Loamhedge

29

Morning sunlight filtered like molten gold through the gatehouse. Raga Bol picked his teeth with the silver pawhook, spitting a bone back onto the remains of a well-grilled fish, which he had breakfasted on.

The Searat captain was in a expansive mood, having slept dreamlessly without any giant stripedog nightmares. The whole incident surrounding Lonna had faded into the background since his arrival at the Abbey. He felt a sense of power, sheltered by the monumental red walls which he knew would be his new home. No more scouring the cold northeast seas. This was a place of fair weather, a fortress from where he could rule all Mossflower. Lord Raga Bol, he liked the sound of his new title.

Badredd quaked with pent-up tension as he awaited the Searat’s verdict on his cooking. Blowfly stood behind him, twirling his knotted rope’s end. Relief flooded through the small fox at the sound of the captain’s coarse but satisfied chuckle.

“Haharr, I’ve eaten worse an’ lived! Wot kinda fish was that ’un, matey? Wot ’erb did ye use on it, eh?”

Badredd answered promptly. “ ’Twas a grayling, sir, grilled with button mushrooms an’ dill. I did it special.”

Bol patted his stomach. “Graylin’, that’s a nice-soundin’ name. Blowfly, wot are we goin’ t’do wid this cook—flog ’im to a jelly wid yore rope’s end or gut ’im wid this ’ook?”

Blowfly smiled, not a pretty sight. “Gut ’im, Cap’n, go on!”

The hook lunged out, capturing Badredd around his neck. He was dragged forward until Bol was breathing in his face.

“Make yoreself useful round ’ere, me liddle graylin’. Clean this place up, scrub it out an’ make the bed. Blowfly, you stay ’ere, tickle ’im up wid yore rope’s end if’n ’e slacks!”

Thrusting both scimitar and stiletto in his sash, the captain swaggered out onto the sunlit lawn. “Glimbo, rally the crew. ’Tis time we went for a parley wid our new friends!”

All night long, Foremole and his molecrew had been carrying rubble up to the dormitory to be used as extra defence material. Martha sat close to the window with Toran and Abbot Carrul.

Granmum Gurvel laid breakfast out on the windowsill for them. “You’m bee’s h’eaten ee brekkist naow, ’tis gudd furr ee!”

The trio had already laid their plans. Toran poured honey and beechnut flakes over his oatmeal, pointing to the gatehouse. “Stand ready, everybeast, they’re comin’!”

Raga Bol sauntered up with twoscore of Searats, as though he was out for a morning stroll. He waved up at them.

Toran grunted. “Don’t look like they’re goin’ to attack right now.”

“It wouldn’t pay to!” Martha muttered grimly, reaching for one of Redwall’s latest pepper bombs. Abbot Carrul stayed silent, polishing his glasses nervously on his habit sleeve.

A Searat brandishing a rusty axe snarled up arrogantly at the dormitory windows. “Get yerselves out ’ere, or we’ll come in an’ drag ye down!”

Drawing his scimitar, Raga Bol dealt the Searat a swinging blow to the jaw with its bone handle. He placed a sea-booted footpaw on the sprawled-out rat and spoke reprovingly. “Tut tut, I’m surprised at ye, mate. Is that anyways to be addressin’ gennelbeasts?” Returning the blade to his sash, the Searat captain lectured the rest of his brutish crew. “Mind yore language when ye talks to the goodbeasts up there, that’s an order!”

He winked broadly and turned away from them, performing a flourishingly elegant bow. His gold fangs glinted as he smiled up at the dormitory windows. “My ’pologies, an’ a good day to ye all, messmates. Me name’s Raga Bol, fer want of a better ’un. I’m ’ere to parley wid yore cap’n. ’Twould be a kindness if’n ’e’d speak t’me.”

Abbot Carrul showed himself. “I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. What exactly do you want, sir?”

Raga Bol put his head to one side, almost managing to look coy. “Ho, a bit o’ this an’ a bit o’ that. Nothin’ fer you to bother yore dear old grey ’ead about, Father Abbot. I’m nought but a simple beast who likes pretty trinkets.”

Toran felt that Carrul had taken enough verbal fencing. Recalling the arrow which had been shot to slay his Abbot, he came forward, placing himself in front of Carrul. In one paw he held a long cook’s knife; in the other, a pepper bomb.

