Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

When three lances came zinging at him, the young hare stopped, but the weapons had pierced his ridiculous headdressing. He ground to a halt, only paces from the dumbfounded reptiles.

“Great blinkin’ seasons, have a flamin’ care where you’re chuckin’ those things. A chap could get injured by them!”

Knowing that the plan had been ruined, Bragoon, Saro and Jigger, followed by their fighting force, came bounding downhill. At the bottom they found, to their shock, that the reptiles were lying prostrate, facedown in front of the young hare. Horty stood posing majestically, the three lances transfixing his turban.

Saro glared at him. “Wot were ye thinkin’ of, ye great idiot? Lollopin’ off right into the middle of the enemy like that!”

Horty gave her a scathing glance. “Hold your tongue, marm. These chaps are just showin’ their respect to me. Hawhaw, they must think I’m the Great Hortyplonk, descended from out the bloomin’ sky, wot!”

Springald scoffed in his face. “Then they must be bigger idiots than you! D’you realise you could’ve been killed?”

As she spoke, there was a whooping warcry from the far bank. Logalogalogalooooooog! Briggy had commenced attacking the reptiles over there.

The reptiles laid out in awe of Horty lifted their faces. When they saw the score of shrews brandishing their clubs, they rose, backing off into the shallows.

Horty took a few paces toward them. “I say there, old scaly-skinned chaps . . .”

Hissing and squeaking, the reptiles fled into the water.

The young hare turned to Jigger, who was looking rather crestfallen. “Oops, sorry about that, old lad. Were you goin’ to give those bounders a good drubbin’? I didn’t realise. Oh well, never mind. Come on, we’ll pursue ’em into the river an’ deal ’em a few severe whackin’s, wot!” He trotted into the shallows but was immediately set upon and hauled back by four shrews.

Horty protested vehemently. “Wot the . . . ? I say, unpaw me, little sirrahs, I’m not scared of a few mangy reptiles, by the left, I ain’t!”

Jigger remarked caustically. “Oh, we know ye ain’t, lop-ears. But it’s not the reptiles that’s the danger on this stretch o’ the river. Watch!”

He picked up a lance and went into the shallows, holding the weapon out into the water at paw’s length. Suddenly it began to shake and vibrate. When Jigger pulled it out, the tip was ripped and ragged. A small fish, which seemed to consist of only big, needlelike teeth, was clinging doggedly to it. Jigger flicked the creature back into the water.

“ ’Tis the fish that are the slayers ’ere!”

The reptiles were being swept downriver, shrieking unmercifully as the water about them reddened.

Horty sat down in a collapse on the bank, looking pale about the gills.

“Oh corks, I feel quite ill all of a sudden!”

On the far bank, the reptiles were taking a colossal walloping from Briggy and his command. They had tossed a big logboat sail over their foes, capturing most of them beneath the spreading canvas. Some of the Guorafs held the ends down, while others galloped about on the sailcloth, dealing great whacks with their war clubs to any bump that appeared—be it head, tail, back or limb. Gradually the canvas subsided and was still.

Log a Log Briggy waved over to them, his stentorian bass voice booming over the waters. “Stop there, friends, I’ve sent a crew to git the boats. They’ll pick ye up an’ bring ye over!”

It was a glorious evening on the far bank. Six logboats lay prow on to the bankside, as the travellers sat among their shrewfriends.

Horty sniffed the air appreciatively, his whiskers atwitch at the aromas of cooking. “I say, old Briggathingee, is that supper I detect? Jolly nice of you chaps, wot!”

Briggy pulled a mock glare at Bragoon. “So, ye had t’bring a starvin’ hare along with ye this trip. I’ll wager that lollop-lugged young famine maker can shift a tidy few platefuls, eh?”

Horty smiled primly. “Oh, I just nibble a bit here’n’there, y’know, sah. Actually I’ve not been feelin’ too chipper of late. But if the scoff’s as good as it smells, well, I might persuade myself to try it, wot.”

