Eulalia!

Eulalia! (Redwall, Book 19)

Brian Jacques

In honour of Peter McGovern, a true friend and a great man

Prologue

Am I not fortunate, sitting in the forge chamber at Salamandastron? The fire is well banked up--I feel its warmth all around me, whilst I gaze out over our western shores at the sea. What an awesome sight, the vast deeps, on a moonlit winter night. Mountainous waves take on a silver sheen, powerful and mysterious as they thunder in from beyond the horizon.

Headlong, they crash in cascades of foaming spray upon the shore. Chuckling darkly over pebbles, and hissing secrets to the silent sands, as they are drawn back into the depths of boundless water. Nature, my friend, beautiful and fearsome, a hypnotic force few can resist. Goodness, how one's mind can wander, merely sitting here looking out from the forge room window. I must get back to writing my Chronicle.

It is a tale of several fates, each with its own destiny. Since I arrived at this mountain, I have set myself a pleasurable duty. From my own recollections, and information gathered from friends, both old and young, I recently put quill to parchment and began this Chronicle. Mayhaps when the story is finally told, my young daughter will enjoy reading it. I hope you will, too, my friend. Well, it starts like this ...

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BOOK ONE Longtooth's Prisoner

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It was a night for raiding. Beneath a dark, moonless sky, high seas ran grey and smooth to the shores of the Northern Isles. With her big single sail bellying smoothly, the vessel Bludgullet nosed shoreward, like some huge seabeast seeking its prey in coastal waters. Perched at the masthead, straddling the mainsail spar, the lookout, a small rat called Firty, was first to glimpse the glimmering, golden light on the far side of the saltmarshes. Noting the position of the illumination, he slid skillfully down a rope to the gently heaving deck.

Scurrying to the captain's cabin, Firty rapped on the door. He waited until a tall, golden fox emerged. The little rat tugged his ear in salute.

"Cap'n, dere's a light showin' ashore, dead ahead. I fink it might be sum sorta buildin', Cap'n."

Flinging a heavy cape across his shoulders, Captain Vizka Longtooth smiled, exposing a pair of oversized fangs. Firty swallowed hard. He, like every Sea Raider aboard the Bludgullet, had come to know the danger in Longtooth's smile.

"A buildin', ya say! Better sumthin' than nought on dis sun-fersaken shore, eh?"

The small crewrat nodded nervously, watching his captain

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reach for the mace and chain. It was a vicious weapon, a spiked iron ball on a thick chain, attached to an oaken handle. Firty crept backward, trying to stay out of his captain's way as he toyed with the mace and chain, swinging the spiked ball with a flick of his paw. The golden fox continued smiling, allowing the mace spikes to dent the woodwork of the cabin door. Firty tried to keep his eyes off the hypnotically swinging weapon.

"Will ya be goin' ashore, Cap'n?"

Vizka halted the swing of his mace; he fondled the spikes lovingly. "Aye, it wouldn't be gudd manners not t'call when dey left a light on fer us. Tell Codj ter rouse der crew. We're goin' visitin'!"

As Bludgullet's keel ground into the shallows, the small, golden light stood out clear against the dark, velvet canopy of night sky. The vermin waded ashore, everybeast armed to the teeth, eager for booty and blood.

It was a night for raiding!

Lost in the deep sleep of total exhaustion, Gorath lay slumped by a glowing turf fire in the small farmhouse. There was a claw missing from one of the young badger's forepaws, his pads were thick with calluses and hardened scars. Wrestling half-buried boulders and uprooting scrubby tree stumps from the frozen earth was hard and punishing labour for a single beast. Gorath performed all his tasks unaided; his grandparents were too old for such heavy work. It was no easy life on the Northern Isles, both the weather and the land were hostile. Gorath, however, had youth on his side, plus unbridled strength, and an inborn tenacity. In short, he was like most male badgers, doggedly stubborn.

All Gorath knew of his early life had been imparted to him by his grandparents. His family came from the far Southern lands; both his parents were warriors who had fallen in battle during the Great Vermin Wars. The remainder of Gorath's family had been forced to flee the South.

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The two old badgers took their little grandson in a small boat. They set off seeking a dream, a refuge of peace and happiness, where they could live without fear. They had heard tales of such places, the mountain of Salamandas-tron, and the Abbey of Redwall, legendary havens!

However, cruel fate and capricious weather shattered their dream. The aged badgers were landbeasts, with little knowledge of the sea. Their boat was blown far off course, and wrecked upon the rocks of the Northern Isles by a mighty storm. Gorath's grandparents stumbled ashore, carrying him between them, all three fortunate to be alive. That was how they came to a new life on the cold Northern Isles.

Their first few seasons ashore taught the three badgers some harsh lessons. A need for nourishment and shelter was paramount. Using timber from their wrecked boat, local stone, earth and moss, the grandfather built the house. Gorath and his grandmother foraged for food, whilst struggling to make the scrubland arable. It was hard, but they survived until their first meager crop came in, confirming that they were finally farmers.

Gorath grew to be a dutiful grandson, and a diligent worker. He never failed his grandparents, though as the seasons passed, one into another, things became more difficult for him. Wearied with age and illness, his grandparents grew unable to carry on working.

Thus it was that Gorath faced the hardships alone. He carried on clearing the windswept scrubland, planting, digging, coaxing and harvesting sparse crops from the thin soil. It was grindingly arduous work for a lone young one, but Gorath never complained. Sometimes in the long, dark evenings, when the wind dirged outside, Gorath would sit by the turf fire, listening as his grandfather told tales of Salamandastron or Redwall Abbey. How much truth there was in such stories, none of the badgers really knew, having never visited either place.

But the young Gorath was ever eager to hear more. He

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was thrilled at the thought of Salamandastron, the fortress of warriors, ruled by Badger Lords, where none knew the meaning of fear. His grandfather taught Gorath a song about Salamandastron. Though the young badger never had cause or reason to be anything other than a peaceful farmer, something in the ballad wakened a feeling deep within him. It stirred warlike emotions, which made Gorath both excited and fearful, when he sang it as he worked throughout the daylight hours.

"Where wild waves break on West'ring shore, that mighty rock mark well, here live the free, the bold, the brave,

Aye, here the warriors dwell...

Salamandastron!

In dreams you speak to me.

Salamandastron!

Great fortress by the sea.

"Let evil ones come as they will, our steel awaits them here, wild fighting hares and Badger Lords, will teach them how to fear ...

Salamandastron!

Our battle cry rings far.

Salamandastron!

Come shout Eulaliaaaaa!"

Other times his grandmother told stories she had heard about Redwall Abbey. Gorath would gaze into the fire longingly. What a delightful place, the young badger thought. One immense home, built on happiness, peace and prosperity. Where many types of creatures lived in harmony, working, feasting and enjoying life together. Though Gorath was stirred by his grandfather's stories of Salamandastron, he also liked to hear about Redwall, with its gentle, more tranquil way of life. But what did it all mat

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ter now? Cruel fate and ill winds had denied everything to the young Gorath, leaving him far across the stormy seas, marooned on the harsh Northern Isles, with no means to follow his dreams.

These days, Gorath's main refuge came through sleep. Moreso as his grandparents had gone silent, they seldom told tales, or sang. They, too, withdrew into themselves, slumbering constantly.

The young badger lay by the fire, letting his eyes close, thinking how the weather had played a miserable trick on him. It had been a wild winter, followed by a false spring. In the space of a single night, all the crops, seedlings and fresh green growth, which Gorath had toiled upon, were blighted. Winter had returned with renewed fury, withering and freezing everything which had begun growing.

Gorath fell asleep with his grandmother's words echoing through his mind.

"If we have little else, at least we have peace on these Northern Isles."

And so they had.

Until that night, when the Bludgullet sailed in, and Vizka Longtooth decided that it was a night for raiding!

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Gorath found himself thrust roughly into a waking nightmare. Hot scattered embers of the fire were kicked into his face. Screams and roars echoed around the farmhouse amid the flickering shadows and smoke. Instinctively the young badger sat upright, grasping the closest thing to his paw. It was the big, double-pronged pitchfork he called Tung. But even as his paw fell upon it, a blinding pain exploded in his head. Dazed by the impact, he turned to see what had struck him.

A big, golden-furred fox wielding a mace and chain was standing over him. The intruder's long fangs glittered, as he smiled in astonished amusement, calling to his crew, "Dis wan haz der head like a rock I t'ink."

