouring out of the window, forming a great hill of rubble, which completely blocked the doorway.

Quivering with rage, Bol strode up to the fire, which his crew was fuelling with logs, branches and planks. He smote at the blazing wood with his scimitar, scattering it onto the lawn. “Glimbo, git yoreself over ’ere! Stop burnin’ the wood, we’ll need it to pile up agin that load o’ rubble!”