Brian Jacques - Redwall #15 - The Taggerung

Watching the sun spread welcoming warmth and light, Gruven sat mentally rehearsing his story, cutting parts and embellishing bits until it sounded good to him. Next he practiced indignation and righteous wrath at the moving of camp during his absence. Perhaps he would root out the culprits and slay them, just to establish his authority as clan Chieftain, Gruven Zann Juskazann.

Leaving the dunes, he took to the firm damp sand of the tideline for better walking. There was no real need of further tracking. He knew the clan would establish another camp among the dunes; all he had to do was look out for the smoke of cooking fires. Around early noon, Gruven became bored. It was a warm day with virtually no wind. He sidetracked listlessly into the dunes and lay down in a sandy crater. It was pleasantly warm, and he allowed his eyes to shut and drifted into a comfortable nap.

He had only lain there a short while when he was rudely awakened. He was rolled roughly over, and the sword was snatched from his belt. A noosed rope was thrust over him, pinioning both paws to his sides. There were four of them, two weasels, a stoat and a rat, and they looked lean and tough. Gruven felt fear rise sourly in his throat, but he did his best to put on a hard face and a gruff voice.

"Wot's the meanin' of all this? Who are ye?"

The bigger of the weasels, a female named Gruzzle, prodded him with the point of his own sword. "Shut yer mouth an' get up off yer behind!"

Struggling upright, Gruven recognized one of his old clan, the rat Wherrul. However, he looked different. His facial tattoos had been overlaid with green wavy lines on the brow and a yellow circle on either cheek. Gruven felt a surge of relief.

"Wherrul, mate, wot are you doin' with these beasts? Yore a Juskazann, just like me. Wot's 'appened?"

Wherrul began yanking Gruven along on the rope. He did not sound at all friendly. "I ain't Juskazann no more. We got taken over. I'm part of a big clan now, the Juskabor!"

Further conversation was cut short as Gruzzle prodded Gruven with the sword. "I've already tole you t'shut yer mouth, I won't tell yer agin. Now get movin'. You can do yer talkin' in front o' the Chief!"

It was late noon by the time Gruven was hauled stumbling into the new camp. Right away he noticed that the number of tents had increased fourfold, enough to accommodate at least three hundred Juska. Familiar faces from his old tribe stared at him as he was dragged along. They all had their former Juska marks tattooed over like Wherrul. All in all they looked a warlike mob. There were a lot more foxes in evidence, too. Gruzzle halted in front of a large well-made tent, painted with lots of colored symbols, and kicked Gruven flat in the sand.

"Stay there, you three, an' watch 'im!"

She threw back the tent flap and entered. A moment later she marched out again, three others with her. One was Grissoul the old vixen Seer, accompanied by another equally wizened vixen, who carried all the paraphernalia of a seer or soothsayer. But it was the male fox that Gruven instinctively knew was the Chieftain.

Ruggan Bor was an impressive figure, a big male fox, golden rather than reddish furred, with no black tip to his tail. His face was inscrutable, but one glance informed Gruven that the hard golden eyes were those of a born slayer. He was dressed simply, in a short black shoulder cloak and a black kilt. A saber was thrust through his broad chain-linked belt. Ruggan Bor gave Gruven the briefest of glances, then turned to Grissoul.

"Is this the one who took over from Sawney Rath?"

Grissoul bowed fawningly. "That he be, lord: Gruven Zann, the stoat who vowed to slay the Taggerung."

Ruggan nodded to Gruzzle, who leaped forward promptly. "Loose yonder rope an' return his weapon." The weasel obeyed immediately and without question.

Gruven realized he was not going to be executed on the spot. The knowledge gave him fresh confidence, and he decided to bluff his way along. Ruggan Bor obviously had him tagged as a warrior. Swaggering forward, he faced the Juska Chieftain, leaning on the sword and narrowing his eyes like a veteran killer. However, he did not attempt to speak. Something told him that Ruggan was not a beast to be taken lightly. The big golden fox had not moved a muscle, yet his eyes looked Gruven up and down.

"You are the son of stoat they called Antigra?"

Gruven had to swallow visibly before he answered. "Aye."

Ruggan Bor's paw strayed close to his saber. "I am Ruggan Bor of the Juskabor, Lord of the South Coasts. I took your clan, the Juskazann, and added it to my own. Antigra, your mother, plotted against me. I slew her."

Gruven found it difficult to keep up his attitude of bravado as Ruggan continued, his face still expressionless, "So, Gruven Zann, do you wish to take revenge for your mother? Are you going to challenge me as Chieftain of these Juska? You stand armed and free before me. If you are going to do anything, now would be the time to do it."

Gruven's nerve had already failed him. He knew he was a deadbeast if he lifted the sword. Yet if he was ever to become leader of the clan he could not lose face, so he played his ace card, hoping bluster and bragging would impress the fox warrior. Swelling his chest, he snarled aloud, "My name now is Gruven Zann Taggerung. Eight warriors left camp to track him with me. Only I have returned; the others lie dead. I slew the Taggerung!"

Ruggan turned to his own vixen Seer. "Ermath, what do your omens say?"

The vixen shrugged. "Nought, lord. I saw no signs of a Taggerung's death."

The burning golden eyes faced Grissoul. "And you?"

She averted her gaze humbly. "I cannot say, lord. Who knows if the Taggerung still lives?"

Gruven interrupted her harshly. "I do! The Taggerung still lives because I am Taggerung now. Did you not say that the beast who slew him would take on his name? You said it to me before I left!"

Grissoul was caught between two fires. Maybe Gruven had done the deed, but then maybe he had not. She preferred to go with the one she knew was a Warrior Chieftain, tried and tested. Ruggan Bor.

"Gruven Zann, thou vowed to bring back the Taggerung's head. Where is it?"

Gruven sneered. He had already thought of this answer. "The days have been hot, more than a score and a half of them. What warrior in his right mind would carry such a thing that long? I gave it back to the flies when I reached the old camp!" Thoroughly roused now, and carried upon the surge of his manufactured anger, Gruven turned upon Ruggan Bor. "My word is my honor as a Juska warrior. I tell you 'twas I who slew the otter they called Taggerung. With this sword!"

The golden eyes stared levelly at him out of the expressionless face, though the fox's paw was now on his saber hilt. "So you say, Gruven Zann. But you have not answered my first question. Are you going to avenge your mother or challenge me for the chieftainship?"

Gruven had been doing some quick thinking. "We are both mighty warriors," he shot back. "The clan would gain nothing by our loss. You know of the Taggerung, of his reputation. When you cannot find him you will realize I am the real Taggerung. Then we will let the whole of the Juska decide who is leader!"

Ruggan Bor signaled to Gruzzle. "Take six Juska, find Gruven Zann a tent of his own, give him food and guard him well." He turned his back on Gruven, dismissing him. "I will give you my answer tomorrow. Attend me here to break fast." He strode back into his tent, followed by the two Seers.

Gruven was taken care of. His food was of the best, roasted seabird and barley wine. He sat eating, his mind racing. Was he an honored guest or a prisoner? Did Ruggan Bor regard him as a warrior and a slayer, or had he seen through the bluff? Were the vermin outside an honor guard or jailers? Gruven decided he had some serious thinking to do.