High Rhulain

26

Tiria had never been beneath the sea before. It was strangely silent, with only the muted sound of an air bubble or two. Translucent green light from above gave the subterranean world an oddly sinister aspect. As Tiria descended, keeping one paw on the rock face and the other gripping her lifeline, the water grew colder and colder. The outlook became decidedly gloomy as the ottermaid progressed downward. Soon she could see no further than her extended paw. The young ottermaid began to wonder just how far down the Rhulain’s wrecked ship lay.

Then she felt her rudder scrape the seabed—a mass of gritty sand, kelp, rock and little else. Feeling slightly cheated that she had not landed on the deck of the submerged vessel, Tiria groped about with her free paw. Nothing! She began to wonder if maybe the wreck had been moved by undersea currents or perhaps, after all the long ages, it had disintegrated and sunk beneath the sand. Who was to say? Then her footpaw struck something. She bent to discover what it was and felt a heavy ship’s timber protruding from the seabed amid a jumble of rocky debris. Sifting her paw into the sand, Tiria encountered another object and pulled it free, holding it close to her face. It was smooth, with some holes in it, a sickly pale white thing. A large bubble burst from her mouth as she gasped in horror. It was the skull of an otter! She was standing on top of a mass grave. All the bones of the crew were trapped within the sunken hulk, lying beneath an impenetrable weight of sand and rock. Searching for a slim gold coronet in these cold lonely depths was a fool’s errand, an impossibility. Tiria pushed off from the scene, bitterly regretting the failure of her mission.

She did not see the long dark shape streaking out from amid the kelp-festooned rocks. It struck her hard in the back, knocking the air from her lungs in a bubbling gush. Then the thing had her in a vicelike grip. Panic caused the ottermaid to struggle wildly, but the heavy coils enveloped her in their cruel embrace. Still holding on to the rope, Tiria wrenched both paws free. Amid the morass of debris-filled water, she saw a brutishly evil head striking at her face. Grabbing the bulky neck she fought to hold it off, thrusting frantically against the onslaught of a gaping mouthful of serrated teeth. The monster’s black, gold-rimmed eyes stared pitilessly at her as it pushed savagely toward her face. Then it squirmed, spinning her around to increase its purchase. In that moment, bereft of any breath of air but with a surge of energy brought on by naked terror, Tiria twirled the rope around the creature’s huge head. The lifeline looped twice, just below its jaw. The ottermaid jerked the lifeline sharply. One! Two!

Half conscious and still battling the thick, sinuous body, Tiria felt herself shooting toward the surface. She was hauled roughly into bright sunlight, with Mandoral’s battlecry ringing in her ears. “Eulaliiiiaaaaa!”

Spewing seawater and flailing feebly in the grip of the thing from the depths, both Tiria and the monster were dragged aboard the Petunia. Instantly, Cuthbert and the two subalterns flung themselves on the thing. Kicking, punching, battering and biting, they freed Tiria from its crushing stranglehold. Mandoral seized the rope, slashing through it with his fearsome teeth. Quartle and Portan were knocked flat by the thick, writhing body, but Cuthbert and the Badger Lord grabbed it between them. They bundled it over the side, coil by coil, into the sea, where it slithered off, with surprising alacrity, down into the dark depths.

Still conscious, Tiria staggered across the deck on all fours, gasping, “Wh . . . wh . . . what was it?”

Lord Mandoral shook his great striped head. “It looked like some kind of large water serpent!”

Cuthbert helped Tiria to stand upright. “Hahar, ’tweren’t no sarpint, that was an ole conger, the giant eel o’ the seas! Yore lucky t’be still alive, Tilly, mate. I never knew nobeast t’stand up to a conger, ’specially a giant one like that rascal!”

Quartle and Portan thought otherwise.

“Except Lord Mandoral an Ole Blood’n’guts, wot!”

“Absolutely! Three cheers for Lord Mandoral an’ Ole Blood’n . . . beg pardon, Major Blanedale Frunk. Hip hip!”

From the mast top, Pandion joined in raucously.