Before the stunned badger had a chance to dodge, the golden fox brought the ball and chain crashing down again.

Brilliant coloured lights and a cascade of shooting stars thundered through Gorath's skull. He fell into a void of agonised darkness.

How long he remained in that state, the young badger had no way of knowing. Then strange visions began confronting him, a mountain on the silent, sunlit shores of a great sea. He was wading slowly toward it through the

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waves. Standing on the tide line, over twoscore huge badgers stood watching him. They were armed with a selection of swords, axes, clubs and spears, each one a beautifully crafted weapon. Something told Gorath that these were not beasts from among the ranks of the living, but the shades of warriors who had passed beyond the pale.

One massive, silver-coated patriarch, far older than the rest, waded out to meet Gorath. He thrust a paw into the young badger's chest, his voice booming out over the sea. "Why come ye to Salamandastron?"

Gorath resisted the pushing paw, he did not like being shoved about. "Take your paw from me, old one!"

But the ancient continued pressing him backward. "Go ye to the Abbey of Redwall!" He pushed Gorath hard with both paws, sending him floundering into the sea. The young badger spluttered, spitting out the cold salt water.

"Lookit, Cap'n, der stripe'ound's alive!"

Gorath retched, as a weasel hurled a second pail of sea-water into his face. He came awake to find himself onboard a large ship, surrounded by vermin, an evil-looking crew. Weasels, ferrets, stoats and rats, all fully armed and clad in tattered barbaric gear. Gorath was held captive, a thick, iron chain was padlocked tightly about his middle, the chain secured to the lofty mainmast.

Refilling his pail from over the ship's side, the weasel hauled it up on a rope and prepared to swing it at the prisoner.

"Can I give 'im annuver drink, Cap'n?"

The tall, golden fox, who had struck Gorath down, was leaning on the midship rail. Smiling, he revealed his long fangs to the captive. "Well, do ya still be t'irsty stripe-'ound?"

Congealed blood from the dreadful wound on Gorath's forehead had stuck one of his eyes shut. The young badger stooped against the deck, his head was throbbing unmercifully. Saturated and shivering, he swayed as waves of nausea swept over him.

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The golden fox kicked him, repeating the question.

"Be ya deaf as well as daft? Do ya wanna drink, stripe'ound? Speak!"

Gorath pulled himself upright against the mast, staring at his captor angrily. "I am not called stripehound, my name is Gorath!"

The fox ignored him, turning to the weasel with the pail. "Give der stripe'ound dat udder drink, Balid."

As the pail of freezing water sloshed over him, Gorath gasped with shock. The fox pointed at him with his mace haft.

"Yew got no name aboard my ship, except wot I calls ya. I'll call ya Rock'ead, 'cos yew got a skull t'ick as a rock. Aye, Rock'ead, dat's a good name, eh?"

The crew laughed dutifully at their captain's feeble joke. Balid, the water-throwing weasel, called out, "Sink me, Cap'n, 'e must 'ave a t'ick 'ead, if'n ye couldn't slay 'im wid two blows o' yer weppin." Balid had said the wrong thing, it was obvious by the pall of silence which fell over the crew.

The golden fox's heavy cape swirled as he rounded on Balid. "I'm Vizka Longtooth, cap'n o' der Bludgullet, an' I didn't kill dat 'un 'cos I wants 'im alive. So wot d'ye say to dat, Balid? Who did yew slay, tell me?" Vizka saw the weasel's paws trembling as he bowed in abject apology.

"Beggin' y'pardon, Cap'n, I was wid Codj. We never slayed anybeast. Alls wot we did was set fire to der farm 'ouse an' locked de two ole stripe'ounds inside, so they couldn't gerrout."

That was the second slip of Balid's tongue. It was also his last. With a maddened roar, Gorath launched himself at the weasel. The shortness of the chain prevented him from actually getting hold of Balid, but as the chain went taut, Gorath strained against it, lashing out with one paw. It connected with the weasel's neck, slaying him stone dead.

Suddenly, Vizka Longtooth was yelling. "Back! Get back,

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all of ye! Stay outta dat beast's way!" The vermin crew needed no second urging, they scattered to the for'ard and aft deckrails, away from Gorath's reach.

Codj the fox, who was Vizka's younger brother and second in command, took up the big pitchfork, which he had taken from Gorath's unconscious body at the farmhouse. "Balid wuz my mate, I'll kill 'im fer dat!"

Vizka stayed his brother's paw. "No, ye won't. I wants Rock'ead kep' alive."

Codj scratched at his tail stump. "Alive, wot for?"

The golden fox chuckled, nodding toward Gorath. "Ye'd lose a sight more'n ya tailstump, if'n yew tried tacklin' dat 'un. Look close at 'im."

Both foxes watched Gorath carefully. He was making sweeping lunges at everything, from the limits of the taut chain which held him to the mast. His powerful, blunt-clawed paws were flexing, seeking to tear and destroy anything, or anybeast. Gorath was panting hoarsely, foam flecking over his bared teeth. Fearful roars emerged from his heaving chest. But it was the badger's eyes which struck terror into the beholders. They were suffused totally with dark red blood. The Sea Raiders' young captive had become transformed into a ravening beast, in the grip of some awesome madness.

Vizka took the pitchfork from his brother, showing his impressive teeth as he whispered, "Aye, Stumple, 'avin' no tail'd be der least o' yer worries if'n yer went near Rock'ead!"

Codj shot a resentful glance at his brother--he hated the nickname Stumple. It had come about after losing his tail in a fight when he was young. He spat sullenly in Gorath's direction. "Dat beast's crazy mad, 'e should be slain, I tell ya. If'n ye won't let me do d'job, then kill 'im yerself!"

Vizka called out orders to his crew. "Steer clear o' dat beast, don't feed 'im or give 'im water. Set course due south 'til I tells yer diff'rent. I'll be in me cabin wid Codj."

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Keeping a safe distance from Gorath, the golden fox steered his brother round to the captain's cabin.

Pouring out two beakers of seaweed grog, Vizka gave one to Codj, explaining his reasons for keeping Gorath alive. "Lissen, I 'eard once about stripe'ounds like dat one. Some calls 'em Berserks, but ole Windflin said it was sum-mat called der Bloodwrath."

Codj held out his beaker for a refill. "Ya mean Windflin Wildbrush, der great Sea Raider?"

Vizka nodded. "Aye, dat was 'im. Well, let me tell ya, Windflin was slayed by a stripe'ound wot 'ad der Blood-wrath. It was at dat place wid a funny name, Sammer-strong I t'ink, a big mountain castle, far down der sou'west shores. They says der beast wot killed Windflin was an ole stripe'ound called Asheye, a real mad Bloodwrath beast who couldn't be defeated."

Codj took a swallow of the foul-smelling grog. "Huh, 'e musta been a champeen fighter ter slay der great Windflin Wildbrush! But if'n Bloodwrath beasts are so dangerous, why do ya want to keep one alive? Best cure for any mad-beast is to kill 'im quick!"

Vizka winked slyly at his younger brother. "Nah, ya don't turn a beast like our Rock'ead inta fishbait, 'e's val-lible. I got plans fer 'im."

Codj was intrigued by his brother's words. "Plans?"

Vizka expanded upon his scheme. "Aye, plans. If'n I could break Rock'ead, an' tame 'im, jus' imagine dat! We'd 'ave a one-beast army, we'd be der terror of d'land an' sea!"

Codj was not wholly convinced. "Did ya see der way Rock'ead slayed pore Balid? Huh, one smack of 'is paw was all it took. I never seen nobeast wid dat sorta strength. So 'ow are ya goin' ter tame der beast if'n ye can't get near 'im?"

Vizka shook his handsome golden head pityingly. " 'Tis a gud job I'm der brudder wid der brains. Ain't you 'eard dat 'linger an' thirst are de best tamers of all? We jus' keeps Rock'ead chained t'der mast, an' starve 'im inter my way

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o' thinkin'. Hah, 'e'll do like I says, or perish, 'ow's dat fer a gud idea, eh?"

Codj was in awe of his older brother's wisdom. "No wonder yore cap'n o' der Bludgulletl Er, an' why are we sailin' south?"

