Brian Jacques - Redwall #16 - Triss

Shogg raised himself from the tiller, staring anxiously ahead. Triss, get Welfo down to the cabin out o’ the way. Tide’s still ebbin’ up yonder, I don’t like it. Got to take’er out into midstream now, so keep yore’ead down, matey!

Flith’s advance guard had reached the high peak at the inlet when he joined them. The ship swung out into midstream, heading for the gap.

The searat sniggered joyfully I kin see the bottom from’ere,’tis runnin’

shallow. Hahah! Look, the ship’s draggin’, she’s runniner bow onto a sandbar. Now let em’ave it! I want those other two lookin’ like pincushions! Fill’em full of arrers!

Split inter two groups, you lot. Stay up’ere, keep firin’ arrers. The rest, foller me an’ bring yore spears. We’ll wade out an’ rip’em t’ribbons! It ain’t deep there, we’ll do it easy!

The vessel ground to a shuddering halt. Shogg yelled down the cabin hatch, Up’ere, Triss, quick, she’s run aground!

The squirrelmaid came bounding up on deck. What do we do?

Her otter friend outlined his desperate plan. Leave two lines runnin’

over the stern so we can get back aboard. Me’n’ you’s got to lever’er off this bank with the oars. Come on, we ain’t got much time. Flith’s comm’ down after us!

Shogg vaulted over the stern with two oars, while Triss hung out the two lines, then joined him. They dug the oars into the sandy bottom under the stern and placed the oar-poles over their shoulders.

Shogg gave the word. One, two an’ push! One, two an’ push! That’s the way, keep goin’, I can feel’er movin’ along. One, two an’ push! Push!

Flith came splashing through the shallows, brandishing a spear he had borrowed. He was not more than a boat’s length from his quarry when the ship cleared the sandbar, gliding smoothly into the sea to catch the ebbing tide.

Shogg patted Triss’s back. Good job, shipmate. Up y’go, sharpish now!

Flith hurled himself, spearpoint forward, at the otter. Shogg turned just in time. He dodged the weapon and swung out mightily with the big ship’s oar. Once, twice he cracked it down on the rat, as hard as he could, then, seizing the line, he shinned up aboard the vessel, helped by Triss from above.

Open sea lay deep and blue in front of them, with a good wind scudding the ship out onto the main. Welfo staggered out on deck, holding a damp rag to the side of her throbbing head. She managed a weak smile.

We made it!

Shogg glanced back over the stern, where he saw Flith’s limp form sink beneath the waves as it was pulled out in their wake.

Aye, we made it, friends, we’re safe. Sit awhile an’ rest now. Welfo went back down below as Shogg took the tiller. He watched sadly as Triss sat on the deck and wept bitter tears for old Drufo, the last remaining link with her family.

Prince Bladd was secretly glad that he did not have to go sailing on a long voyage after all. He shrugged happily. Veil, dat’s dat, ain’t got no ship now, yarr!

There had been no vessels moored in the fjord since Agarnu’s ill-fated trip with his father. The stolen vessel had been specially built for Kurda and Bladd.

Now Kurda eyed her father contemptuously. Yarr, only der fool who rules a kingdom by der sea would have no ships!

Agarnu knew she was right. He flinched at the scorn in Kurda’s voice.

Wheeling about on his fishbone leg, he stumped back to the stronghold, blustering, Tchah! No need for der ships. Vy us needs ships? Got everyt’ink else, kingdom, stronghold, yarr! Light der beacon, Freebooters see it. Dey got ships, let dem do der job for us. Jarr!

Kurda gripped her sabre tighter. This was the best idea her father had ever come up with.

She grinned wickedly at Riftun. Jarr, Freebooters! Get dose Ratguards to fix up de beacon, now!

Eventide shades slid from crimson to slatey purple over the sea. On the high rocky point at the estuary a massive pile of pine logs, branches, foliage and dead moss had been erected by the weary Ratguards. Barrels of fish and vegetable oil stood close by. Kurda watched Captain Riftun set light to the beacon fire: it would burn red and gold by night and the oil would make it send up a column of dark smoke by day. Freebooters, vermin pirates and corsairs sailing anywhere in the region would see the signal and come to investigate.

Kurda pointed her sabre blade directly at Riftun. Keep dis burnin’, night an’ day, and you stay’ere! Let me know ven de Freebooters be sighted, yarr?

Firelight reflected off the Captain’s spearblade as he saluted. Yarr, Princess,’twill be as ye command!

Kurda stared out over the restless deeps of wave and water. She spoke her thoughts aloud. No slave escapes Riftgard. I’ll find dem. Ven I do, dey be sorry dey was ever borned. Diss I vow!

9

Dawn had always been the time that Skipper of otters loved best. Rising silently at the first song of larks on the western flatlands beyond the Abbey, he would pad gently out of the dormitory for his morning exercise. This usually took the form of a good brisk swim in the Abbey pond, after which he ran several times around the outer wall-tops. Then he practised with javelin, club and sling. The big sturdy otter was not a beast to let fat grow about his middle. With his appetite sharpened, Skipper slipped quietly into the kitchens. Friar Gooch the squirrelcook and his assistant, the molemaid Furrel, were preparing breakfast.

Knowing Skipper was not a great talker first thing in the morning, they left a tray out for him. With a nod of thanks, he took his food: warm oat scones, a small bowl of shrimp and hotroot soup (a special favourite with otters), and a large beaker of mint and pennycress cordial.

Wordlessly, he left and went to seek someplace quiet, where he could eat and meditate before joining the bustle of Red-wall’s daily life.

Skipper dearly loved the Abbey, having lived on and off there through his young seasons, often leaving to live for a time with boisterous river otters and wild sea otters. But he always returned to Redwall, where he could trace his forebears right back to the famous otter Warrior, the one they had called Taggerung. Abbot Apodemus had tried to press onto Skipper the honour of being Redwall’s Warrior, though he refused on the grounds that he had never felt himself to be the Chosen One.

Skipper did, however, take on the role of Master at Arms to the Abbey, training others in weaponry and warskills, though there had never been the need for anything like that in living memory. Redwall’s seasons of peace and plenty stretched back many, many seasons. But the big otter had chosen to stay in case he was ever needed.

Great Hall was an island of serenity when it was not being used for feasting. Rising sunlight cast soft strips of multicoloured light from the stained-glass windows onto the smoothworn stone floor. Skipper took his tray and settled down with his back against the base of a sandstone column. From there he could view the ancient tapestry depicting Martin the Warrior, the Abbey’s first Champion. Foxes, rats, stoats, weasels and all manner of vermin could be seen fleeing from the armoured mouse who formed the centre of the picture. Martin had a face anybeast could trust: strong, smiling, kindly, yet with raw danger shining in his resolute eyes, which warned any evildoer to beware. He leaned upon a sword. Over the tapestry, on two silver spikes, the real one rested.

Such a blade! It had a red pommel stone and a black bound handle with a cross-hilt. Like any warrior’s weapon, it was proficient, plain and simple. But the blade, double-edged shining steel, had a point like an ice needle. Legend said that it had been forged by a Badger Lord in the fires of Salamandastron, from the metal of a fallen star. With such a sword in his grasp, a warrior could face any odds.