On her return to the mountain, Tiria sought out her room in the guest quarters. She slumped on the bed, overcome by a sense of depression. She had failed to retrieve the coronet and, to compound her misery, had had to be rescued from an eel. Having had little sleep the previous night and wearied by her ordeal in the sea, the ottermaid closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Judging by the angle of the light slanting through the window, Tiria guessed it was early evening when she was awakened by somebeast knocking on her door. She sat up, yawning and stretching.

“Come in, please.”

Captain Rafe Granden marched smartly in and deposited the regalia which Mandoral had given Tiria on the bedside table. The tough-looking hare saluted her.

“Lord Mandoral’s compliments, miz. He requests that y’join him at top table for dinner this evenin’. He sent these togs so’s you can attend in full fig, wot.”

Tiria took one look at the regalia and shook her head. “I’d rather not, Cap’n Rafe. Give his Lordship my apologies. I’ll be staying here on my own.”

The stern-faced captain looked straight ahead, continuing to speak as if he had not heard the ottermaid. “Dinner’ll be served shortly, miz. I’ll send Subalterns Quartle an’ Portan to escort ye t’the mess. Ye’ll be dressed an’ ready to attend!”

Tiria protested. “But I’ve just told you—”

Captain Granden interrupted her abruptly. “I must inform ye, miz, any refusal would be taken as an insult t’the ruler o’ Salamandastron. Nobeast refuses a Badger Lord, not done, young ’un, rank bad form, y’know. So, I’ll leave ye t’make yourself presentable. Y’servant, miz!”

The captain’s tone left Tiria in no doubt that she was to be Mandoral’s dinner guest, willing or not. He saluted stiffly and marched speedily off.

Tiria had hardly donned the new attire when her two subalterns arrived. Both were taken aback at her appearance. Quartle bowed several times, and Portan tripped over his own footpaws whilst trying to make an elegant leg.

He grinned foolishly. “I say I say I say, blow me down an’ all that, wot wot!”

His companion was equally voluble. “By the cringe an’ by the flippin’ left, Miss Tiria, if you ain’t a perfect picture, I’ll eat me aunt’s pinny!”

Tiria had to admit to herself that the regalia fitted her exquisitely. She felt every inch the warrior queen, even though she lacked a coronet. Taking both the young hares’ proffered paws, she smiled regally.

“Let us proceed to the mess, chaps, wot!”

As they strolled down the corridor to the main mess hall, Tiria could hear massed voices raised in a regimental song.

“Here is our mountain an’ this is its Lord,

now sit we down at festive board,

come put aside weapons, both lance an’ sword,

let’s honour the regiment.

One two! I’ll drink to you!

an’ all my comrades good an’ true!

We’ll raise the tankard, fill the bowl,

to Salamandastron’s Long Patrol!

For warriors fallen from the ranks,

defending western shores,

let’s toast ’em all, each gallant hare,

who died for freedom’s cause!

Let blood’n’vinegar be our cry,

forward the buffs an’ do or die,

we don’t know fear or failure,

Eulalia! Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaaa!”

Amid the rousing cheers, shouts and paws pounding tables, Tiria was escorted to her place. She was seated between Lord Mandoral and Cuthbert, flanked by Captain Granden and some very senior-looking officers. When the noise had reached deafening proportions, the brazen boom of a big gong echoed through the mess. With the exception of those at top table, every hare shot bolt upright in rigid silence.

An old colonel, rake thin and sporting long, drooping mustachios, waited until he received the Badger Lord’s nod. Then, in a wobbly voice, he announced, “Gentlebeasts, ye may be seated!”

There followed a resounding clatter of benches and chairs. Then the customary din broke out afresh. Good-humoured ribaldry went back and forth as the orderlies wheeled out laden serving trolleys.

“I say, chaps, who’s that beautiful gel sittin’ next to his Lordship, wot?”

“Well, it ain’t you, Mobbs! You could blinkin’ well turn apples sour by just lookin’ at ’em!”

“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Gribbsy, you’ve got no eye for beauty at all. Hah, your motto is, if ye can’t eat it, then it ain’t nice!”

“Give your bloomin’ jaw a rest, Mobbs old lad. What’s for dinner, cookie old thing?”

The supply master sergeant, a huge hare with a broken nose, glared at the offender. “A dry crust an’ a short whistle if’n you call me cookie again, me laddo!”