Vizka commandeered the grog flask, as Codj was about to pour himself more grog. "We're goin' south 'cos dat's my orders. Aye, an' I ain't goin' down as far as dat Sam-merstrung mountain. Let fools like Windflin get theirselves slayed by madbeasts. I tell ya, dere's lotsa places where der livin' is soft. Good vittles, loot an' plunder, dat's wot I'm after, Codj, an' I don't want ta fight for dem either!"

Codj stared ruefully into his empty beaker. "So 'ow d'yer plan on doin' all dat?"

The golden fox spread his paws disarmingly. "Rock'ead can take care of all der fightin' an' killin' fer us, once I got 'im trained proper."

All of this sounded quite good to Codj, but he still had unanswered questions. "But if'n we ain't sailin' for der stripe'ound mountain, where else are ya plannin' on goin'?"

Vizka poured him more grog. "Don't bother yore 'ead over dat, brudder, I'll find someplace. Yew go about yer bizness an' leave it t'me. I'll look out for ya, Codj."

But the stumptailed fox was still not satisfied. "Wot'U dis place be like?"

Vizka pondered a moment before answering. "T'will be a place where I kin rule, jus' like a king!"

Codj persisted. "Like a king, eh, an' worrabout me?"

The golden fox patted his brother's back. "Yew kin be cap'n o' der Bludgullet, dat's wot!"

The younger fox's tailstump quivered with joy. "Me, a real cap'n? Bludd'n'tripes, ya won't regret it, brudder. I'll be der best cap'n in all der seas, jus' yew wait'n see. Hee-heehee, me, a cap'n!"

Vizka ushered him to the cabin door. "Aye, yew a cap'n. Now go an' keep Bludgullet onna straight south course, an'

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don't strain yer brains wid too much thinkin'. Oh, an' remind der crew t'stay clear o' Rock'ead, an' not t'give 'im any vittles, norra crumb nor a drop, unnerstand?"

Grinning foolishly, Codj threw a clumsy salute. "Aye aye, Cap'n, unnerstood, Cap'n!" He held the salute, standing there grinning, until Vizka was forced to enquire.

"Well, wot d'ya want?"

Codj giggled inanely, winking several times. "Ain't ya gonna say 'aye aye, Cap'n' back ter me?"

The golden fox frowned. "No, I ain't, yore norrin charge aboard dis ship yet, I'm still cap'n, gerron wid ya werk!" He slammed the door in his younger brother's face.

Codj looked crestfallen, but only for a brief moment. He brightened up, swaggering off along the deck, practising his role of captain-to-be. Selecting a small, puny-looking rat, Codj jabbed his rump with Gorath's pitchfork, and issued him gruff orders. "Tell der steersbeast t'keep 'er on a south course! Make dem lines fast, an' swab dat deck! But firstly fetch me some vikkles from der galley! Go on, 'op to it!"

Pleasantly surprised that his commands had been carried out so promptly, Codj perched on the rail, out of the prisoner's reach. Making a great show of lip smacking, he applied himself to a bowl of hot soup and a tankard of beer, taunting Gorath. "Haharr, would ya like some vikkles, Rock'ead?"

The young badger crouched silently beside the mast, his forehead wound congealed into a huge, ugly scab. This had been induced by the late Balid, drenching him with pails of cold seawater. Gorath's dark eyes smouldered with hatred at his captor, but he did not rise to the mocking fox's bait. However, Codj continued as he ate.

"Mmmm, nice drop o' soup dis, made wid veggibles from yore farm it was. Beer's tasty, too, did yew brew it, or was it de old 'uns? Heehee, dey ain't got much use fer eatin' an' drinkin' now, 'ave they?"

With a sudden roar, Gorath charged his tormentor,

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giving out a strangled grunt as he was jolted to a halt by the chain. Shocked by the speed of the badger's rush, Codj jerked backward, spilling soup and beer over himself. Recovering himself, he sneered.

"Shame ya can't git yore paws on me, ain't it? Ya look t'irsty, I'll give ye annuder drink, eh!" Lowering a pail into the sea, Codj flung it over Gorath. The young badger stood unmoving, he did not even blink his eyes as the cold salt water lashed over him. Some of the vermin crew, who were watching, laughed at Codj's feeble attempt to rouse the prisoner further. This drove the stumptailed fox into a rage. He began shouting at Gorath. "Did ya like dat likkle drink, Rock'ead, d'ya want some more, eh? Ahoy, thick'ead Rock'ead, I said d'ya want some more, ye can talk, can't ya?"

Gorath stared unblinkingly at him, then spoke. "I can talk, but I don't waste my breath speaking to deadbeasts."

With an expression of comical surprise on his face, Codj looked around at his shipmates. "Did ya 'ear dat? De stripe'ound called me a deadbeast! Idjit, I fink Vizka musta knocked yore brains loose when 'e belted ya wid 'is mace. Can't ya see I'm still alive an' kickin'? See, I'll give ya anud-der drink, jus' to prove it!"

Even as the contents of the pail sloshed over him, Gorath was still staring at his torturer. This time his voice was dismissive, heavy with contempt.

"You murdered my kinbeasts, so I'm going to kill you. I've said all I have to say to you ... deadbeast!"

Dark blood began rising in Gorath's eyes, clouding them with the fury of Bloodwrath. At that point, Codj's nerve deserted him. Dropping the pail, he fled aft. Still dripping water, the young badger stood, staring after his mortal enemy.

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With Salamandastron, his beloved fortress, at his back, Lord Asheye sat on his favourite rock, not far from the front entrance of the mighty mountain stronghold. Turning seaward, the ancient badger sniffed salt-laden air, mingling with the softer aroma of landward breezes. Producing a big, spotted kerchief from his dressing gown sleeve, he blew his snout loudly, and inhaled again. Ah yes, spring was finally done, it was the first day of summer. Tapping the butt of his yew staff against the rock, he hummed one of the Long Patrol hares' marching songs, singing along mentally with the tune.

"Can ye see the golden gorse on the heath, an' dainty pale blue flax upon the plain, do ye feel the dewy grass underneath, then step lively, 'tis summertime again!

"Oh we'll tramp, tramp, tramp!

if the sergeant says we must.

Aye, we'll left, right, left!

'til our paws raise up the dust!

With me blade ever ready at my side, an' a knapsack full o' vittles on me back,

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I'll go rangin' over hills far an' wide, an' good comrades like you I'll never lack!

"Oh, we'll march, march, march!

'til our paws are droppin' off, until it's one, two, halt!

Tell the cook to serve the scoff!"

Lord Asheye allowed himself a rueful smile. Those were the days! Long gone seasons, when he would go roving forth at the head of his Long Patrol. Some of those hares had been sprightly paced, but he could outmarch them all. Aye, those were the days of his strength and prime, full of exuberant power and speed. In those times, there was none to equal Lord Asheye. Nobeast possessed his reckless daring in battle.

He gripped his staff tight, sighed deeply, then released his hold on the stout yew pole. Ah, but then... no creature had the Bloodwrath like him. What had been a boon in youth and war had become a curse in old age and peacetime. Now the countless seasons weighed upon his silvered fur like a millstone. Now he was paying the price for that wild life he had led. The great badger's mighty frame was bent with age, old wounds he had taken were a toll on his stiff limbs.

But the worst penalty by far was his blindness. All those blows and injuries he had sustained, whilst fighting heedlessly in the grip of Bloodwrath. Asheye had paid for them with the loss of his sight. He heaved himself from his seat on the rock, stepped awkwardly upon a small boulder and tripped. Blowing sand from both nostrils, the once-great beast reached out, scrabbling vainly for the staff, which seemed to elude his paws. Lord Asheye smiled bitterly, muttering aloud to himself, "As blind as a badger, hah, where've I heard that before?"

A stout paw passed him the staff, and helped him upright. " 'T'wasn't me that said it, sah, you'd have prob'ly

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taken my bonce off with a single biff, if I had, wot!" The Badger Lord immediately identified the speaker by his firm grip and drawn-out speech mode.

"Ah, Mull, take me inside, will you please."

Major Mullein Braggwuth Barshaw was a tall, distinguished hare. He wore the dark blue, silver-buttoned tunic of Salamandastron's Commanding Scout Major. Other hares, those of his rank and above, referred to him as Mull. A strict disciplinarian, expert scout and formidable fighter, Mull had been constantly at his Lord's side in the last few seasons. The pair shared a friendship that went back a long way. Mull steered Asheye toward the main fortress door, chatting leisurely.

