Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

The otter poured himself another beaker of shrewbeer. “Or a ravin’ idiot! I’ll tell ye the truth of it all someday.”

Horty was on to a wild grape and almond pudding. “Never had this before. My word, it’s rather toothsome, wot. Send the old cook out, an’ I’ll give her a kiss!”

A small, toothless, grizzled male shrew stumped out from behind the cauldrons hanging over the fire. He grinned. “H’I’m the cook round ’ere. Wot was it ye wanted, sir?”

Horty choked on a mouthful of pudding. “Wot, er, oh nothin’, granddad. Excellent scoff, wot. Top marks, well done an’ all that. Back to the old fire an’ keep on cookin’. Eh, wot!”

Log a Log Briggy called to his shrews. “Ye can let those reptiles free now, I reckon they’ve learned their lesson. If any of the slimy-skinned lot give ye any bother, give ’em another drubbin’ an tell ’em you’ll sling ’em in the river. That should scare ’em!”

He sat down with Bragoon and Saro, winking fondly at them. “Now then, mateys, wot brings you two t’these parts, eh?”

They explained the mission for Martha’s cure and their quest for Loamhedge.

Briggy stroked his beard. “Hmm, Loamhedge eh? I’ve ’eard tell o’ the place. But ye’d ’ave to cross the great gorge to git anywheres near where the stories say the lost Abbey o’ Loamhedge lies. Did ye bring some kind o’ chart along to ’elp ye find it, or are ye just trustin’ to fortune?”

Bragoon produced the chart from Matthias’s journal. “It’s been mostly luck to date, but we do ’ave this.”

Briggy rummaged a battered single eyeglass from his belt pouch and held it to his eye. “My ole peepers ain’t wot they used t’be, I got to use this monocle t’see. Right, wot’ve we got ’ere?”

He perused the dilapidated parchment thoroughly. “Hah, I know this country, ’tis sou’east o’ where we are now. I’ve seen these two rocks an’ all. They’re called the Bell an’ the Badger’s ’ead, great big lumps o’ stone they are. Wot’s this, a large tree called the Lord o’ Mossflower? Huh, that was long gone in the seasons afore my father’s grandfathers. Blowed down, or collapsed more likely, when the earth trembled.”

Saro looked anxiously at the shrew chieftain. “But ye do know where the two big rocks are?”

Briggy stowed his monocle away. “Ho, I knows that place sure enough. East along this river for a day or so, then cut south when ye leave the bank. Wicked country, ’tis.”

Bragoon patted his swordhilt. “That don’t worry us, we’ve travelled wicked country afore. So will ye take us upriver to the Bell an’ the Badgers ’ead, me ole mate?”

Briggy held out his paw. “Course I will, ’ere’s me paw an’ ’ere’s me heart on it. But afore ye gets to the big rocks, ye’ve gotta cross the great gorge. I never knew of anybeast who’s done that yet.”

Saro winked at him. “You leave that to us. We’ve done lots o’ things nobeast ’as ever done, me’n my mate.”

Jigger joined them, taking a great interest in Bragoon’s sword. “That’s a fine-lookin’ blade ye carry, mate.”

The otter drew the sword, holding it out to let the firelight play along its blade in the gathering twilight. It shimmered and glinted like a live thing. “Aye, a fine blade it is, young ’un. My friend, the Abbot o’ Redwall, loaned it t’me for the journey. ’Tis the sword of Martin the Warrior!”

The shrews had evidently heard of Martin. As word ran through the camp, they crowded around Bragoon, straining to catch a glimpse of the legendary weapon.

“So that’s the sword o’ Martin. ’Tis a sight to be’old!”

“They say ’twas made at the badger mountain from a piece of a star wot fell out the sky!”

“Blood’n’fur, fancy ownin’ a blade like that!”

Jokingly, Jigger drew his own short rapier and waved it. “Would ye like to challenge me to a spot o’ swordplay?”