A stout lance corporal chuckled. “Hawhaw, that’s the stuff to give him, cookie, you tell the blighter. Hawhawhaw!”

He withered under the sergeant’s icy stare. “Ye’ve never tasted my lance corporal pie, have ye? One more remark from you, young Flibber, an’ I’ll send a slice home to yore mother!”

The food was excellent and the portions enormous. Tiria was relieved to be sitting by Cuthbert, who devoured everything she nudged to within his paw range. Not a crumb that came near the gluttonous hare was spared.

“Good show, wot! The old mountain pie, ain’t tasted that in a blinkin’ badger’s age, wot!”

He dealt rapidly with summer salad, baked mushroom and turnip flan, cheese and carrot turnover, barley and leek soup and a plate of potato and chestnut pasties. Licking crumbs from his whiskers, Cuthbert began chivvying the servers for dessert.

Lord Mandoral eyed Tiria with obvious approval. “I was right, you are truly a High Queen, Tiria Wildlough.”

With a downcast gaze, the ottermaid mumbled, “I’m a queen without a crown. I failed miserably at that wreck today, sir. It was a disaster!”

Her paw was enveloped by the big badger’s own. “Nonsense, you were very brave! Huh, just the thought of you down there in the dark depths, battling with a monster, made my blood run cold. I don’t mind telling you, it’s not a thing I would have fancied attempting. But you went to it without a second thought. Mark my words, miss, that was the true sign of a leader, a real warrior!”

When dinner was over, the usual din of rowdy ballads and loud jokes broke out. This was halted by a big, barrel-chested hare. Colour Sergeant O’Cragg had a thunderous voice.

“H’atten . . . shun! Silence h’in the ranks, ye gobboons! Milord Mandoral ’as the floor. Sah!”

Staying seated, the badger made his announcement. “At noon tomorrow, Major Blanedale Frunk will be sailing for Green Isle. His purpose, to establish Lady Tiria Wildlough in her rightful position as queen there!”

Tiria looked about to say something, but a forbidding glance from Captain Granden bade her to hold any questions.

Mandoral paused, his eyes roving the mess. “There will be some opposition to this move from vermin foebeasts, wildcats, I am led to believe. Therefore, I would be remiss in my duty, sending the Lady with only Major Frunk and a hawk for protection. Major, how many of our Long Patrol could your vessel accommodate?”

Cuthbert’s ears twitched pensively. “Hmm, let me see, sah. The Petunia could take a limit of twoscore. But if ye count weapons, vittles an’ all that tackle, I’d say a score’n a half safely, Milord.”

Mandoral had no reason to doubt the old hare’s estimate. “A score and a half it is, then. Captain Granden, you’ll command when they reach Green Isle. Please select thirty hares for the task. Mind, I only want seasoned warriors, the best our Long Patrol can offer.”

Every hare in the mess sat stiffly to attention, each longing to be chosen for the mission. Captain Granden drew his long rapier and began striding slowly between the tables. He tapped the chosen ones on the shoulder with his blade, naming them.

“Colour Sergeant O’Cragg, Master Sergeant Bann, Corporal Drubblewick, Lieutenant Sagetip. . . .”

He continued until he had the required number. Tiria saw her two subalterns sitting with moist eyes, the very pictures of dejection. Standing up, she called out, “Excuse me, Cap’n Rafe. I’d like to take Quartle and Portan along with me to Green Isle.”

Granden shook his head vigourously. “Not possible I’m afraid, m’Lady. They’re both too young!”

Tiria objected. “How can you say that? They’re about the same age as I am!”

Mandoral interrupted. “You heard the captain, Lady. He’s in charge of the expedition. If he says they’re too young, then you must take his decision as final.”

The ottermaid looked from the Badger Lord to the captain. Aware that everybeast in the mess was watching her keenly, she drew herself up regally and spoke out firmly. “If I am to become Queen of Green Isle, I have to learn to make my own decisions. I say the subalterns will go!”

Granden’s face hardened. Thrusting out his jaw, he responded firmly, “I have made my choice, miz, and it stands. They stay!”

Tiria sat down slowly. Her reply was somewhat cool and distant. “Then I stay, too. That is my decision, Captain.”

