High Rhulain

22

Under cover of darkness, the Purloined Petunia sailed in toward the mystic mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Somewhat puzzled but obedient to her captain’s orders, Tiria manoeuvred the tiller, steering the vessel into the broad, curving bay. Twin beacons on the shoreline burned holes into the night, guiding her in. The ottermaid could make out figures running to and fro onshore. She surmised that these must be the legendary fighting hares of the Long Patrol, the Badger Lord’s perilous warriors. Cuthbert had gone forward, concealing himself in the tiny lean-to between galley and prow. Tiria guessed he had his own purpose in doing this; she had long given up questioning her odd companion. Vast and primitive, the mighty mountain loomed above her as she hove in, blocking out the eastern sky.

A hare waded into the sea. Standing waist deep, he waved a torch as he hailed the Petunia. “Ahoy the ship, identify yourself!”

Cupping paws to her mouth, Tiria shouted the answer, as Cuthbert had instructed her to. “The Purloined Petunia, bound for the destruction of all vermin and the protection of goodbeasts!”

She heard the hare chuckle as he replied, “Heave us a jolly old headrope, an’ we’ll bring you in.”

A line was already fixed to the bowsprit. Tiria ran forward. Separating the coils, she slung it in the hare’s direction. He was joined by a score or so of his comrades, who set their weight on the rope and pulled the ship to shore. More hares came to assist, throwing down logrollers and hauling the vessel over the tideline until it was fully beached, high and dry. Looking over the side, the ottermaid saw that she was surrounded by Long Patrol hares, all uniformed and fully armed. They parted, leaving an aisle through which came striding the biggest badger Tiria had ever imagined. Torchlight shimmered off his armoured breastplate as his dark eyes gazed up at her.

The huge beast’s voice was a thunderous rumble. “Permission to come aboard?”

Tiria was in a quandary. Her captain had not warned her of this. She was taken aback as a clipped military voice rapped out a reply to the badger.

“Permission granted, by all means, sah, but one’d much rather toodle ashore to bandy words with you, wot wot!”

Cuthbert emerged from hiding, completely transformed into a full-blown regimental major. Gone was the musselshell eyepatch and tawdry captain’s rig. The odd hare had waxed his moustache into two fine points, and he was wearing a monocle. Around his waist was a broad black silk sash with a straight sabre thrust through it. A short pink mess jacket was draped elegantly about his shoulders, tasselled, goldembroidered and bearing two rows of medals pinned to it. Cuthbert was carrying a silver-tipped swagger stick, which he waved in salute.

The big badger nodded, smiling. “Step ashore, Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw, and be so good as to bring your friends with you.”

As two young subaltern hares assisted her ashore with needless gallantry, Tiria introduced herself and the osprey. “I’m Tiria Wildlough from Redwall Abbey. This bird is Pandion Piketalon of Green Isle.”

The badger bowed solemnly. “Welcome, friends. I am Lord Mandoral Highpeak of Salamandastron. Come along, Tiria. Subs Quartle and Portan will attend to you, though I imagine that fine osprey can take ample care of himself.”

They strolled toward the mountain, with Mandoral and Cuthbert chatting animatedly in the lead. Tiria walked behind with the two young subalterns, who were obviously fascinated with the pretty young ottermaid. Both talked incessantly.

“I say, Miz Tiria, are you actually a jolly good chum of Old Blood’n’guts Blanedale?”

Tiria nodded. “I am indeed, Portan. Why do you ask?”

Portan grinned self-consciously. “No need for full titles, marm. Y’can call me Porters, an’ that flippin’ great droopears is Quarters, wot!”

His companion made a swift leg, tripped and almost fell. “Hawhaw, a pal of Old Blood’n’guts, eh? How many vermin have you slain between you? A jolly good few, I’ll wager!”

The ottermaid shook her head. “None, really. I only met him a short while ago. But what’s all this about slaying lots of vermin? I’d like to know more about my friend Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw.”

The company entered the mountain through an impressively large oaken double door. From there they went straight to the main mess hall. There was a host of other hares already there. The place was filled with noise. Long Patrol members laughed, joked, sang barrack room songs and banged on the tables, demanding dinner.

“I say, wheel in the bally tucker before I jolly well perish!”

“Good show, old chap. You carry on an’ perish. I’ll scoff yours an’ look sad for you later. Hawhawhaw!”

“Where’s that blinkin’ grubswiper got to with our scoff, eh?”

“Let’s casserole the confounded cook. There’s enough on that flippin’ old lard tub for two helpin’s apiece, wot!”

“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Wopps minor!”

“Shan’t! You go an’ toast y’tail, Chubbscott!”

Tiria found herself seated at a corner guest table with her two subalterns. She ducked as a stale crust flew overhead. “Are they always like this?”

Quartle denied the accusation strenuously. “Good grief no, miz! They’re pretty quiet tonight. I expect it’s ’cos we have guests, manners y’know.”

