Brian Jacques - Redwall #07 - Mariel of Redwall

Storm sprang forward with a yell, swinging her rope. The toads backed off slightly. She laughed scornfully.

"Right then, I'll die here, but I'll take a few of you with me. Well, come on, froggies. Who's first? Or are you going to sit there clicking and grocking until I die of old age!"

At a signal from Oykamon the toads advanced. Storm dipped the knotted end of Gullwhacker into the well water to make it heavier. Two toads sprang at her. Recklessly she jumped upon one, knocking the wind completely out of him as she scored a bull's-eye on his companion's snout with her weapon. Two more rushed from behind her. Storm thwacked at them wildly. As she did, one young toad ran in on her blind side and stabbed her footpaw with his trident. Maddened with pain, she hurled herself upon him, throttling with one paw and belaboring with the rope in the other. Now toads began hopping in on top of her, their weight carrying her to the ground, although she fought ferociously every bit of the way. Suddenly a cry rang from the dunetops.

"Eeeeuuulaliaaa!"

There was a croak of alarm from the attackers, followed by the pounding of swift paws. In the next moment toads were flying through the air like birds as three hares attacked with lance butts. Teeth bared and eyes wide, the three tall creatures moved with the practiced ease of natural fighters, their long ears streaming

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out behind them as they skillfully kicked with big supple hindlegs, each a sandy-colored seasoned warrior, brooking no nonsense from their flabby adversaries. Thudding, thwacking and tossing with immense energy, they drove the toads from Storm. Belaboring and punishing without once using their lance points, the hares defeated the toad band swiftly. Storm sat up nursing her wounded paw as the oldest of the hare trio strode lankily to the well.

"Good egg! I say, young 'un, is this your water? May I?"

Storm nodded dumbly. The hare drank his fill, spitting out the grit.

He pulled a wry face, and made a leggy old-fashioned bow. "Pshaw! Tastes pretty yucky, don't it. Allow me to introduce us. I am Colonel Clary, family name's Meadowclary, of course, but you can call me Clary, everybeast does. This young wag over here is none other than the celebrated Brigadier Thyme, and the young gel is our ward the Honorable Rosemary, Hon Rosie to you. Capital! Now, pray tell me whom I have the honor of addressing, marm, though you're a bit young to be a marm, aren't you."

Storm stood up, favoring her uninjured footpaw. She threw the rope across her shoulders, squinting at the odd trio.

"My name's Storm Gullwhacker. This is my Gullwhackerd'you like it?"

"Hmph!" Brigadier Thyme snorted through his stiffly waxed whiskers. "Adequate for the purpose, I suppose, but there's nothing like a lance butt for dealing with toads, young mouseyou take it from me."

The toads had begun to regroup indignantly. Oykamon repuffed himself.

"Grrogg! I will collect many more toads, we will be as many as the sands of the shore, then you will all die. Krrrrik!"

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Hon Rosie had an earsplitting laugh; every creature present winced as she launched into it.

"Whooyahahahah! 'Fraid we'll be long gone by then, you old frogwalloper. Sorry we can't stop around and be slain, wot! Duty calls."

Oykamon spat bad-temperedly. "Krroik! Go then. Death awaits you if you return to this place!"

The other toads shuffled forward aggressively, shaking their tridents.

Colonel Clary strode decisively forward. He twirled his lancetip, disarming the leading toad with a flick. Clary's eyes grew hard.

"Right, pay attention, you slimy rabble! We are the long patrol from Lord Rawnblade of Salamandastron. Nobeast stops uswe range where we please and when, carrying out orders. If you take one more step forward, we will use our lancetips, not the blunt ends. Then you will really see death visit this spot. Back off now, marshspawn. You there, leader chappie, tell all ranks to retreat, or you'll be the first to have your gizzard decorated by lancepoint."

Oykamon croaked out some sullen orders, and the toads retreated hastily.

Hon Rosie turned to Storm. "I say, can you walk on that bally hoof?"

Storm tested her injured footpaw. "I'll be all right. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you can get proper fodder 'n' drink, old gel. You don't want to be hangin' about this thumpin' great wasteland twiddlin' your paws."

Brigadier Thyme inspected the paw. "Hmm. Not much wrong with that fetlock, young mouse."

The three hares carried satchels across their backs. Hon Rosie took hers off.

"Righto, first-aider Rosie to the rescue, wot? Whoohahahahah! I can't resist bandaging things, jolly good at it. Now, some hart's tongue fern, staghorn clubmoss, dab of salt and bind the blinkin' lot up with

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a few strands of maidenhair fern. There! I'll bet you could trip a mouse mazurka with that little lot on. Try it."

Storm tested the footpaw. It felt very comfortable and easy. "Thank you, Rosie. It feels as good as new."

Colonel Clary had been pacing restlessly up and down. He shielded his eyes and took some bearings from the sun.

"Good egg, ladies. Got all the latest in shrubbery foot fashions sorted out now? Top-hole, then we can get going. Actually I was thinking of heading nor'east into the woodland fringes. We could have lunch there and visit old Pakatugg. What d'you say, Thyme?"

"Hmmm, yes, why ever not. Best idea under present circs, wot!"

It took some time for Storm to fall in with the hares' mode of speech. They seemed to treat everything in a very casual offpaw sort of way, but they were usually correct in their judgments.

oo

By early noon they had left the flatlands. Behind them the gritty expanses mottled with sparse vegetation shimmered in the summer heat, with the dunes a hazy half-mirage in the distance. More dunes stood out ahead, paw-sinking shifting sand dunes that were difficult to surmount. Topping one such sandhill, they found themselves facing a fringe of pine-clad woodland, dark green and shady, a haven from the glare of the midday sun.

Brigadier Thyme marked out a vast hornbeam and led them to it. He held up a cautionary paw.

"Keep mum, chaps. Old Pakatugg's closeI can feel it in m' whiskers."

A pointed dart whistled past Thyme's ear, burying itself in the hornbeam. From somewhere close by a gruff angry voice rang out.

"You're a-trespassin' on Pakatugg's land. Who be yer?"

"Clary, Thyme and Rosie, the long patrol of the foot 'n' fur Rangers," Colonel Clary answered. "Oh, and we've got a young thingummy with us. ... A mouse-gel."

Though Storm tried to see who it was, she could make out no sign of a living creature,

"Thingummy mousegel," the gruff voice answered. "What sorta thingummy? Anyhow, how do I know you're you? What's the password?"

Clary snorted impatiently. "Oh, come out, you old buffoon, you know it's us. Listen, I'll even give you the bally password. Takatugg Treefleet, we bring you good things to eat.' There, now come out, you old barkwal-loper."

Storm had to bite her lip so as not to laugh at the odd creature who dropped down from a nearby spruce.

Pakatugg Treefleet was a fat old squirrel. He carried a long hollow blowpipe and a pouch of darts. Sticking out of his ears, wound about his tail and paws and covering all his body were leafy twigs. He resembled a small moving bush with eyes.

"Huh, landotters, what've you brought Paka for lunch?" Pakatugg growled fiercely through the two teeth remaining in his mouth.

Brigadier Thyme sniffed. "We're not landotters, we're hares, and if your manners don't improve, laddie, you won't be dining on oatscones and mountain cheese, followed by berry 'n' barley bake."

Pakatugg nearly tore the knapsack from Thyme's back. "Oatscones, mount'n cheese, where?"