“Wot would ye like, silvertongue—a bit o’ this or a bit o’ that?” He indicated both weapons as he spoke. “Make yore choice, ’cos that’s all ye’ll get from us. Redwallers aren’t born fools. We know scum, even when they try to talk fancy!”

Realising that the otter could not be cajoled or wheedled, Raga hurled himself at the Abbey door, hacking at it with his sabre and knife and yelling to his Searat crew, “Attack! Break this door down!”

“Redwaaaaaallllll!” A warcry rang out as the defenders fired slingstones and pepper bombs down upon the foebeasts. A slingstone pinged off Raga’s jaw, leaving it gashed.

He retreated from the door, bellowing, “Back! Out o’ their range. Back!”

They stumbled back across the lawn to where they could see missiles coming and better dodge them.

Martha was shocked but elated. It had all happened so fast: one moment she was listening to the talk going back and forth, the next moment she was screeching like a wildbeast and madly launching off slingstones. She held her trembling paws up to her eyes, willing them to be still.

Toran winked at her. “Well done, beauty!”

His attention was distracted by Raga Bol, shouting, “Ahoy there! Is that the way ye treat creatures wot comes in peace? Aharr, ye wretches, I’ll show ye the Searat way o’ fightin’ back. I’ll burn ye out!”

The Searat captain marched off, back to the gatehouse. Some of his crew were nursing wounds, while others fled blindly, their eyes streaming as they sneezed uncontrollably and headed for the pond.

Martha could feel panic welling inside her. She clasped Toran’s paw. “Will they really try to burn us out?”

Seating himself on the windowsill, the ottercook stared down at the Abbey’s main door, directly below. “Aye, I thought they’d get around to that, sooner or later. But the Searats’ plan won’t work. How much of that soil an’ rubble is there, Dwurl?”

Spreading his hefty digging claws, Foremole shrugged. “Much as ee loikes, zurr. We’m gotten gurt ’eaps o’ durt’n’rubble, hooj marsess uv ee stuff!”

The Abbot looked over his glasses at Toran. “What are you thinking of, friend?”

The ottercook turned from the window. “Our Abbey is built o’ stone, Father. Ain’t many ways they can burn an entrance in. The big Abbey door is the one way. If that went afire, we’d be lost, sittin’ on the other side of it, waitin’ for the door to burn down. So I plan on blockin’ it completely. We’ll do it right now. Ain’t no sense in losin’ time, so we’d best work hard’n’fast. Pay attention, everybeast, this is the plan. . . .”

Raga Bol’s mood had turned sour. He had supposed that his show of force would have gained him an easy victory rather than a shameful retreat. But it had become apparent that the Abbeybeasts were not afraid to fight, no matter how great the odds. He retired to the Abbey pond where he sat sullenly watching those of his crew who had been struck by pepper bombs dousing their heads in the shallows. Flinky and the rest of Badredd’s gang were there, ineptly trying to catch another grayling. The captain took his spleen out on them, booting Flinky headfirst into the water.

The stoat rose spluttering, as he tried to placate the irate Searat. “Sure we was only tryin’ to catch a fat ould fish for yer ’onour’s supper. Ain’t that right, mate?”

Halfchop nodded enthusiastically. “Kachunk!”

Raga Bol drew his scimitar menacingly. “Gerrout o’ me sight, ye witless idiots, make yoreselves scarce. Now!”

Avoiding the keen blade, Flinky and the rest fled the scene.

Ferron, the gaunt rat, slung a flat pebble, bouncing it over the pond surface. “I wouldn’t give ’em ’til sunset, Cap’n. I’d burn those beasts out now!”

Bol was loath to destroy any part of his new home. He looked to Wirga, his Seer. “Wot say ye, old one?”

Wirga was drawing patterns in the banksand with a stick. She shrugged. “If the sons of Wirga were here, they could use their darts on anybeast who showed at the windows.”

Raga Bol glared at her. “But they ain’t ’ere, are they? So do we burn ’em out, or have ye got a better way?”

The Seer sensed the danger in his tone. She made her reply diplomatically. “Set a fire in full view of the windows. Then send a messenger to give them one last warning. The sight of flames should alter their minds.”

This was the answer the captain desired. He gave orders. “Ferron, Glimbo, gather wood an’ get lamp oil. Then set up a blaze on the lawn, where they kin see it. Wirga, take Chakka wid ye. Go an’ warn those fools wot’ll ’appen if’n they don’t surrender t’me!”