Regimental Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was seated at the top table with Lord Mandoral and some high-ranking officers. Pandion was nowhere to be seen; Tiria assumed the osprey had gone fishing in the bay for dinner.

She pressed on, questioning her two friends about Cuthbert. “Tell me about Major Blanedale. I don’t know much about him.”

Portan seemed quite taken aback. “Great seasons, the chap’s a blinkin’ legend among Long Patrol types. I’ve heard that Lord Mandoral sometimes refers to him as the Deathseeker. Says he’s been lookin’ to get himself jolly well slain ever since he lost his daughter.”

Quartle nodded in Cuthbert’s direction. “That chap’s been sewn t’gether more times than a bloomin’ patchwork quilt. Just look at those scars, y’can see them from here. Huh, talk about perilous!”

Tiria was growing impatient with her garrulous escorts. “I know that. He’s obviously been in lots of battles. But could you please tell me why? Was it because of his daughter?”

Portan tossed a clean serviette to Tiria. “Whoops! Gangway there, chaps, here comes the old nosh, an’ not before flippin’ time, eh Quarters?”

An outsize platter of salad, a big bowl of soup, a full loaf of wheatbread and a tankard overflowing with burdock and nettle squash clattered down in front of Tiria. She regarded it with awe.

“There’s enough here for the three of us!”

Quartle chaffed her. “Oh, come on now, old thing, it’s only a light summer repast. Personally, I’m always jolly well hungry by suppertime. Ain’t that right, Porters?”

His tablemate gestured airily. “Anythin’ y’can’t cope with, sling it over to me an’ old Quarters. We’ll deal with it, wot!”

Tiria glared from one to the other. “Will you please stop avoiding my questions?”

“Pay no heed t’these two gormless scoffin’ machines, young ’un. I can tell you all you want t’know. Move over there, ye famine-faced wastebins!”

The hare who seated himself at the guest table was a rough-looking customer. He was tall and sinewy, sable-furred, with a scar running through his face from eartip to jaw. Both subalterns went politely quiet.

The new guest unsheathed a very long, basket-hilted rapier and laid it on the table. “Captain Raphael Granden at y’service, young ’un. I take it you’re enquirin’ about Major Blanedale?”

Tiria answered respectfully. “I am, sir. If you’ll pardon me saying, the major is a rather odd creature.”

The captain indicated the crowded mess hall with a sweep of his eyes. “We’re all odd creatures in one way or another. No doubt y’ve heard the sayin’ ‘madder than a March hare.’ There’s more’n a few of ’em here, miss, but I know what y’mean.

“I served under Major Cuthbert when I was a sergeant. In those seasons he was a perilous fighter, the bravest warrior on this mountain. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, I’ll tell ye what made him wilder than a Badger Lord with the Bloodwrath. He had a daughter named Petunia, a real beauty, quiet an’ gentle. She was the flower of the Long Patrol. Many a young ranker lost his heart to her, I can tell ye. Well, one autumn day she was out on the shore, a league from here, gatherin’ shells an’ coloured stones, as many haremaids are apt t’do.”

Captain Granden paused, staring at his long swordblade. Both young subalterns urged him on.

“What happened then, Cap’n Rafe?”

“Was it the vermin, sah?”

He nodded sombrely. “Aye, sea raiders, a whole crewload of the scum. They’d anchored around the north point an’ come ashore. Petunia saw them, o’ course. When she tried to run back here an’ raise the alarm, they brought her down with arrows—slew her, an’ left her layin’ in the shallows. A poor innocent haremaid, who’d never harmed anybeast.”

Tiria felt the hair on her nape prickling. “Major Cuthbert found out, of course, Cap’n Rafe?”

The captain blinked several times, and his voice shook. “I was out walkin’ with him. It was me who found her. Rollin’ in the surf, dead, with four shafts in her back.”

Tiria shuddered. “It must have been a terrible thing for him, seeing his daughter like that.”

The stone-faced captain never took his eyes from the long rapier blade as he continued. “He picked her up and held her close, then his eyes sort of filmed over. He gave her to me and said, ‘Take my daughter back to the mountain.’ Then he screamed.”

Captain Granden drew in a deep breath. “It was a long time ago, miss, but I can still hear that scream, like some wounded madbeast. It just ripped out of the major’s throat. Then I was left holding his daughter’s body as he thundered off along the shore after the vermin. I raced back here and raised the alarm. An instant later, I was racing after him at the head of a hundred warriors. But nobeast would ever catch him. He must have run with the speed of madness driving him onward. We lost him completely, even though we searched ’til long after dark.”

Quartle and Portan sat forward with tight-clenched paws.

“The filthy villains, I wish I’d jolly well been there!”

“Aye, but Old Blood’n’guts got ’em! Didn’t he, Cap’n Rafe?”

They fell silent as the tough hare nodded slowly. “Three days later, the sea raiders’ ship drifted into the bay outside of here an’ ran aground. I was one of the party, led by Lord Mandoral, who boarded the vessel. Her crew was a mixed bag—rats, stoats, weasels, ferrets, even a pair of foxes. A score an’ a half of the villains. Every last one of ’em was dead as a doornail. Slain!”