In the awed silence which followed, Granden looked in bewilderment to Mandoral, whose booming laugh broke the suspense. “Hohoho! You don’t disobey a queen, Captain. I think you should defer to Her Majesty.”

Granden locked eyes with Tiria, staring hard at her. Not to be intimidated, she stared back just as hard. Suddenly the glimmer of a smile twitched the stern captain’s lips. He bowed elegantly and sheathed his rapier.

“As you wish, Milady. The subalterns sail with us!”

Thunderous cheers and loud applause rang out for Tiria. Quartle and Portan hastened to her side, grinning madly.

“I say, stifle me flamin’ scut, miz. Top hole, well done!”

“Rather! That’s the first time I’ve ever seen old granite-gob Granden backin’ down to any blinkin’ beast, wot!”

Still chuckling, Mandoral beckoned to her. “Make sure you treat Captain Granden right. He was only carrying out my orders.”

Tiria kept a straight face as she replied graciously. “Milord, we queens treat everybeast fairly, both our subjects and our allies!”

Both Tiria and Mandoral suddenly broke out laughing.

The following afternoon, a light breeze ruffled the sun-tipped waves in the bay as the Purloined Petunia rode, fully laden, at anchor. Regimental Major-cum-Captain Cuthbert Bloodpaw Frunk stood high on the stern. With a ladle in each paw, he hovered over the upturned barrel which would serve as his stroke drum. The vessel’s oar ports had been opened, twelve each to port and starboard. Twenty-four hares sat waiting, each gripping a long oar. Quartle and Portan sat either side of the tiller, ready to steer outward bound. Pandion Piketalon perched at the masthead; below him, two hares straddled the crosspiece. Up forward, the two burly sergeants stood by the anchor cable. Tiria was alone, out on the prow, facing west to the open sea.

Cuthbert was in his element as he began roaring orders to all and sundry in his roughest maritime tones. “Ahoy, let’s go to sea, me buckoes! Haul anchor, ye slab-sided scallawags! Make sail aloft, ye blunderin’ bluebottles! We’re bound for death or glory, whichever comes first!”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! As he belaboured his drum, he bellowed out orders to the rowing crew. “Bend yore backs, ye skinny sideswabs! Avast there, ye paddle-pawed poltroons! Pull! Pull! Pullllll!”

The big hare felt happier than he had for many long seasons. “Steersbeasts! Hold her westward, ye dither-pawed dodderers! Sweep oars! Pull, ye gripe-gutted galoots! Heave ho, me blunderin’ buckoes! I’ll make seabeasts of ye, or I’ll wallop yore whiskers, keelhaul yore scuts an’ nail yore noses t’the mainmast! Pull! Puuuuullllll!”

The ship, caught by the breeze and swept on by two dozen long sweep oars, shot forward like a flying fish.

Pandion raised his beak to the sun-kissed skies. “Karraheeee! Take me to my home! Karreeehaarr!”

The two subalterns gripped the tiller tight between them, amazed at the speed the ship was gaining by the moment.

“I say, Quarters, in a bit of a blinkin’ hurry aren’t we, wot!”

“Rather, Porters. D’you think Ole Blood’n’guts is tryin’ to gain a march, so’s we can stop for tea?”

Cuthbert leaned over them both, squinting villainously. “Either of yew chubby-cheeked charmers lets go of that tiller an’ I’ll make subaltern skilly’n’duff out o’ ye both. How’d ye like that for tea, eh?”

Lord Mandoral stood at the window of his high chamber. He saw reflecting sunlight flashing from Tiria’s armour as she stood on the bowsprit, waving good-bye to him. The Badger Lord merely nodded his big striped head in acknowledgement. He watched the vessel receding over the water, its long sweep oars making it look like a damselfly skimming over a vast millpond.

Mandoral’s lips barely moved as he softly chanted an old warrior’s farewell to the tall young ottermaid he had come to respect and admire.

“May fair winds attend thee always,

may thy days be bright and long,

may good weapons ever serve thee,

may thy limbs wax fleet and strong.

I will dream of thee by moonlight,

I will watch for thee by day,

until on thy returning,

I will come to thee and say,

‘Drink ye the wine of victory,

now lay aside thy sword,

for home and hearth and friendship

are the warrior’s reward!’ ”