Jigger looked askance at him. “Lissen, mate, if’n ye want to sail wid the Guorafs, ye’ve got t’be a big eater an’ a great bragger, like Drinchy ’ere. Ain’t that right, Drinch? Show the harebeast ’ow ’tis done.”

A fat, powerful-looking shrew stood up, smirking, then launched into Riverbraggin, an art much admired among the longboat crews. Drinchy thumped the ground with his club and commenced roaring, “I wuz borned on a river in a thunnerstorm, an’ wot did I do? I ate the bottom outta the boat an’ fought six big pike who tried to eat me! Though I wuz on’y a babe, I scoffed three of ’em, an’ tossed the rest on the bank an’ fried ’em for me brekkist! Aye, mates, I’m Drinchy Wildgob, the roarin’ son of a roarin’ son who killed ’imself tryin’ to feed me. I can outeat, outchew an’ outswaller anybeast alive—includin’ long-pawed, flop-eared, fancy bunnies!”

Finished with his mighty brag, Drinchy bowed as the shrews cheered him raucously.

Saro nodded to Horty. “I think you’re bein’ challenged, young ’un. Think you can do better than Drinchy?”

Horty stood up, bowing elegantly to Saro. “Marm, my dander has risen since the remarks that chap made about me. We of the Braebucks are not backward in coming forward. I shall accept this curmudgeon’s braggin’ challenge, forthwith!”

Without further ado, Horty bounded up, spreading his paws dramatically and yelling like a madbeast. “I’m the son of the howlin’ hare! I was born on a winter’s night in a gale. My parents took one look at me, chewin’ on the chimney, an’ left home! There ain’t a cauldron big enough to hold my dinner, not one in all the land! I’ve ate every jolly old thing—fried frogs, toasted toads, boiled badgers, roasted reptiles, an’ shrews, too! Shrew stew, shaved an’ shrivelled shrews, shrew soup an’ simmered shrew! I’ve got a stomach of iron an’ a mouth like a steel trap! I’m the Horrible Hortwill Braebuck, an’ nobeast steps over my line! Even little fat wretches with bellies like balloons an’ spiky fur an’ names like Drinchy! D’ye know what the Horrible Horty likes for supper? Daintily diced Drinchy . . . with lots o’ gravy. Yaaaaaah!”

The Guoraf shrews battered the ground with their war clubs, a mark of the highest honour they could show anybeast. Then they hoisted Horty up on their shoulders, cheering him twice around the camp.

With a look of thorough humbleness, Drinchy shook the young hare’s paw fervently. “Well, I more’n met me match there, mate. Ye must be the best bragger ever born, ye made me look like a beginner.”

The triumphant Horty was gallant, even in victory. “No hard feelins, Drinch old lad, but mind your language in the future, wot!”

A magnificent supper was served, as befitted shrewcooks, who were renowned across the waterways for their culinary skills. Huge portions were served up to Horty. The shrews gathered round, gazing in awe as he downed one dish after another.

“Mmmm yum! This is top-hole tucker, wot wot. Pass some more o’ that skilly’n’duff, please. Oh, an’ lob more honey over it, I like it that way. I say, is that actually rhubarb’n’blackberry crumble? . . . Where’s me blinkin’ spoon? Drinch, old scout, would y’be kind enough to fetch more shrewbeer—not that little beaker, gimme the jug!”

Bragoon chuckled. “Look at young Horty, he’s in ’is element there. They’ll get tired o’ servin’ before he does of eatin’, mark my words, Briggy!”

The shrew chieftain watched Horty admiringly. “That ’un should’ve bin a shrew, mate. I saw ’im march straight inter that reptile crowd widout turnin’ a hair. They’d already throwed three javelins an’ spiked ’is hat. I tell ye, Bragoon, it takes a brave beast to do that!”