The ottermaid interrupted. “And the Major?”

Captain Granden smiled grimly. “We found him, though at first we took him for dead, too. He was covered from scut to ears in rips an’ gapin’ wounds. I was tryin’ to pry the broken sword from what I thought was his death grasp when he opened his eyes an’ said to me, ‘This is my daughter’s ship. I took it for her and called it the Purloined Petunia. Good name, don’t y’think, wot?’ ”

The captain picked up his rapier and sheathed it. “We carried him back here. Took him four seasons to recover, but he did. Well, his body healed, but I fear his mind was affected forever. So there y’have it, miss. Now, if you’re finished eating, Lord Mandoral would like a word with ye.”

Regimental Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was in his element. He had retired to an alcove with a group of fellow officers to drink spiked punch and regale them with a bloodthirsty ditty.

“Oh I dearly do love vermin,

I’ve oft times heard it said,

that the finest type of vermin,

are those vermin who are dead!

Show me a rat that’s been laid flat,

or a ferret that’s food for fishes,

or a wily fox laid out in a box,

an’ you’ve got my fond good wishes.

’Cos a vermin that’s slain gives nobeast pain,

he’ll never harm honest creatures,

nor steal no scoff, with his bonce chopped off

an’ a scowl on his wicked features.

Oh I dearly do love vermin,

I think I always will,

while I can afford to draw me sword,

there’s always time to kill!

’Tis true that a stoat will never float,

with a javelin through his liver,

an’ a rat’ll never get thirsty,

after sinkin’ in the river.

Ole Blood’n’guts they call me,

’cos I sends ’em to Hellgates,

a fox, a weasel or anybeast evil,

along with their foul messmates!”

Tiria bowed to the ruler of Salamandastron. “You wished to see me, Lord?”

Mandoral held a massive paw out to the ottermaid. “Yes, I think you’d best come with me. We’ll go somewhere quieter. It can get rather rowdy in here at mealtimes.”

As they passed the alcove, Cuthbert could be seen standing on a table, waving his sabre whilst treating his audience to an even more bloodthirsty ballad.

The badger shook his huge, striped head disapprovingly. “Normally I wouldn’t allow that sort of thing in the mess. It’s a bad example to the younger hares. But Frunk is a law unto himself—he says what he pleases and comes and goes whenever the mood takes him. I take it Captain Granden told you his story?”

Tiria replied. “Yes, sir, a sad and terrible tale it was. I don’t think he can really be blamed for the way he is, in view of what happened.”

Mandoral agreed. “That’s the way I feel also. The major has become a berserker, one who courts death. I allow him more leeway than any of my Long Patrol. It would come as no great surprise if he left here one day and never returned. I’d know then that he got his wish.”

Tiria followed the Badger Lord down a passage, then up several flights of rock-hewn stairs. They passed dormitories and barrack rooms, all quite spartan but very neat. Salamandastron looked to be an even more solid proposition than her Abbey home of Redwall, but after all, she reasoned, it was a military fortress. They ascended more stairs. Tiria had begun to wonder how much farther up they would go, when Mandoral halted in front of a wide beechwood door. He opened it, showing her in.

“This is my personal chambers and forge room.”

Tiria found herself in a wide, spacious blacksmith’s shop. Three of the walls were hung with armour, shields and weapons. On the seaward wall a long, unshuttered window faced a view of the restless main beneath a moonlit canopy of star-strewn darkness. At the centre of the room was a great glowing forge with two iron anvils and barrels of oil and water close by. The ottermaid went to the window where she stood admiring the panorama.

Lord Mandoral joined her there. “Salamandastron has always protected the western shores of Mossflower Country against foebeasts and wrongdoers. Of late we have been fortunate to live through long peaceful seasons, but it has not always been thus. Many times we have taken up arms against invaders from both land and sea. I myself prefer the peaceful life. Besides being a warrior lord, I have learned to study. I have educated myself in the legends, lore and history of this mountain, its various rulers and our proud traditions.”

Tiria could feel the soft night breeze caressing her face and the heat from the glowing forge upon her back. She chanced a sideways glance at the Badger Lord, well believing that he was a fearsome warrior, with his formidable size, firm, thrusting jaw and quick, hooded eyes. However, there was no doubt, by his words, that he was a creature who possessed both knowledge and wisdom.

Mandoral pointed out at the sea, directing her gaze. “Look there, Tiria, slightly north and straight ahead, between the bay and the horizon. What can you see?”

She peered into the night sea intently. “What am I supposed to be looking for, sir?”

The badger was moving away from her as he replied, “The tide has started to ebb. Keep looking if you want to know more of the High Queen Rhulain.”

Tiria was totally taken aback. “Lord, how do you know of the Rhulain?”

Tiria turned to ask the badger more, but she was facing an empty room. He had vanished!