Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Clenching blades in their fangs, the Searats clambered skilfully up the wooden lengths. The planks bellied under their combined weight but held.

Raga Bol laughed like a madbeast. “Haharr, keep goin’. We’ll make it, mates!”

But they never quite made it. Hotroot pepper bombs burst on the heads of the lead climbers. Vermin wobbled on the planktops, trying to hold on whilst fending off the searing packages that pelted them.

Toran and the Redwall defenders appeared at the window spaces bringing their long, hooked window poles into play. The ottercook and four others latched on to a centre plank and heaved it out from the wall.

“Push, friends! Put yore backs into it an’ shove!”

Under the concerted effort of the Abbeybeasts, the plank was forced outward. Searats clung shrieking to it, as the pole moved it away. With nothing to support it, the plank teetered for a moment, then toppled over backwards with vermin clinging to its underside.

Willing paws plied more window poles. Sister Setiva, Sister Portula and a crowd of elders pushed the left plank. Brothers Weld and Gelf, assisted by Gurvel, Foremole and three of his crew, pushed the one to the right. They strained and grunted, leaning their weight against the bending window poles.

Martha gripped the arms of her chair, lifting her body forward. She could hear herself roaring. “Push hard as you can. Push!”

The planks fell, one to either side of the windows. Wood scraped against stone as they plunged sideways. Wailing Searats threw themselves clear—some going headlong into the mudheap, others thudding on the paving stones below.

The defenders fell in a heap on the dormitory floor, yelling out a great victorious cry. “Redwaaaaalllllll!”

Martha was about to drop back into her chair when an awful sight froze the breath in her throat. The Searat Ferron was crouching before her, framed in the window. He had leaped from the first plank before it had begun its backward journey. Latching on to the sill, Ferron had hauled himself up onto the windowledge. Now he perched there, snarling, a long dagger in one paw, ready to kill. In front of him, the Abbot had risen from the jumble on the floor and was standing with both paws raised wide, joining in the joyous shout of Redwall, with his back to the window.

Time stood still, Martha’s voice had deserted her. She was holding herself up, with her paws still gripping the chair arms. In front of her, Abbot Carrul stood, smiling at the haremaid and cheering lustily. Behind him, the Searat raised his dagger, preparing to stab at the Abbot’s unprotected back. Alarm bells were clanging furiously in Martha’s brain, coupled with the voice of Martin the Warrior, thundering at her, “Save your Abbot!”

It was over in a flash! Martha stood upright. Charging past Carrul and pushing him to one side, she hit the Searat, knocking him right out of the dormitory window.

Toran came bulling forward. He grasped the haremaid’s waist, pulling her back into the room. “You walked, Martha! You walked! You walked! You walked!”

32

Down on the lawn, Raga Bol turned and strode away from the scene of his defeat. The Searat Rojin limped up to him. “Cap’n, there’s no way we kin get at ’em. Those beasts ain’t as simple as they look.”

Bol carried on walking without even looking back at Rojin. “Have ye only just realised that? Call the crew off. There’s got t’be a way into that Abbey, an’ I’ll find it. Ye can take my oath on it, ’cos I ain’t movin’ from Redwall. ’Tis mine, d’ye hear me? Mine!”

Somewhere southeast, deep along a woodland trail in Mossflower Wood, Flinky stopped running. Breathless and shaking, he collapsed to the ground. The little gang of escaped vermin flopped down beside him. Badredd slunk at the back of the group, with nobeast paying him the slightest attention. Gone were his days as gangleader. Now all the vermin looked to the stoat, Flinky, as their saviour. He had taken them out of the Searats’ clutches.

Panting hard, Crinktail clutched her mate’s paw gratefully. “We did it, we got away!”

Halfchop grinned fondly at Flinky, his new hero. “Kachunk!”

Understanding what his pal meant, Plumnose nodded in agreement. “Wodd duh we doo’s now, Flink?”

The triumphant stoat was never stuck for words, despite trying to regain his breath. “Ah well, Plum, we can’t run anymore tonight. Let’s just stow ourselves under those bushes an’ take a good ould rest while we lay low there an’ ’ide. Tomorrer we’ll ’ead south, where nobeast will ever find us agin. Sure, we’ll find a comfy spot where there’s plenny o’ vittles growin’, clean water an’ grand weather. That’ll do fer us, a good plan, eh?”

Juppa’s voice was full of admiration. “Aye, that it is. We’re with ye all the way, Chief!”

Rolling beneath the bushes, Slipback settled down amid the leaf mold. The rest joined him, with Flinky still chattering on.

“Ah, sure, we musta bin mad, lettin’ greedy ould fools an’ oafs lead us. Ferget all the magic swords, sieges an’ great abbeys. Wot more could a body want than layin’ round in the sun all day, fillin’ yore stummick wid vittles an’ never an argument twixt the lot of us anymore. After wot we bin through, I reckon we deserves a taste o’ the good life, mates!”

Owing to the size of his nose, Plumnose was gifted with a keen sense of smell. His voice carried a note of disgust as he called out in the darkness beneath the bushes. “Duh, sumthink smells h’awful round ’ere!”

Juppa gave vent to a horrified gurgle. “Yurgh, wot’s this?” She shot out of the bushes on to the other side of the trail. Wringing her paws, the weasel performed an anguished little dance.

“There’s a deadbeast in there! Yukk, I put me paw on its face. Creepy crawlies were all over its eyes!”

A mad scramble ensued as the gang ran out from beneath the bushes, shuddering and dusting themselves down.

Flinky was the first to express an urgent desire. “Let’s get outta ’ere, run mates! We’ll keep goin’ ’til it’s light, then I’ll pick a better spot. Keep goin’, don’t stop fer nothin’!”

Their sounds receded south into the distant woodlands, until everything was still and silent once more. The only things that moved were the insects crawling over the lifeless carcass of Jibsnout—lying stretched beneath the bushes where Raga Bol had flung his slain body.

Around the midnight hour, two others came along that same path. The Searats, Glimbo and Blowfly. It was the latter who searched the ground closely for signs of the fugitives.

Sceptical of ever finding them, one-eyed Glimbo complained volubly. “Wot’n the name o’ Hellgates do ye expect to find in this forest at night? We ain’t even got a lantern!”

Blowfly wheezed as he heaved his bulk upright. “I got good blinkers, don’t need no lantern. I’ve tracked ’em this far, an’ I’ll keep on ’til I lays paws on dat scurvy liddle crew!”

He unwound a long whip from about his flabby waist and cracked it. “I’ll teach ’em t’run away. They’ll be lucky to ’ave a hide to their backs by the time they git back to the Abbey!”

Glimbo watched him track on a piece, then come to a halt. Blowfly inspected the ground carefully, going back and forth over the same piece, muttering and cursing.

Glimbo relaxed, leaning against a tree. He scoffed sarcastically, “Ye’ve lost our liddle pals, I thought ye would. Nobeast kin track anythin’ at night through ’ere. Give up, mate, let’s git back t’the crew. They’re prob’ly inside that Abbey now, grabbin’ the loot an’ plunderin’ the place. Yore wastin’ time out in a forest when we could be back there snatchin’ our share.”