Brian Jacques - Redwall #09 - Salamandastron

SALAMANDASTRON

REDWALL BOOK 5

The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-colored jerkin, his white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the kitchens, and two of last autumn's russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day.

The dormouse nodded sagely. "Soon be pickin' a Nameday for this good season, aye, soon."

The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as he gazed up at the elder.

"You'm said you'm tell oi a story, zurr."

The dormouse polished an apple on his jerkin. "D'you like my stories, Burrem?"

The little fellow smiled. "Burr aye, oi serpintly do, zurr!"

His friend settled down comfortably on the grass, propping his back against the log.

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"Right then, it's a good long one. We'll have to break off for lunch and tea, supper, too, maybe. Ah well, here goes. Once upon a time ..."

Colder than the winter wind howling its dirge through the Southwest Forest.

Colder than the snow blanketing tree, rock and earth in its silent shroud.

Colder than ice that lay on water and hung in shards from branches and bushes.

Colder than these was the smile of Ferahgo the Assassin! Ferahgo was still young, but as the seasons passed his evil and infamy would grow, and everybeast would come to fear the name of the blue-eyed weasel.

His .band searched the wrecked badgers' den, scavenging and snarling over winter food and the few pitiful possessions strewn among the debris. Smiling pitilessly, Ferahgo stepped over the bodies of the slain badger Urthound and his wife Urthrun, the last two brave creatures to stand against him. Stealth and deceit, reinforced by a crew of backstabbers, were the Assassin's trademark. He had tricked the badgers into thinking this would be a peace conference. Fools!

Migroo the stoat pulled aside a heap of dried moss. "Chief, look!"

Two badger babes lay huddled together, mewling and shiv-

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ering as they stuck their heads up, lips pursed in a plea for mother's milk.

Migroo laughed. "That one looks like his father, but this other one, Chief, it's white. I thought all badgers had stripes."

Ferahgo tickled their nose tips with his knifepoint. "They're both males. One is a proper badger, the other is an albino. They might not be orphans today if their parents had not resisted me."

Migroo watched the point of Ferahgo's knife. "What're yen goin* t' do with 'em?"

The Assassin shrugged and sheathed his blade. "Nothing. The winter will take care of Urthound's whelps."

Fondling the round gold medallion he had taken from the neck of Unbound, Ferahgo gave one last glance around.

"Now nobeast in the Southwest is left to oppose me. Come on, my Corpsemakers!"

The weasel swept out into the wintering forestlands with his band, a smile still fixed in his beautiful light blue eyes.

Behind him in the ruins of the den the two badger babes, one striped, the other pure white, snuggled against the cold body of their mother. They made pitiful little noises, waiting for her to wake and comfort them. Outside the snowflakes blew gustily between tree and bush, chased by the soughing wind.

It was cold.

But not as cold as the smile on the face of Ferahgo the Assassin.

BOOK ONE

Questors and Runaways

Many and many a long seasdn'had come and gone since that fateful midwinter day in the Southwest Lands.

The only sound disturbing the stillness of a high summer noontide was that of seabirds plaintively calling as they wheeled and circled overhead. The vastness of the sea lay becalmed, without blemish of wave or white-crested roller, still as a millpond, mirroring the faded blue of a cloudless sky. Obscured in its own heat haze, the sun blushed forth a radiant golden wash, tinting sand and rock with a soft amber glow.

Above the tideline stood the great citadel of Salamandas-tron, the mountainous shell that had once been a volcano when the world was young. Through countless ages it had been ruled by the mysterious badger Lords and their friends the hares of the Long Patrol. The entire rock was a towering fortress, riven through with caves, passages and halls, standing guard to protect the shores and all the sprawling country of West Mossflower.

From Salamandastron's main entrance a solitary set of paw-prints led through the sand to a limpet-crusted outcrop by the sea. Perched on the stone, chin in paw, Lord Urthstripe the Strong gazed seaward, clad in his stout forge apron, devoid

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of armor or sword. At one with earth, sea and sky, the badger Lord sat alone with his thoughts. Mara had not been home for two nights, and he was worried. Had he done the right thing, adopting a young female badger? She was one of the few badger maids ever to live at the mountain; traditionally it was the preserve of single male badgers. Five seasons ago his hares had found her among the dunes, a tiny whimpering babe, lost and alone. Urthstripe was overjoyed when they had brought her to him. He cherished her as the daughter he had never had. But that was when she was an infant. He was a badger Lord, with many things to attend to, and as she grew up, so they had drifted apart.

Life presented various obstacles to Mara. She had come to resent the strict ways and regimented existence at Salaman-dastron. Urthstripe became awkward and severe in his dealings with her, and Mara in her turn was rebellious of his heavy-pawed authority. Against Urthstripe's wishes she had gone off two days ago, with her close friend Pikkle Ffolger, a young hare.

The badger Lord scowled. Pikkle was far too wild and erratic; Mara would never grow up to be a proper badger Lady running about with the like of that mischief-maker. But that was the way of things between them now if he lectured her or threatened penalties he felt like an ogre. So they avoided each other, she going her own way, and he unhappily having to go his.

Sergeant Sapwood loped slowly across to the rock. He bobbed about, shadow-boxing until Urthstripe noticed him. Sidestepping, the strong lanky hare tucked in his chin and hooked out a left paw.

"Haint much t' do out 'ere, sir. You a-comin' in for sum-mat to eat? There's wild oatcakes, bilberry tart an' cold cider. You haint touched vittles since yesterday morn."

Urthstripe climbed slowly down from the rock and growled anxiously at the hare, "Any sign of Mara yet, Sergeant?"

"Nah, not so far. But don't you fret y'self, sir. She'll come trottin' back wi' young Pikkle, soon as they're hungered

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enough. D'you want me to send the missie t' you when she does arrive back?"

"No, but let me know the moment she's back home. See she gets a good meal, and then . . . then send her to me!"

Sapwood ducked and feinted as they made their way across the shore, swaying lightly on his paws as he circled Urthstripe.

"C'mon, sir. Let's see you try t' put one on me button!"

The badger Lord tried to ignore his pugnacious friend, but Sapwood persisted.

"Go on, sir, try the old one-two, eh?"

Urthstripe halted, blinking as the hare bobbed and dodged under his nose.

"Really, Sapwood, I'm in no mood for sport."

The Sergeant dabbed a swift paw at Urthstripe's jaw. "Oh,'ave a go, sir. Try yer luck!"

For all his great bulk the badger was surprisingly swift. He spun sideways, clipping Sapwood under the chin with what he judged to be a light tap. The Sergeant was bowled over, knocked flat on his back. Instantly the badger Lord was at his friend's side, his huge striped face showing concern.