Brian Jacques: Redwall #15 - The Taggerung

Sawney picked up Rillflag's cloak from the bank and wrapped the otterbabe in it, chuckling as it snapped at his paws. "You're the one, all right!"

Vallug nodded at the slain Rillflag. "Warra you want doin' with 'im, Chief?"

Sawney was happy. He smiled at the bowbeast and winked. "Push him out into center stream. He'll float down to the sea and never be seen again. Good work, Vallug. Great shot!"

The ends of the cloak trailing in the water, Sawney waded across the ford to where his Seer was waiting.

"So then, Grissoul, is this what we came seeking? Tell me."

The Seer opened the cloak and inspected Deyna. She held up the infant's right paw, showing Sawney the marked pad. "See!"

The four-petal mark was pink and clear, like a tiny blossom. Sawney looked anxiously at Grissoul. "Well, is it really him?"

For answer the Seer took Sawney's paw and placed it against the otterbabe's footpaws. Then she spoke. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney recognized the ancient words, and translated them.

"Mighty warrior of our clan. Taggerung!"

Rawback the stoat climbed down from his lookout perch in an oak. "Break camp, Sawney's comin'. Get ready t'move fast!"

Swift and silent the clan began breaking camp, though there was not much for them to do other than pick up their belongings. Shortly thereafter Sawney and the six vermin came hurrying in. The ferret made it clear he was in no mood to linger or display the prize he had taken.

"Stir yourselves, come on, move! Move!"

He stood watching as they packed gear on their backs and hastened to obey. To add extra menace to his demands he embellished the facts a little.

"If you don't move sharpish there'll be a horde of Redwall warriors on your tails before noon, and I hear they don't take prisoners. 'Tis your own loss if you don't keep up!"

Checking the last ones from the deserted campsite, Sawney walked backward as he followed them, the better to observe the two who were bringing up the rear. Wherrul and Antigra bent to their task of clearing up the tracks, dusting over the ground with clumps of groundsel that they had twined with stalks of strong-smelling wild watermint to dispel the vermin odors. Antigra could sense Sawney's eyes upon her. She kept her gaze down and her back bent, one paw steadying the baby stoat who scrabbled about in the sling upon her back. Like Sawney, the pair walked backward, following the ferret Chieftain as he left the camp and took the trail in the wake of the Juskarath clan.

Half asleep on his back in the cloak hammock, Deyna gave a growl. Antigra heard it, and raised her eyes slightly. Sawney was staring at her, patting his precious bundle.

"Oh yes, I've got the Taggerung. Do you know how to greet him in the old Juska tongue? Zann Juskarath Taggerung, that's what you say. Let me hear you say it, Antigra."

Antigra's eyes blazed hate as she spat out the phrase. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

The smile on Sawney's face was far more fearsome than any hateful glance she could give. Antigra felt herself tremble as he drew the blade from his belt.

"Zann. Great warrior. That is one of our new Taggerung's titles by right. I won't have another creature taking the name. You will call your brat Gruven, after his foolish father. It's either that or I bury you both here. Take my word for it!"

Antigra lowered her eyes, bowing to Sawney Rath's will. "Gruven he shall be."

A moment later the camp lay deserted, the dust motes drifting down on to the sun-warmed ground. There was not a trace of anybeast in the silent glade. It was as if Sawney Rath and his Juskarath clan had never been there.

Ten times the sun had set over Redwall Abbey since Rillflag's ill-fated journey. Old Hoarg, the ancient dormouse Gatekeeper, held his lantern high. A brawny Skipper of Otters and eight of his crew entered. Hoarg pulled up the cowl of his habit as damp spots fell from the dark cloudbanked night sky.

"Hmm, that rain is goin' to get heavy. Wouldn't surprise me if a storm broke soon. Well, Skip, still no sign of 'em, eh?"

The big otter placed his tattooed paws against the gate and slammed it shut, knocking down the long wooden bar and locking it. He shouldered his javelin wearily and prepared to follow his crewbeasts up to the Abbey. "Not a trace, matey," he called back to Hoarg. "Not a single flippin' whisker. An' this rain ain't goin' to improve our chances tomorrow!"

As the crew seated themselves around a table in the kitchen a flash of lightning illuminated the stairway to Great Hall. Skipper waited until he heard a distant rumble of thunder. "Twill hit 'ere afore midnight, I reckon."

Friar Bobb hovered anxiously about a fat young squirrel who was pushing a food-laden trolley into the kitchen.

"Watch what you're doing, Broggle. You'll spill the watershrimp and hotroot soup. And mind that dip in the floor, you dozy beast!"

Skipper turned his gaze on the hapless Broggle, lowering his eyebrows and showing a row of clenched teeth in mock menace. "Is somebeast spillin' good watershrimp'n'hotroot soup?"

Broggle pushed the trolley to the table, trembling. "N-n-n-no, sir. I ai-ai-ain't spilled a drop, sir!"

Skipper's face broke into a huge grin as he hugged the young kitchen assistant to him. "Well done, bucko. Serve it up an' have some y'self!"

Broggle shook his head vigorously as Skipper released him. "N-n-no, sir, 'tis too 'o-'o-'ot for me. I m-made it jus' the w-way you like it!"

The soup was served, with onion bread to dip in it and special cold mint and dandelion tea to cool the otters' mouths. Friar Bobb placed another bowl on the table, this one containing extra hotroot essence, for those who liked their soup good and fiery, which the ottercrew did. When the soup was finished Broggle served dessert: an immense heavy fruitcake, with blackberry wine to wash it down.

Cregga and Foremole Brull joined them at the table. The Badgermum had only the usual question to ask.

"Still no trace of Rillflag and the little one?"

Skipper shook his big scarred head. "Sorry, marm. Ten days now, an' anybeast'd think they vanished off the face of the earth. Where's Filorn an' the liddle maid Mhera? They usually comes down t' see me."

Foremole drummed on the tabletop with her heavy claws. "They'm oop in ee room, zurr, a-grieven an' a-weepen sumthin' turrible, pore h'otters."

"They heard the main outer gate shutting, you see, Skip," Cregga explained. "Now if Rillflag and the babe were with you they would have come straight up to see Filorn and Mhera. So they know there's been no sign of them. No point in coming down just to hear bad news, is there?"

Skipper put aside his food. Blinking hard, he turned away and sniffed. "My 'eart an' paws goes out to 'em, marm. Nobeast could 'ave searched 'arder than me'n'the crew 'ere. I feel as if I knows every blade of grass 'twixt 'ere an' the ford, every rock'n'boulder. I'd give my rudder to find 'em alive an' well!"

Cregga put out a paw and touched the otter's craggy face. "I know you would, Skipper. You're a goodbeast and a true friend. 'Tis a sad thing to say, but perhaps we may never find them. Maybe someday ..."

Skipper nodded. "Aye, marm, I know what you mean. Maybe someday somebeast will come across their bones. Even then we won't know the full truth. Be that as it may, me'n'the crew'll be out searchin' on the morrow, storm or fair. Rillflag was a matey o' mine, an' if'n he is dead then I'll find his bones, just to give peace o' mind to pore Filorn an' young Mhera." Skipper's paw sought the javelin he had placed nearby, and his eyes grew hard as flint. "But if'n Rillflag and the babe was murdered, I'll find the scumbeast who did it, on my oath I will. There won't be enough of 'im to leave bones when I'm done with the coward. Nobeast I know could've bested that otter face-toface. He would've fought twice as fierce, protectin' the liddle cub. I wager you an acorn to an oak Rillflag was murdered by ambush!"