"Inside it is, sah, teatime doncha know, hot scones, dab o' meadowcream, strawb'rry preserve, an' mint tea, wot! A charmin' an' delicious daily ritual, sah!"

The old Badger Lord shuffled past the main door into a vast, rough-hewn corridor, whose walls were adorned with family crests, suits of armour, fearsome weapons and regimental flags. Lowering his voice, Asheye confided to his companion, "Let's not go into the large Mess Hall. Have them send tea up to my forge room, Mull. I need to speak with you in private. Too much din in that Mess Hall."

Major Mullein nodded. "Right y'are, sah." He signalled to a pair of young hares who were on their way to the mess. "Tringle, Furps, nip along and see the Quartermaster Sarn't, will ye. Tell him to set out two trays of afternoon tea for us, bring 'em up to the forge room, if y'd be so kind."

The youngsters both threw the Major a smart salute. Furp's sister, Tringle, smiled impudently at Mullein. "Both with cream'n'jam, Major?"

Lord Asheye glared her way in mock severity. "With extra cream and jam, young miss. Oh, and Furps, remember which is your left paw and which is your right. Don't go tripping and spilling any, eh."

Furps bowed awkwardly and stumbled against Tringle.

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"Oh er, ah, hmm, no trippin' an' spillin', do m'best, y'lord-ship, I certainly will, wot!"

Both young hares shouted simultaneously, "On y'marks! Get set! Go!" They bounded off at top speed. Major Mullein chuckled.

"Stap me, sah, those two haven't stopped racing against each other since the day they were born."

The old badger made a shrewd observation. "That's because they both want to be runners in your Scout Patrol, Mull."

The Major was surprised that Asheye concerned himself with such small details. However, he hid his feelings with a languid drawl. "Do they really, I hadn't noticed, sah."

Lord Asheye's forge room was the traditional retreat of every mountain ruler, going back in time to the first Badger Lord. It had a raised fire at its centre, which was never allowed to go out. Charcoal, seacoal and driftwood were piled along one wall of the room, which had all the trappings of an armourer: two anvils, a quenching vat, a ready supply of metal and well-seasoned timber. The metal for blades, the timber for handles and hafts. There was also a bellows, a barrel of oil and bunches of secret herbs, used in the making of weapons. On the wall opposite the door was a long, open windowspace, facing the shore and the western sea.

Lord Asheye sat on the low, wide sill, beckoning the Major to sit beside him. Mullein had been in the forge room many times, yet he still could not help staring in wonder at the weapons which hung from its walls.

Most of them were made for Warrior Badgers, huge spears, hefty shields, stout longbows with arrows almost as tall as himself, and swords. Such swords they were, legendary weapons of massive proportions, broad-bladed, double-pawed hilts, far too heavy for any but a Badger Lord to wield.

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Asheye spread his big, greasy forge apron on the sill between them as a knock sounded on the door. "Ah, the tea. Come in, please!"

It was the first time Furps and Tringle had been permitted to enter this inner sanctum. Their heads swivelled from side to side, trying to take in everything.

Major Mullein hid a smile, cautioning them, "Eyes front, chaps, look where you're jolly well goin'. Lose that tea an' I'll have your tails for dinner, an' your guts for garters."

Wobbling slightly, the two young hares made their way to the sill and placed the trays down gingerly. Lord Asheye gave their ears a gentle tug.

"Well done, you two. Now, let's see who'll be first back to the mess. On y'marks ... get set... go!"

They flew off like twin arrows, with the Major shouting, "I say, shut that door on y'way out! Oh never mind, I'll jolly well do it myself, wot!" He rose and went to shut the door. "Now, sah, what were y'wantin' to chinwag about, eh, wot?" Mullein spread a substantial-looking scone with strawberry preserve and thick meadowcream.

Lord Asheye ignored the food, lowering his voice as he confided to the Major. "This is for your ears alone, Mull, not to go beyond this room. Understood?"

"Indeed, sah, mum's the word, wot!"

Asheye nodded his great silver head. "Good beast, Mull, I know I can depend on you, so listen carefully. Since the turn of the last moon I've been having dreams...."

The Major interrupted with a chuckle. "Know what y'mean, sah, I get 'em m'self. Some pretty odd ones, when I've been scoffin' cheese'n'pickles for supper in the mess."

Asheye gave a deep snort of irritation. Mullein knew he had said the wrong thing and apologised.

"Ahem, most dreadfully sorry, m'lud, bloomin' silly of me t'mention it. Pray continue, sah!"

The old Badger Lord carried on with what he was saying. "Being blind has sharpened my perception, made me face things more rationally. Though what rhyme or reason

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there is in the voices of long-gone Badger Lords I cannot say. But I trust in them, and I feel instinctively I must heed their words.

"They have told me of my fate, and mark this, the ones who speak to me in dreams cannot be ignored. This is what I have learned. It is decreed that once the autumn leaves start to fall, I will not be seen again at Salamandastron. So it must be."

Mullein protested. "Not you, sah, why, you've got absolute scads o' seasons to go yet!"

The ancient badger's immense paw covered his gently. "Now, now, don't go upsetting yourself, my friend. It comes to us all sooner or later. The thought of passing on does not worry me unduly. I've had a fine, long life, much longer than I deserve really, considering the wild path my Bloodwrath led me down. In my dreams I have spoken with the great heroes of Salamandastron, Lord Brocktree, Sunflash the Mace, Boar the Fighter, Urthclaw, and others too numerous to mention. They all tell me one thing: Red-wall Abbey will soon be in grave danger!"

Major Mullein sprang from the wmdowsill, his paw clamped on the sabre hilt at his waist. "Then with your permission, m'lud, I'll arm up the Long Patrol an' get 'em marchin' for the Abbey today!"

Lord Asheye beckoned Mullein to sit down. "If it were that simple, you'd have been on your way with the Patrol three days back."

The Major's long ears rose stiffly. "Then what the deuce is holdin' the confounded job up?"

Asheye turned his sightless gaze toward his friend. "The new Badger Lord."

Major Mullein was back up and pacing the chamber. "New Badger Lord, what new Badger Lord? Nobeast told me about any new Badger Lord!"

Asheye waited until the Major slowed his pace. "Listen, Mull, I told you I would not see another summer here, so who'll rule Salamandastron when I'm gone?"

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Mullein came to a halt, stamping his footpaw. "But what's all that got to blinkin' well do with Redwall bein' in danger? Really, sah, I'm all at sixes an' flippin' sevens with your dreams'n'riddles!"

Asheye reached out and clasped his friend's paw. "Then sit down and be patient. Here, pour me some tea and I'll explain as best as I can." The Badger Lord sipped his drink slowly, only continuing when he felt the hare had calmed down. "This Badger Lord who will succeed me, I have learned that he is still a youngbeast. However, he is possessed of an even more ferocious Bloodwrath than was ever inflicted upon me. Our Long Patrol will not be needed at Redwall Abbey because he is fated to be there when the danger arrives. But before he can ever rule this mountain, he must be tested in the fires of battle. Now do you see?"

Mullein stroked his bristling moustache. "Indeed I do, sah. The Lord of Salamandastron must be as wise as he's strong an' warlike. But how will we know this chap, what does he look like, sah?"

Lord Asheye turned his face to the sea. He sat silent, feeling the gentle wind upon his face. Major Mullein watched the old Badger Lord closely, waiting for a reply. There was a long pause, then Asheye suddenly began speaking as though he was in the grip of a trance.

"Who will defend Redwall Abbey, in its days of peril and strife?

The beast who shuns both armour and sword, torn from the simple life.

He with destiny marked on his brow, who walks with the banished one.

Send forth a maid to seek out the Flame, to rule when the old Lord is gone!"

Asheye rose, shaking himself like one waking from sleep. "Great seasons, where did that come from?" Major Mullein tried not to sound surprised. "Must've

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been your dream chaps who put it into your head, m'lud. Beggin' y'pardon, but you've never been one for the jolly old poetic verse an' all that, wot! Well, stap me, sah, looks like Redwall's in for a bit of a ding dong. Hmm, an' there's a Champion on the horizon, one who'll flatten the flippin' foebeast, if I'm not mistaken. Sounds like an odd chap from your description, wot? Never heard of a Badger Lord who shuns armour an' bloomin' swords. What I really don't understand is the bit about destiny bein' marked on his brow, an' as for walkin' with a banished one, an' sendin' out a maid to seek for a flame ... if y'don't mind me sayin', sah, the whole thing's got me flippin' well flummoxed."