Badredd had just finished mopping the gatehouse floor clean and was about to unbend when Blowfly slapped his rump smartly with the rope end.

“Yew missed a corner be’ind the door!” The fat Searat caught Flinky peering in through the open window at him. “Now then, slysnout, wot do yew want?”

The stoat smiled apologetically. “Beggin’ yore pardon, sir, but ’tis the cap’n, ’e wants ye down by the pond.”

Blowfly gave Badredd another sharp rap. “This place better be shipshape when I comes back, or I’ll flay the back offa ye. Ahoy there, stoat, lend ’im a paw. I kin find me own way t’the pond.” Blowfly waddled off, twirling his rope end skilfully.

The small fox tossed Flinky a damp rag. “You start on the windows, I’ll see t’the floor.”

The stoat pulled him upright, whispering urgently. “We’re gettin’ out o’ this place. Come on now, while they’re all at the pond we can make a run fer it!”

Badredd gazed dumbly at Flinky, as if not understanding what he had said. The stoat grabbed the cleaning rag from him and flung it away. “Don’t stand there wid yore jaw flappin’! Are ye comin’ wid us, or d’ye like bein’ a slave? The rest o’ the gang are hidin’ by the gate, waitin’. All the Searats are down by the pond, there’s not a sentry on guard at all!”

Badredd’s limbs began trembling. “But wot if they catch us?”

Flinky could not keep the contempt out of his voice. “Huh, some grand ould leader ye turned out t’be. Yore better off stayin’ here if’n yore too scared. We’re goin’!”

He ran from the gatehouse to where the others were waiting. “Get that gate open, quick now!”

Soon Badredd came running from the gatehouse to join the escapers, shouting out, “Wait for me, mates. I’m comin’, too!”

A moment later they were off, dashing south down the path and cutting off east into Mossflower Wood, leaving the main gate swinging lazily in the summer breeze.

Raga Bol was putting an edge to his blade on a stone he had found on the pond’s edge. He glanced up sourly at Blowfly’s approach. “Wot do y’want, eh?”

The fat Searat saluted with his rope’s end. “Dat liddle stoat, the gabby one, ’e said yew wanted ter see me, Cap’n.”

Blowfly dodged a swipe from the silver hook as Bol roared, “I never said no such thing. Get back to that gate’ouse an’ see wot they’re up to. Go on, move yer fat bum!”

He glanced up despairingly at the sight of Wirga and Chakka arriving back from the Abbey building. Both were caked from eartips to tails in a mixture of soil, rubble and sloppy debris, which clung to their bodies. The Searat captain shook his head in disbelief. “Well, make yore report. Wot ’appened to youse two?”

Wirga spat out grit. Pawing soil from her ears, she hawked and coughed to clear her mouth. “They didn’t give us a chance to speak. We went round there like thee told us, but they wouldn’t listen, would they Chakka?”

She waded into the pond and began washing the mess off as Chakka continued. “They was pourin’ muck outta the winders, Cap’n. We tried to give ’em yore warnin’, but a crew o’ those moles lobbed a big ’eap o’ rubble down on us. Not only that, but they kept tippin’ stuff down until we was knocked flat. We ’ad to dig our way out afore we was buried. It looks like they’re coverin’ the Abbey door, so we can’t put a light to it, Cap’n. Those beasts are killers, we was near suffocated!”

Raga Bol put aside sharpening his scimitar. “Have the others lit the fire on the lawn yet?”

Wirga emerged dripping from the pond. “Aye, the wood is burning.”

Raga Bol hurried up from the pond, past the orchard and out onto the lawn at the front of the building where he could take in the full scene. He could see the top few timbers of the Abbey’s main door. The rest had disappeared under a heap of debris, which was still pouring out of the window, forming a great hill of rubble, which completely blocked the doorway.

Quivering with rage, Bol strode up to the fire, which his crew was fuelling with logs, branches and planks. He smote at the blazing wood with his scimitar, scattering it onto the lawn. “Glimbo, git yoreself over ’ere! Stop burnin’ the wood, we’ll need it to pile up agin that load o’ rubble!”

The one-eyed Searat, who had been enjoying the blaze, saluted his leader quizzically. “Ye don’t want a fire then, Cap’n?” He recoiled, his face now splattered with spittle from the captain’s furious rant.

“Can’t ye see they’ve blocked the doorway, fool? Rubble won’t burn, we need that wood to pile up agin that ’eap. We can climb up on it through the winders!”

