Brian Jacques - Loamhedge

Once all five travellers were safely together on the top of the far side, Horty laughed out loud. “Hawhawhaw! Well, chaps, that’s that! I suppose it’s alright for one t’make sounds now. It’s almost as bad as bein’ hungry, for a brilliant speaker like me not being able to flippin’ well talk. Absolute torture, wot!”

Bragoon could not help smiling at the young hare. “Go on, mate, talk away, even sing if’n ye like.”

Ever willing to oblige, the garrulous hare burst into song.

“Oh it ain’t much fun, when you must keep mum,

an’ they tell you not to speak,

standin’ about with a tight-shut mouth,

an’ your tongue stuck in your cheek,

’cos being silent, makes me violent,

I want to roar an’ shout,

Wheehooh! Yahboo! I’m tellin’ you,

I’ve lots to talk about!

Hello good day, how are you, say,

the sky went dark last night,

but it got bright this morning,

so things turned out alright.

Well there might be rain, but then again,

we’ll face the storm together,

in wind or snow, oh don’t y’know,

let’s talk about the weather!

Wheehooh! Yahboo! I’m tellin’ you,

I’ll whisper, yell or shout,

I’ll natter’n’blab, or chatter’n’gab,

I’ve lots to talk about!”

Saro cast her eyes to the darkening evening sky and sighed. “We’d better stop for supper soon. That’s the only time Horty goes quiet, when he’s eatin’.”

Bragoon watched fondly as the young hare did some fancy high kicks and ear twiddling. “Aye, that rascal’s like a weed on a wall, he grows on ye. I’ll say this, though—Horty’s becomin’ a first-rate cook, I like ’is vittles. We’ll go as far as the Bell an’ the Badgers Rocks afore night comes. I think we could even risk a liddle cookin’ fire. Let ole Horty create us one of his masterpieces. Come on, mate, it ain’t more’n a mile or two now.”

As the laughter and banter of the questers receded into the gathering eventide, a stillness fell over the wasteland.

Three faint screams echoed into the unfathomed depths of great gorge. On the ledge where the tree trunk bridged the space, several cloaked figures turned and padded silently into the three dark holes. These were passages, which led into a single hall-like cavern. The creatures from outside joined masses of others, similar to themselves. A myriad of glittering eyes were riveted on a ledge, where burned a sulphurous, yellow-green column of flame. A huge hunched beast, enveloped in a flowing cloak, stood with its back to them, facing the flame. It turned slowly. Not daring to look upon it, everybeast lay down prostrate, faces to the floor. A concerted moan arose from the masses.

“Mighty Kharanjul, Master of the Abyss! Great Slayer, in whose veins runs the blood of Wearets! Lord of Life and Death! We live only to serve thee!”

The cloak swept back to reveal Kharanjul. He was a gargantuan creature, a primitive and hideous mutation—something between a ferret and a weasel. With neither ears nor any semblance of a neck, his brutal head perched straight onto his hulking shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was a gurgling hiss, forced from between curving, discoloured fangs.

“Where are the three guards who were sleeping at their posts when strangers entered my gorge?”

One of the creatures, who had recently entered the cavern, raised his face and cried out in a reedy voice. “Lord, they are still falling into the chasm. They felt themselves too unworthy to face thy wrath, O Great Slayer!”

Kharanjul picked up a big iron trident. He ran his long misshapen claws across the weapon’s three barbed points. “Nobeast has ever trespassed in my domain and lived to see the sunset that day. Ye will not fail me again, ye spawn of darkness. If those intruders set paw within a league of my gorge, to return whence they came, ye will let me know of it without fail. Double the guards both night and day. If the interlopers are caught, their suffering will be great. They will plead to be cast into the abyss of eternity. I have spoken!”

Still facedown, the masses chanted their reply. “We hear and obey, O Mighty Kharanjul, Great Wearet Lord!”

37

Martha closed the east wallgate behind her but left it unbolted. Her heart pounded wildly as she stole shakily through the night-shadowed woodlands, hugging the wall. The haremaid knew it had been an ill-advised plan, but she realised that the Abbot, or any sane Redwaller, would have forbidden her to venture on this mission alone. Her footpaws were trembling as she turned the corner to the north wall. Willing them to be still, she strove to gain control of her body. Every once in awhile, she heard weapons clanking on the parapet above. The Searats were patrolling the ramparts. The moment it went quiet, she would inch forward again.

Lonna had lit a fire out on the flatlands facing the west Abbey wall. He piled up brush and twigs into a heap, placing it so that from a distance it could be mistaken for himself, seated by the fire in the darkness. Moving off to his left he settled down, accustoming his eyes to the night. Setting a shaft to his bowstring, he watched the battlements. Soon a vermin head poked up cautiously, seeing the decoy by the fire and mistaking it for the badger. The Searat on the wall stood upright. Leaning outward, he peered toward the fire, trying to make sure that it was Lonna who was sitting crouched there. The big bow twanged, and the arrow took the Searat through his skull, sending him slamming backward onto the walkway. Hearing the resultant commotion from the walltop, the badger shifted his position, moving closer to the wall.

Raga Bol’s voice was immediately recognisable as he roared directions to his confused crew. “The stripedog’s somewhere out ’ere, on the far west end. Keep yore ’eads down, ye fools, or ye’ll end like that ’un. Chakka, get over this way, the stripedog’s over ’ere, not on the north side!”

Lonna edged closer, until he could hear Chakka’s reply. “But, Cap’n, there’s somebeast down here, sneakin’ alongside the wall. It ain’t as big as the stripedog, though. Wonder who it could be?”

Crouching, Raga Bol made his way across to the north wall. He risked a swift peek over the space between the battlements. “Gimme yore spear! ’Tis an Abbeybeast tryin’ to reach the big ’un, I’ll wager. Blast yore eyes, gimme the spear afore it gets away!”

Martha made a break and ran for it, out across the path. She stumbled and tripped, going headlong into the ditch, which skirted the outside path. Thunk! The spear quivered in the ditchside.

Raga Bol saw another Searat getting up from a crouch to pass him a second weapon. “Ye missed, Cap’n, but only just! Take my spear, ’tis me lucky one . . . Unngh!”

Bol hurled himself flat as the spear clattered to the parapet beside the slain crewrat. “Down, all of ye, down!”

Lonna was running toward the ditch, firing off arrows with amazing speed, one after another. They pinged off the stonework and shattered against the northwest wall corner, keeping the vermin down.

Martha narrowly avoided the huge bulk that crashed into the ditch beside her. She gasped, “Sir, I came from the Abbey, my name’s Mar . . .”

A massive paw cut off further explanation, as she was grabbed up and tucked beneath the giant badger’s quiver. It bumped against her cheek as he rushed headlong through the ditch going northward, away from the Abbey.

A deep voice sounded close to her ear. “Time for introductions later, let’s get out of range first!”

Martha felt like a Dibbun’s plaything. Everything about the badger was immense—his paw, his long arrows poking from the quiver, the great bow he carried, his colossal frame. Everything! Moonlit spaces flickered past as she and the badger left the ditch and sought the shelter of Mossflower woodlands. Martha saw the badger’s face. It was deeply scarred and roughly stitched, giving him a savage and fearful appearance. But his eyes were soft and gentle, friendly, the eyes of a friend.