Asheye took a sip of his tea, which had now grown cold. "Well, old friend, I had no idea that I was going to speak such a rhyme, so you'll excuse me if I confess to being as baffled as you are. However, it does explain a few things from my dreams. The coming trouble at Redwall, and the arrival of a Warrior. Also, the fact that this other badger will rule here in my stead, always supposing that he lives long enough, or isn't defeated in battle. As for the rest, I'm truly puzzled. Where's the maid that we must send forth?"

Mullein twirled his moustache briskly, and stood both ears to attention, always an obvious sign of his displeasure. "Hmph! So that's why I'm not allowed to sally forth with the Long Patrol, sah, a confounded maid is the one for the blinkin' task, accordin' to your sources. Hah, I question the wisdom of a load of long-gone badger spirits. I mean, what possible use would one maid be in the midst of an invasion upon Redwall, eh, wot?"

The ancient badger patted his friend's paw. "Now, don't get your whiskers in an uproar, Mull, I'm bound to obey the voices of past mountain Lords. So, how do we choose this maid whom we must send to solve our problems? Any suggestions, Major?"

The discussion was interrupted by a series of urgent knocks upon the door. Mullein rattled his sabre hilt. "Yes, stop knockin' the bloomin' door down. Come in!"

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It was Corporal Thwurl, a tall, droopy hare, with a mournful countenance. His nose was swollen, one ear was askew, and his left eye was a puffy slit. He saluted Mullein. "Major, sah, wish to report, sah, ruckus in the mess, sah, Assistant Cook's gone bonkers, sah!"

Lord Asheye rested his forehead against the windowsill, sighing wearily. "Not Mad Maudie again. Deal with it, would you, Major Mullein? No, wait, bring her up here. We'll see what she has to say for herself this time!"

When Corporal Thwurl left, Asheye and Mullein waited in stony silence for several moments. Then sounds of a tussle echoed up the stairway outside. Apparently it was the offender being brought to the forge room by four guards. She was very vocal.

"Yah, gerroff, you swoggle-toothed bounders! If I could jolly well get free I'd biff your snouts off! Just you wait, I'll poison your porridge, I'll sabotage your salad, I'll destroy your duff, I'll... I'll... wahoo!"

Stuffed into a floursack, which was fastened at her neck, the miscreant was hauled into the room and dumped upon the floor. There she struggled, coming out with more colourful oaths at all and sundry. Mullein drew his sabre, roaring.

"Silence, marm! Be still, ye fiend, cease that din!" He slashed downward, neatly severing the drawstring of the sack, and releasing the young haremaid. Lying flat on the floor, she wiggled her ears and threw the Major a salute. "Most kind, sah, thank ye!"

Mullein silenced her with a glare, turning to Thwurl. "What're the facts, Corporal, make your report."

The droopy-faced Thwurl pawed tenderly at his nose. "There was complaints h'in the mess, Major, h'about the soup. It was too 'ot, sah, this h'assistant cook 'ad loaded it with red pepper, wild ransom, an' that 'otroot stuff, wot otters likes to h'eat."

The assistant cook interrupted from her prone position.

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"Too hot, my auntie's pinny! Barley soup's as dull as blinkin' dishwater, it needed livenin' up!"

Lord Asheye growled out from his windowseat. "Silence, miss, stand up straight, to attention! Corporal Thwurl, carry on with your report, please!"

"Well, sah, h'l told 'er wot h'l thought of 'er soup, an' she struck me on the nose with 'er ladle, sah, then she went h'on to further h'assault me, an' several h'others, sah. We 'ad to subdue 'er by stuffin' 'er h'in a sack, sah. Whereupon she continued to shout h'insults at h'us, an'..."

Major Mullein waved Thwurl to silence. "Yes, yes, I get the general drift, Corporal. Assistant Cook, what have you to say for yourself, do you wish to refute the charges, wot?"

Assistant Cook Mad Maudie (the Hon.) Mugsberry Thropple fluttered her eyelashes endearingly at him. "Only to say, Major, that I'd do it all again if that puddenheaded oaf said nasty things about my soup, only next time I'd punch him in his other eye, too, so there!"

Lord Asheye shook his great head sternly. "That's quite enough of that, miss. Corporal, you and the guard may leave now. Major Mullein and I will deal with this, thank you."

When the escort had departed, the badger resumed his seat on the windowledge. He spread his big paws despairingly. "Maudie Thropple, what are we going to do with you, eh?"

Mad Maudie, as she was known to the mountain hares, shifted guiltily from one paw to the other, murmuring, "Really, I don't know, m'lord, what's anybeast goin' t'do with me, that's what my old pa used t'say."

Major Mullein waggled his ears knowingly. "My old friend, rest his memory, Colonel Thropple. What a gallant and considerate creature he was. Don't you remember any of the lessons he taught you, Maudie?"

The young hare smiled brightly. "Oh indeed I do, sah, Pa

26

taught me to box, an' I've been Regimental Champion of the Long Patrol for six seasons now!"

Mullein squinched his eye into a jaundiced stare at her. "We know that right enough, m'gel. You've also been on more charges than any other hare I can recall. You've served five terms in the guardhouse, and had three final warnings about your conduct, wot!"

Maudie stared at the floor. "Sorry, sah."

The Major's tone hardened. "Sorry, is it? Well, let me tell you, missy, sorry's not good enough this time. You've tried the patience of everybeast on this mountain far too long, ain't that right, Lord Asheye, sah?"

The badger nodded. "Yes, it is, Major. Maudie, you leave us no alternative. It gives me no pleasure to drum you out of the Long Patrol. At dawn tomorrow you will leave Salamandastron!"

In the stunned silence which followed, Lord Asheye listened to the haremaid's tears splashing on the forge room floor. There was a loud sniff from Mullein, then he approached the Badger Lord and whispered in his ear.

"I say, sah, we've never drummed a hare from the jolly old regiment. Couldn't ye find some alternative for young Maudie? I've known her since she was a mite, the daughter of my old comrade Colonel Thropple. I used to bounce her on my lap when she was nought but a babe."

The Badger Lord could not explain his next statement. The words tumbled unbidden from him. "I think there's a lot of good in you, Maudie Thropple, so in memory of your father's fine name, I'm going to give you one last chance. The Major and I have decided that you shall go on a most important mission. It will be both dangerous and demanding. Are you willing to go?"

Mad Maudie scrubbed the tears from her eyes with a floury paw. "Oh, rather, sah, say the bally word an' I'm off like a flippin' lark after a ladybird!"

Major Mullein was still registering surprise at Asheye as he spoke to the haremaid. "Right, off y'go, pack a light

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kit an' weapon, apologise to the Corporal and those others you biffed, then report back here for instructions."

As the forge room door slammed shut, Mullein wheeled upon the Badger Lord. "What'n the name o' blue blazes made y'say that, sah?"

Asheye shrugged. "I don't know, Mull, but I think Mad Maudie's the one who'll get the job done. Don't you see yet? She's the maid who will fulfill my dream!"

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4

Abbot Daucus was a brisk, energetic mouse in his mid-seasons. On this particular afternoon his energy was being sorely taxed, as he searched Redwall Abbey high and low, accompanied by Granspike Niblo, the plump, old hedgehog who was Abbey Beekeeper. Daucus paused at the foot of the attic stairs, waiting for Granspike to catch up with him. Both creatures, panting heavily, sat down together on the stairs. Daucus scratched at his scrubby, ginger-tinged beard.

"Well, marm, apart from these attics, that's the whole of the Abbey building we've been through, from the wine cellars to the dormitories. I don't think we've missed anything, have we?"

Granspike stared enquiringly at the Abbot. "The kitchen larders, he could've hid himself there?"

Daucus discounted the suggestion. "No, I searched them myself, whilst you were going through Cavern Hole. Confound that young Prink, where does he get to? More important, where do our goods and chattels go, where does he hide them?"

Granspike rose wearily, dusting her apron off. "Dearie me, Father Abbot, I was wrong an' you were right. We

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should never have taken Orkwil Prink into Redwall. Both his parents were a bad lot, ramblin' an' thievin' like wild-beasts. 'Tis true enough, what was said about 'em, a Prink'd steal the eyes out o' yore head if'n you didn't watch 'em. Four seasons of that rascal is more'n enough for any Abbey. Aye, an' Master Prink has sorely tried every-beast within Redwall. I think he's run out o' sympathy from all, includin' meself!"

