Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The one-eyed Searat, who had been enjoying the blaze, saluted his leader quizzically. “Ye don’t want a fire then, Cap’n?” He recoiled, his face now splattered with spittle from the captain’s furious rant.

“Can’t ye see they’ve blocked the doorway, fool? Rubble won’t burn, we need that wood to pile up agin that ’eap. We can climb up on it through the winders!”

Raga Bol sat down on the lawn, chopping at the grass with his blade and shouting out, “Can’t ye use yore brains? ’Ave I got to do all the thinkin’ round ’ere?”

Blowfly came plodding up from the gatehouse. “Cap’n, the vermin gang are gone. The gate’s open, they must’ve escaped!”

Bol gritted each word out slowly, as if he was speaking to a dim-witted infant. “Well, go an’ bring ’em back! Glimbo, you go wid ’im, an’ don’t show yer ugly faces back ’ere widout every last one of ’em. Go!”

Martha had heard every word. She smiled at the Abbot. “Well, that’s a few less to bother us.”

Sister Setiva ducked her head aside as a stretcher load of debris hurtled out of the window space. “Och, but did ye hear yon Searat? They’re goin’ tae make a ladder tae scale the heap o’ muck. Whit are we to do now?”

Just then, Foremole Dwurl clumped into the dormitory, his face wreathed in a happy smile as he announced, “We’m no need to wurry o’er water nomores, zurr. Moi molers h’un-covered a gurt well, daown in ee cellars!”

Sister Setiva pursed her lips. “Och grand, but ah don’t see how that’s goin’ tae help us fight Searats off!”

Toran shook Dwurl by his muddy digging claw. “That’s a spot o’ luck, me ole mate! Keep throwin’ rubble out o’ the windows, an’ tell yore crew to start bringin’ up pails o’ water, as much as they can!”

The ottercook winked roguishly at Martha. “We’ll see ’ow far the rats get, tryin’ to scale a mudhill.”

The haremaid clapped her paws gleefully. “Very good, Toran, what a splendid idea! Gurvel, keep making those pepper bombs. In a day or two those Searats will wish they’d never heard of Redwall Abbey!”

Little Muggum flung a pawful of debris moodily out the window. “Hurr, they’m founded watter. Oi ’speck uz Dibbuns bee’s a getten barthed agin.”

Sister Setiva patted the molebabe fondly. “Och aye, but ye can throw the soapy bathwater oot o’er the rats!”

Within the hour, Old Phredd had penned a poem about what he envisaged. Martha laughed along with the rest as the ancient Gatekeeper read it aloud to the defenders.

“They won’t leave this Abbey, all filthy and scabby,

when this war is done.

Our foes will retreat, looking clean nice and neat,

every Searat’s son.

Oh won’t it be splendid, when this siege is ended,

like roses they’ll smell,

washed by bathwater sweet, looking fresh in defeat,

as away they run.

Come one and come all, dirty vermin we’ll call,

should you need a scrub,

don’t worry or fear, we’ve got bathwater here,

you may take a tub.

Wash the mud out your ears, so you’ll hear us my dears,

for ’tis truth to tell,

you will know how it feels, with a clean pair of heels,

from a Redwall Farewell!”

Raga Bol watched as Ferron and Rojin barred and shut the big wallgates. Wirga followed him inside the gatehouse, waiting silently on his command. The Searat slumped down on Old Phredd’s bed, speaking his thoughts as he gazed up at the ceiling.

“Tonight, once ’tis dark, we attack. You stay ’ere wid a few o’ the crew. Light a fire, make lots o’ noise, they’ll think we’re all round by this gate’ouse. I’ll take the rest an’ storm the Abbey by surprise. Tell Ferron to gather all the wood that ain’t burned. We’ll need it to get up the rubble. I’ll be inside afore that ole Abbotmouse knows it. I’ll teach those bumpkins to defy Raga Bol. The floors in there’ll be awash wid blood by the time I’m done!”

Wirga ventured some questions. “Do I leave the gates locked, Cap’n? What if Blowfly an’ Glimbo return with the prisoners? Or my three sons, what if they return with Jibsnout?”

Raga Bol looked sideways at his Seer. “They got paws’n’voices, ain’t they? Let ’em bang on the gates or call for ye to open up.”

Wirga humbled her tone, knowing she was touching on a delicate subject. “Jibsnout and my sons are gone overlong now, they should have returned. Thou wouldst know then if the big stripedog still lives.”

Bol snapped up off the bed. “Wot do I care about yore whelps, or Jibsnout, eh? I gave ’em a job to do, they should be doin’ it. As fer the stripedog, mention ’im agin an’ I’ll let daylight through yore skinny carcass. Now get out an’ give my orders to Ferron an’ the crew. We attack tonight!”

30

Horty looked around blankly, spreading his paws. “Gone? Where in the name o’ seasons have they gone to? They were supposed t’wait here, wot!”

Bragoon held up a paw. “Quiet, mate, don’t move, stay still!” He cast around, starting in a small circle and going wider. “If ye go shufflin’ about with those big paws o’ yores, this dusty ground’ll get disturbed. Ahah! Here’s their tracks, aye, an’ one other, too. Quick, mate, grab all the gear an’ foller me!”

Horty gathered up the cloaks and staves which had formed the lean-to. Burdened by this, plus the two gourds of water on his yoke, he staggered after the otter. Bragoon, having shed his share of the water, was forging ahead swiftly.

Horty protested. “I say, old bean, that’s a bit wasteful, ain’t it, leavin’ behind good water that you had to carry half the blinkin’ night?”

Bragoon kept his eyes on the trail as he answered. “Can’t stop now, got t’get to our mates fast—’tis a matter o’ life an’ death. Keep up as best ye can!” Hurrying forward, the otter began emitting an odd, piercing whistle.

Horty plodded on, twitching his ears in disapproval. “Huh, matter of life’n’death, an’ the bounder’s whistlin’ if y’please? Wouldn’t mind, but it’s not even a flippin’ catchy tune. The bally beast’s brains have gone to his rudder if y’ask me, wot!”

Eventually Bragoon spotted the three figures, out on the arid plain. Springald and Saro were shuffling along facing backwards, supporting Fenna. Closely following the otter and his three companions, an adder was slithering, its forked tongue flickering out, sensing prey, the fatigued trio ahead of it. Hearing the sound of Bragoon’s high-pitched whistle, the snake turned, bunching its coils and hissing viciously. Not as big as some serpents the otter had encountered, it was a male, just beginning to get its growth. But angry and deadly enough to deal a fatal bite with one speedy strike of its venomous fangs. Continuing to whistle, Bragoon drew his sword and moved closer, making ready to fight if necessary. The otter smiled grimly. His ploy had worked: the hunting adder had now become the hunted, its fate sealed.

Before the old warrior could strike, the young hare bawled out a warning. “Look out, pal, here come those blinkin’ buzzards again!”

Like thunderbolts out of the blue vaults of morning, two large adult birds whizzed down. With total disregard for the snake’s venomous fangs, they struck their quarry with lightning speed. The murderous beaks and talons of both buzzards snuffed out the adder’s life with savage skill and ferocity. The dead snake was still writhing in the dust whilst they continued their frenzied attack. Then it went still, and the hawks screeched out their victory cry.