Raga Bol sat down on the lawn, chopping at the grass with his blade and shouting out, “Can’t ye use yore brains? ’Ave I got to do all the thinkin’ round ’ere?”

Blowfly came plodding up from the gatehouse. “Cap’n, the vermin gang are gone. The gate’s open, they must’ve escaped!”

Bol gritted each word out slowly, as if he was speaking to a dim-witted infant. “Well, go an’ bring ’em back! Glimbo, you go wid ’im, an’ don’t show yer ugly faces back ’ere widout every last one of ’em. Go!”

Martha had heard every word. She smiled at the Abbot. “Well, that’s a few less to bother us.”

Sister Setiva ducked her head aside as a stretcher load of debris hurtled out of the window space. “Och, but did ye hear yon Searat? They’re goin’ tae make a ladder tae scale the heap o’ muck. Whit are we to do now?”

Just then, Foremole Dwurl clumped into the dormitory, his face wreathed in a happy smile as he announced, “We’m no need to wurry o’er water nomores, zurr. Moi molers h’un-covered a gurt well, daown in ee cellars!”

Sister Setiva pursed her lips. “Och grand, but ah don’t see how that’s goin’ tae help us fight Searats off!”

Toran shook Dwurl by his muddy digging claw. “That’s a spot o’ luck, me ole mate! Keep throwin’ rubble out o’ the windows, an’ tell yore crew to start bringin’ up pails o’ water, as much as they can!”

The ottercook winked roguishly at Martha. “We’ll see ’ow far the rats get, tryin’ to scale a mudhill.”

The haremaid clapped her paws gleefully. “Very good, Toran, what a splendid idea! Gurvel, keep making those pepper bombs. In a day or two those Searats will wish they’d never heard of Redwall Abbey!”

Little Muggum flung a pawful of debris moodily out the window. “Hurr, they’m founded watter. Oi ’speck uz Dibbuns bee’s a getten barthed agin.”

Sister Setiva patted the molebabe fondly. “Och aye, but ye can throw the soapy bathwater oot o’er the rats!”

Within the hour, Old Phredd had penned a poem about what he envisaged. Martha laughed along with the rest as the ancient Gatekeeper read it aloud to the defenders.

“They won’t leave this Abbey, all filthy and scabby,

when this war is done.

Our foes will retreat, looking clean nice and neat,

every Searat’s son.

Oh won’t it be splendid, when this siege is ended,

like roses they’ll smell,

washed by bathwater sweet, looking fresh in defeat,

as away they run.

Come one and come all, dirty vermin we’ll call,

should you need a scrub,

don’t worry or fear, we’ve got bathwater here,

you may take a tub.

Wash the mud out your ears, so you’ll hear us my dears,

for ’tis truth to tell,

you will know how it feels, with a clean pair of heels,

from a Redwall Farewell!”

Raga Bol watched as Ferron and Rojin barred and shut the big wallgates. Wirga followed him inside the gatehouse, waiting silently on his command. The Searat slumped down on Old Phredd’s bed, speaking his thoughts as he gazed up at the ceiling.

“Tonight, once ’tis dark, we attack. You stay ’ere wid a few o’ the crew. Light a fire, make lots o’ noise, they’ll think we’re all round by this gate’ouse. I’ll take the rest an’ storm the Abbey by surprise. Tell Ferron to gather all the wood that ain’t burned. We’ll need it to get up the rubble. I’ll be inside afore that ole Abbotmouse knows it. I’ll teach those bumpkins to defy Raga Bol. The floors in there’ll be awash wid blood by the time I’m done!”

Wirga ventured some questions. “Do I leave the gates locked, Cap’n? What if Blowfly an’ Glimbo return with the prisoners? Or my three sons, what if they return with Jibsnout?”

Raga Bol looked sideways at his Seer. “They got paws’n’voices, ain’t they? Let ’em bang on the gates or call for ye to open up.”

Wirga humbled her tone, knowing she was touching on a delicate subject. “Jibsnout and my sons are gone overlong now, they should have returned. Thou wouldst know then if the big stripedog still lives.”

Bol snapped up off the bed. “Wot do I care about yore whelps, or Jibsnout, eh? I gave ’em a job to do, they should be doin’ it. As fer the stripedog, mention ’im agin an’ I’ll let daylight through yore skinny carcass. Now get out an’ give my orders to Ferron an’ the crew. We attack tonight!”