Daucus patted the good hedgehog's spines carefully. "It's not our fault, Gran. We couldn't refuse a young 'un a roof over his head and food. It's his mother and father I blame, deserting him and running off like they did. Ah well, no use going over all that again, come on, let's go and take a look through the attics."

He picked up the lantern they had brought along and began climbing the spiral staircase. They had ascended only a few steps, when a deep, rumbling voice echoed up to them from the lower dormitory floor.

"Bee's you'm up thurr, zurr h'Abbot, wull ee bestest cumm daown. Oi've founded ee likkle scallywagger!"

Daucus immediately recognised the caller, Foremole Burff, the leader of Redwall's quaintly spoken moles.

Granspike Niblo's voice went squeaky with relief. "Thankee, Mister Burff, we'll be right down!"

Foremole Burff was waiting on the dormitory landing. He tugged his snout respectfully. "Zurr, marm, you'm ax-cuse oi furr not coomin' up thurr, oi'm gurtly afeared o' tall places!"

Knowing the moles were soildiggers, and afraid of heights, Daucus smiled understandingly. "I'm not too fussy on them myself, Burff. Did I hear you say that you'd caught Orkwil? Where is he now?"

Foremole Burff pointed a hefty digging claw in a downward motion. "H'in ee gate'ouse, zurr, an' he'm gurtly well guarded, burr aye!"

As the trio trooped downstairs, Granspike shook her

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head. "In the gatehouse, I might've knowed it. Father Abbot, we should've searched from the outside and worked inward, 'stead o' doin' it the other way about."

Daucus heaved a long sigh. "Not to worry, the main thing is that young Prink has been caught."

By the time they had reached ground level, and were crossing Great Hall, others were hastening to join them, everybeast speculating.

"Has he been apprehended, the villain?"

"Aye, Skipper's holding Orkwil in the gatehouse!"

"So that's where he was hiding?"

"No, they just took him there so he couldn't escape."

"Well, where was his secret hiding place, d'you know?"

"No, but we'll soon find out, come on!"

Out the Abbey door they paraded, down the front steps onto the gravelled path between flower beds and lawns. A high sandstone outer wall ran foursquare around the Abbey grounds; it had a walkway on top, and battlements. Each section of the wall had a small wicker gate built into it, with the exception of the main threshold gate. This was the western ramparts, containing the big oaken main gate; it had a gatekeeper's lodge built against the wall. Either side of the gate, two flights of stone steps ran up to the threshold walkway. More Redwallers had congregated around the gatehouse area.

Abbot Daucus paused at the gatehouse door, surveying the crowd who were gathered there. He frowned. "Have you nothing else to do but hang about here? Friar Chon-drus, no meals to prepare, Sister Atrata, no patients to attend in sickbay? Please disperse and go about your chores. The Elders and I can deal with this matter. You will all get your goods back, I assure you."

A group of Dibbuns, Redwall's Abbeybabes, was seated on the bottom of the wallstairs. Daucus cautioned them, "I hope you little ones aren't thinking of climbing those steps to the walkway?"

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A tiny squirrel named Dimp shook his head severely at the Father Abbot, answering for his companions. "We all be h'Elders, us goin' inna gate'ouse, an' 'ave a word wiv naughty Orkwilt!"

Granspike shooed them off with her apron waving. "Ho no yore not, liddle sir, time for you lot t'get washed up for dinner. Folura, Glingal, tend to these Dibbuns will ye."

The two identical otter sisters began herding the Dibbuns to the Abbey pond. The babes squealed and ran off, in an attempt to escape. They stood little chance against the swift ottermaids. The Redwallers around the gatehouse had duly dispersed.

Daucus smiled approvingly at his companions. "Good. Shall we go in now?"

Orkwil Prink's usually sunny disposition had deserted him. He sat on the floor of the gatehouse with Rorc, Skipper of Otters, and Benjo Tipps, the big hedgehog who was Redwall's Cellar Keeper, standing either side of him. There was a rope tied about Orkwil's waist, each of his custodians held an end. Also in attendance were Fenn Bluepaw, the Abbey's squirrel Recorder, and an old watervole lady, Marja Dubbidge, Redwall's official Bellringer. The hubbub from outside had ceased, creating a silence inside the little gatehouse, which was heavy with foreboding. The young hedgehog's head drooped miserably, he stared at the floor, not daring to raise his eyes as the new arrivals entered.

Abbot Daucus pulled up a stool, and sat facing the miscreant, studying his demeanour, before turning to Benjo Tipps. "I understand from Granspike that he was discovered hiding in your cellars, is that correct?"

The stout Benjo tugged his head spikes respectfully. "Aye, Father Abbot, 'tis where he was. Though I don't know why I never knew it afore today. My ole eyes ain't all they was, an' my hearin' could be a lot better. Young rip! Must've been comin' an' goin' as he pleased, an' all without my knowin'."

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Daucus consulted Foremole Burff and Skipper Rorc. "So, Granspike says you found him hiding inside an old barrel, was any of his hoard there?"

Orkwil raised his eyes and spoke for the first time. "I never kept any of it in the barrel, sir, all's I had there was a few vittles, a lantern an' my notebook."

Daucus made a gesture at the rope around Orkwil's waist. "Remove that thing, Skipper, I don't like it. He isn't going to run anywhere now. What's all this about a notebook, Orkwil, why did you need to keep a notebook?"

Fenn Bluepaw glared over her small spectacles at the young hedgehog. "So that's where my season songbook disappeared to! I bound it myself, specially, and I hadn't written a single song in it yet. You rogue, I wager you helped yourself to my best charcoal writing sticks, too. Rest assured I'll count them, when I get back to my study. I know exactly how many I had!"

The Abbot interrupted his Recorder. "Miz Bluepaw, this isn't getting us anywhere, kindly hold your peace. What was the notebook for, Orkwil?"

Freed of the rope halter, Orkwil felt better, some of his former easy manner returned. "Oh, the notebook, Father, that was to keep track of everything I borrowed...."

"Huh, borrowed?" Marja Dubbidge snorted. She was immediately silenced by a glare from the Abbot, who beckoned Orkwil to continue. The young hedgehog warmed to his subject.

"Aye, borrowed. I never meant to keep anything for good, after awhile I'd return it. Like your silver belt buckle, Foremole, sir."

Foremole Burff wrinkled his velvety snout. "Boi okey, oi never h'even knowed et wurr stole'd, oi found it t'uther day, unner moi pillow!"

Orkwil spread his paws magnanimously. "You see, I give it all back, sooner or later. What I do is, when I borrow something I list it in my notebook. Then when I return it, I cross it off the list. Though one or two things I hold on

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to for a long time, because I like them so much. Sorry, Father."

Daucus continued his interrogation. "And where, may I ask, are all these missing items, if they're not in your barrel?"

The young hedgehog twiddled his paws, grinning mischievously.

"Riddle me ree don't read my mind, inside my book your goods you'll find!"

Skipper's rudderlike tail clipped Orkwil's ear. The big otter warned him with a growl, "Mind yore manners, Master Prink. Speak proper to the Abbot, an less o' yore gob-bledygook!"

Granspike still had a soft spot for Orkwil. She tut-tutted at Skipper, and placed a paw about the young one's shoulders. "I think wot he means, Father Abbot, is that there's writin' in his book, tellin' us where t'find all the goods he took. Ain't that right, Orkwil?"

The grin reappeared on Orkwil's face, he nodded. "That's right, clever old Gran!"

The old hogwife suddenly snapped. She smacked him hard on the cheek, shouting, "Don't ye start gettin' smart with me, young hog! Clever ole Gran, indeed. Who was it found ye half-starved an' weepin' out in the woodlands, after yore no good ma'n'pa had run off on ye, eh? Who was it brought ye to Redwall an' begged to get ye taken in? An' this is all the thanks I gets for it!"

Orkwil broke down then, he sobbed and hugged Granspike. "Oh Gran, Gran, I'm sorry!"

She took his tearstained face in both paws. "Why, Orkwil, why? Wot made ye do it?"