There was a twinkle in Briggy’s eye as he nudged the otter. “Go on, mate, show ’im wot a real swordbeast kin do.”

Bragoon rose casually, then moved like lightning. Jigger stood aghast, rooted to the spot as the sword encircled him in a streaking pattern of light. It clipped one of his whiskers and tipped the bandanna from off his forehead. The young shrew closed his eyes tightly.

Bragoon whirled the blade as he roared. “Yahaarrr, ssssss’death!”

The rapier flicked from Jigger’s paw. It whipped through the air, then quivered pointfirst in the prow of his father’s big logboat which was drawn up on the bank.

Jigger gasped. “Scuttle me keel! How’d ye do that, mate?”

Bragoon winked roguishly at him. “That’s a secret, young ’un!”

The Guoraf shrew greatly admired the otter’s prowess. “Could I see yore sword, sir, just fer a moment?”

Bragoon held the blade about a third of the way up. Raising his paw, he did a short hop and threw it. It turned once in the air, almost lazily; then, with a solid thud, buried its point into the logboat, next to the rapier.

The otter nodded. “Aye, ’elp yoreself. But take care, yon’s a sharp blade.”

Jigger retrieved his own rapier, but he could not budge the sword since it was too deeply imbedded in the oaken boat. Bragoon went to sit down with Briggy.

The shrew chieftain stroked his beard. “Where’d ye pick up swordtricks like that?”

The otter shrugged. “A Long Patrol hare from Salamandastron showed me some dodges with a blade one time. That ’un was wot they called a perilous beast, a real swordfighter, no mistake!”

Horty looked up from the remnants of a huge pastie. “A Long Patrol hare, indeed! That’s what I’d like to jolly well be someday, wot!”

Saro patted Horty on the stomach, knocking the wind from him. “Then ye’ll have to scoff less an’ exercise more. Long Patrol hares are fightin’ fit.”

The young hare got quite huffy. “Fiddlesticks, marm, one’s got to get the right nourishment t’grow strong first, wot?”

Briggy smiled at him. “Yore right there, Horty, an’ ye need a full night’s sleep, too. Go an’ pick yoreself out a good berth on my vessel. We’ve got a journey upriver t’make at dawn. I’ll put ye to the oars, that’ll toughen yore muscles up a bit. You git yore rest now, an’ you, too, Jigger.”

Horty gathered up some bread, cheese and pear cordial. “Right y’are, Cap’n Briggathingee. I’ll just take along a light snack to guard the young body against night starvation. I suffer from it terribly, y’know. I was born with the illness. I say Jigger, old lad, not takin’ any rations with you? Well, suit y’self, laddie buck, but don’t come pesterin’ me durin’ the flippin’ night.”

Jigger, however, was not listening. He had found a new object for his admiration. The young shrew was all smiles and attention for Springald. Carefully he helped the mousemaid aboard the logboat that he was travelling on.

“Watch yoreself, Miz Spring, these boats are tricky craft. You take some o’ my cushions an’ a soft blanket. Sleep up in the prow, that’s the best spot aboard!”

The pretty mousemaid played him up outrageously, fluttering her eyelashes and allowing him to make up her bed. “Oh thank you, my friend, that’s so kind of you!”

Fenna scooted in and flopped down on the cushions. “Plenty of room for us both here, Spring. Thanks, Jigger mate!”

Sitting by the fire with Briggy and her otter friend, Saro watched the young ones with amusement. “Nice to see ’em gettin’ on well t’gether, eh?”

Stirring the flames with his rapier, Briggy laughed. “Haharr, bless ’em, they’re only young once. The seasons soon fly by, ain’t that right, Brag, ye ole battler?”

Bragoon polished Martin’s sword with a piece of damp bark. “Ye never spoke a truer word, ole pal. Me’n Saro have gotten quite fond o’ those three young ’uns, they’re made of the right stuff. Now an’ agin we gotta yell at ’em, but they learn fast. By the way, on that chart o’ mine it says Long Tails an’ desert beyond the river. Will that mean danger for us?”