Abbot Daucus passed him a kerchief. "Come on, young 'un, blubbering doesn't solve things. This isn't the first time you've been caught thieving. Now don't give me that injured look, you know as well as anybeast here, thieving is

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the only name for it. Sneaking away the property of good, honest Redwallers, and holding on to it for as long as you please. What other name is there for it? Why do you do it?"

Orkwil Prink shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't know, Father, whenever I see anything I like, well... well... I just have to have it, so I take it!"

Fenn Bluepaw was heard to mutter, "It's in his blood. From what I've heard his parents were both the same, shifty, feckless robbers!"

Skipper interrupted her. "Yore wrong, marm. Robbers are those who hurts others to take wot they wants. Orkwil never hurt nobeast."

Marja Dubbidge was on Fenn's side, she argued back, "Mebbe he didn't beat us up t'get our goods, but he still hurted us. I was very hurted when he took my best knitted mittens. You did, didn't you?"

Orkwil nodded. "But I was going to give 'em back."

The watervole pointed an accusing paw at him. "Then where are they, eh? Yore a nasty, young sneak thief!"

At this point, Abbot Daucus felt things had gone far enough. He stood up, kicking the stool aside and raising his voice. "Silence! This is not the way Redwallers are supposed to behave, stop all this bickering right now!" There were shamefaced murmurs of apology from some, then the peace was restored. Daucus waited until he had calmed down sufficiently to continue. "You will all receive your possessions again in good time. Orkwil, speak truly now. Is there anything you took which cannot be returned? Tell me."

The young hedgehog shook his head slowly. "Not that I can think of, Father, only food from the kitchens, and some cider from Mister Benjo's cellar."

Benjo Tipps recalled the two flagons of Special Pale Cider, which he had been storing for the Midsummer Feast. He bit his lip, and held the silence. Then Daucus put the question to them all.

"Orkwil Prink has admitted what he has done, it isn't the

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first time he's been caught stealing. We've never had any Redwaller thieving from his friends before. Now, what do you say we do about it? Other times I've put him to scouring pots in the kitchens, or confined him to the dormitory, but it seemed to have no effect on him. So I ask you, what is his punishment to be?"

There was a momentary pause, then Marja Dubbidge was heard to whisper to Fenn Bluepaw, "I'd send that young villain packin', away from our Abbey, 'tis all he deserves!"

Granspike Niblo uttered a strangled sob. "Oh no, don't say that, give 'im a chance!"

Foremole Burff spoke, contributing his sensible mole logic. "Oi'd send 'im aways from ee h'Abbey, but only furr wun season. May'aps 'twill teach ee young 'un a lessing."

Abbot Daucus shook his mole friend's paw heartily. "Thank you, Burff, that's the ideal solution. Are we all agreed on that?"

Everybeast held up their paws, with the exception of two, Fenn and Marja. The Abbot stared levelly at them, Skipper and Benjo glared at the pair, Granspike gazed pleadingly at them. For a moment, nothing happened. Then bit by bit, the Recorder and the Bellringer raised their paws. The Abbot gave a beaming smile.

"Good, then that's a full show of paws, thank you!" His face turned stern as he addressed the parolee. "Orkwil Prink, you are not permitted to enter Redwall Abbey for the space of one season, until the first autumn leaves appear. We hope that on your return to us, you will appreciate this place, and become a useful and honest creature among your friends. The life you must lead outside these walls will perhaps teach you a lesson. You must fend for yourself, find your own food and shelter, and avoid harm. Granspike Niblo will give you some stout clothing, and Friar Chondrus will provide you with sufficient plain food to last three days. Make good use of your time out there, think of us, as we will be thinking of you. Above all, do not

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steal anything which does not belong to you. I hope you return to us as an honest and more resolute young creature. You may go, and may good fortune be with you, Orkwil!"

Evening sunlight shaded the western flatlands, turning the outer walls to a dusty, warm rose. Descending larks sang their Evensong as Orkwil rambled away north, up the dusty path outside Redwall Abbey. He heaved a gusty sigh, wiping the last of Granspike's tears from his brow. Turning, he took a backward glance at the Abbey. The huge sandstone edifice stood serene and unchanging, from bell-tower to arched windows, with stained glass reflecting the sinking sun in rainbow hues. Shouldering the staff which carried a food pack tied to one end, he turned away, sniffed and wiped his eyes.

Ah well, he'd gotten off fairly lightly, considering the offenses he'd perpetrated. The good old Abbey would still be there on his return at autumn. He'd be a reformed character by then. But meanwhile ...

He wasn't being hunted, lectured at, tied up in the gatehouse, interrogated or told off. Here was the open road before him, the woodlands, plains, hills and streams to roam unhindered. Free as the breeze, and with nobeast to tell him how he should behave. Orkwil Prink leapt in the air and shouted aloud. "Yeeehaaaahoooooh!"

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5

The ship Bludgullet nosed its course through heavy seas, heaving up and down with a constant seesawing motion. A squall had hit during the night, sweeping out of the north, bringing with it gusting winds and pelting rain. For the young badger chained to the mast, there was no shelter, he was out there alone on the heaving deck. However, the wild weather did bring one blessing with it, fresh rainwater. Gorath lay flat out, beneath the centre of the huge, square sail, with his mouth wide open. Raindrops, puddling in a crease of the canvas, came trickling down, providing him with a much-needed drink of clear, cold water. When he had taken his fill, Gorath crawled back to the mast. He sat with his back against it, awaiting the passing of the storm, and the dawn of a new day.

Gradually the rain ceased, though the seas still ran high, with the ship dipping up and down as it ploughed southward. Daybreak revealed a dark, sullen sky, with ponderous cloudbanks in the wake of the vessel. Rising, falling, with the horizon glimpsed between foam-crested greeny-blue waves of mountainous proportions, up and down, up and down.

That was when Gorath got his first taste of seasickness. The wound he had received on his forehead, formed into

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a thick scab of dried blood, still throbbed painfully. This, with the bucking of the ship, brought on a spasm of retching. The young badger slumped over, wishing that death would release him from his cruel predicament.

From the cabin doorway, Vizka Longtooth and his first mate, Codj, watched Gorath. Vizka passed Codj a length of tarred and knotted rope. The golden fox's long fangs showed as he whispered instructions.

The other, smaller fox nodded, then enquired, "Yarr, Cap'n, but why do ya want t'stop me?"

Vizka shoved him toward the badger. " 'Coz dat's my orders, t'ickead, jus' do like I says!"

Codj shrugged, and swaggered off swinging the rope. "I do like ya say, yore da cap'n."

Gorath had closed his eyes, trying to gain respite from his suffering in sleep, when the knotted rope struck his back. He wheeled about to see his enemy swinging the rope. This time it struck him on the side of his jaw. Codj snarled at him; standing out of range of Gorath, he continued wielding the rope.

"Up on yore paws, Rock'ead, who sez ya could sleep, eh?"

Gorath was too sick to do anything about it, he crouched by the mast, covering his head with both paws.

His tormentor continued to flog at him with the knotted rope. "Gerrup, lazybeast, stan' up straight when I speaks to ya!"

Vizka came hurrying up and snatched the rope from Codj. "Leave dat pore beast alone, go 'way!"

The mate did as he was bidden, leaving them alone. Vizka crouched a safe distance from his captive, and began to speak in a wheedling tone. "Pore Rock'ead, wot ails ya, are y'tired?" Gorath stayed as he was, making no answer. Vizka cocked his head, trying to see the badger's face. "Are ya sick, is dat it? I gotta good cabin an' a bunk, all nice'n cosy, 'ow would ya like t'sleep der, eh?" There was still no

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reaction, though Vizka could see that his prisoner was saturated and shivering. "D'ya wants vittles, we got good food, plenny t'drink, too." He watched the young badger keenly, for any response. Still getting no answer, the golden fox stood up. "I'm der cap'n 'ere, jus' tell me wot ya wants an' I'll give it to ya. Dat's a fair offer, eh?"

Gorath did not even open his eyes to look at the fox.

Vizka pulled his thick cloak tight about himself. "Cold out 'ere, I'm goin' to me cabin. But yew ain't goin' nowhere, Rock'ead. Sooner or later y'll speak ter me. Or y'll die, chained ter dat mast!"

Vizka did not go to his cabin; instead, he went to the main cabin, on the deck below. Codj was there with some of the vermin crew. He caught the knotted rope that Vizka tossed to him.

"Ya wants me ter go an' flog 'im agin, Cap'n?"

The crewbeasts made room as their captain sat down at the mess table. "Nah, dat'n's 'ad enough fer now, leave 'im 'til later."

One of the crew, a hulking ferret called Grivel, commented, "Dat stripe'ound'll die iffen ya flogs 'im too much. Cap'n near killed 'im wid 'is ball'n'chain. Can't be too far off dead now, if'n ya asks me."

Vizka smiled at Grivel. "But I didn't ask ya, did I?"

Vizka Longtooth was always at his most dangerous when smiling. Grivel did not fancy a confrontation with his captain, so he fell silent.

The golden fox rose, staring at him pointedly, almost challenging him to speak. "I'll decide wot 'appens t'the stripe'ound. Rock'ead's a young beast, an' a strong 'un. A bit o' starvin' an' beatin' won't do 'im no 'arm. You jus' watch, I'll bring 'im round ter my way o' thinkin'. Same as I'd do wid anybeast, eh, Grivel?"

The hefty ferret stared down at the tabletop, avoiding his captain's smiling eyes. "Aye, Cap'n, wotever ya say."

Without warning, Vizka dealt Grivel a swinging back

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pawed blow, which knocked him out of his seat, flat on his face. Vizka laughed, looking around at the other vermin in the cabin. "Pore Grivel, can't 'old 'is grog, if'n y'ask me!"

The crew knew what to do, they laughed aloud with their unpredictable captain, every one of them. Vizka issued orders. "When vittles is ready they'll be served up on deck. I want y'all to sit where dat stripe'ound can see ya. Watchin' yew lot eatin' might stir up 'is appetite. Look as if yore enjoyin' dinner, make Rock'ead feel 'ungry. Codj, you keep an eye peeled on 'im, I'll be in me cabin if'n ya wants me."

Grivel waited until Vizka had gone from the cabin before he picked himself up, wiping a smear of blood from his lip. A large, fat, one-eared rat named Feerog, who was Grivel's messmate, shot him a warning glance.

Codj headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, "I'm gonna keep watch on der stripe'ound." Vizka and Codj were very close, so the crew did not say anything until he had gone out on deck. Once the captain and first mate were not present, Grivel spat blood upon the floor.

"Did ya see dat, why'd 'e pick on me, wot did I say?"

Feerog supported his friend. "Yarr, sometimes der cap'n will belt ya jus' fer lookin' at 'im d'wrong way. It ain't right, mates!"

Grivel poured forth his grievances against the captain of the Bludgullet. "Aye, an' why'd we waste a whole season sailin' round der Northland coasts, wot's ter be gained there, eh?"

There were nods, and mutters of agreement as Feerog took up the cause. "Couple o' sacks o' veggibles an' some grain. Huh, an' a crazy stripe'ound. We coulda been in the southern isles, at least 'tis alius warm there."

A runty old weasel, Snikey, spoke his piece. "Cap'n must 'ave 'ad 'is reasons, any'ow we're sailin' clear o' the Northlands now, ain't we?"

Grivel's voice was thick with bitterness. "But we ain't bound fer no southern isles, are we? I'll wager der cap'n's

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got dis ship 'eaded for the Western shores, an' ye know wot dat means, don't ya?"

Feerog slammed his knifepoint into the mess table. "Aye, Vizka Longtooth wants ter do wot Windflin Wildbrush couldn't. Kill dat ole stripe'ound an' 'is rabbets, an' make 'imself king o' der mountain!"

Snikey shrugged. "I'd sooner live on a mountain than be stuck aboard dis tub all me life."

This was the chance Grivel had been waiting for. Grabbing Snikey, he head-butted the runty old weasel hard. Still holding Snikey, he kicked open the cabin door, and flung him, half-stunned, out onto the deck, growling at him. "We ain't gittin' slayed in battle, jus' ter make Longtooth famous. An' remember this, ya liddle sneak, one werd to Vizka or Codj, an' yore a deadbeast!" Slamming the door, Grivel winked at the others. "I caught 'im a good 'un, split 'is nose, stinkin' tale-carrier. I've never trusted dat weasel!"

A black rat, called Durgy, shook his head. "Ya did der wrong thing there, mate, everybeast knows Snikey's the cap'n's spy, 'is mouth'll 'ave t'be shut fer good, or 'e'll go blabbin' ter Longtooth."

Feerog pulled his knife from the tabletop. "Yore right, I'll see to it dat Snikey slips off nice'n'quiet-like."

Late afternoon found the weather still overcast, but calm. Gorath stayed huddled against the mast, where he had been since early morning. The pangs of seasickness had left him, and the pain in his wounded forehead had calmed somewhat. Nobeast had bothered him all day, though he was aware of Codj watching him from a distance.

Then the cook, a greasy, bloated ratwife, dragged a cauldron along the deck, halting where she knew the chained prisoner could not reach. Taking the lid from the cauldron, she began stirring it, yelling in a shrill voice, "Come an' get yore vittles, afore I tosses 'em overboard!"

The aroma of cooked food assailed Gorath's nostrils, and he realised how desperately hungry he was. The crew

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lined up with their bowls and dishes as she began slopping out steaming ladles of the mixture. Even Vizka attended, holding out a basin, and questioning the cook as she filled it to the brim with the mixture.

"Mmmm, this smells good, wot is it, Glurma?"

She gave Vizka a snaggletoothed grin. "Me own special skilley, Cap'n, carrots'n'turnips, oats an' herbs, wid lots o' shrimp an' mackerel in it!"

Vizka winked broadly at the vermin crew, who were sitting out of Gorath's reach, eating their meal. "Yarr, dat'll put der twinkle back in yore eyes, buckoes!" They made a great show of blowing on the hot skilley and scooping it up, some with their grimy bare paws.

Vizka knew just how far the chain would allow his captive to roam. Carefully, he placed the filled bowl out of the young badger's reach, and began coaxing him. "Come an' taste it, friend, ya must be starvin', eh?" Gorath uncovered his head and stared at the bowl, but he made no move for it. Vizka continued taunting. "Good vittles, shrimp an' fishes from der Northland coast, an' veggibles from yore farm, try some."

Gorath rose; he staggered forward to the end of the chain, reaching out. The crew laughed uproariously at his vain attempts to reach the bowl. The badger gave up, and went to sit with his back to the mast.

The golden fox dipped a paw in the bowl and sucked it. "Real good dis is, Rock'ead. Tell ya wot, I'll move it closer if'n ya speak ter me."

Gorath locked eyes with the smiling fox, but kept silent. Something in those eyes made Vizka feel nervous, the smile fell from his face and he snarled.

"Widout food yore a deadbeast. Speak!"

Then the badger spoke. "You will die before I do. You, and that other one." Here he nodded toward Codj. "And as many of these scum as I can take with me. So don't waste your time talking, I don't speak with beasts who are already dead to me."

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Vizka leapt up, quivering. "You'll beg me ta die afore I'm done wid ya!" He kicked the bowl, sending it into the sea. The golden fox strode back to his cabin, with Codj trotting in his wake.

"I told ya we shoulda killed 'im, Cap'n!"

Vizka shoved Codj into the cabin ahead of him. "Shut yore mouth, idjit, der crew can 'ear ya!"

Nobeast noticed Durgy sidle up to the rail and sit beside Snikey. The runty weasel was licking inside his empty bowl, when the black rat murmured into his ear softly.

"Did ya see dat? Waste o' good vittles, der way our cap'n kicked dat bowl o' skilley overboard. I coulda ate dat extra bowl, couldn't you, mate?"

Snikey stared into his empty bowl. "Aye."

"Den why doncha go an' gerrit, spy!"

Snikey fell backward into the sea from the rail, a look of shock on his face, and Durgy's blade between his ribs. Grivel and Feerog quickly filled the vacant space at the rail. Durgy nodded at the sea.

"Snikey's just gone ter get more skilley."

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6

There was not a single cloud on Maudie (the Hon.) Mugs-berry Thropple's horizon. The young haremaid did not even feel the weight of the haversack on her back as she skipped blithely along the dunetops. She, among all other hares at Salamandastron, had been chosen to go on this most important quest. Once more, she went over the instructions, which had been drummed into her by Lord Asheye and Major Mullein.

"Find a bloomin' badger. One who knows not his own strength. A beast from the simple life, who shuns armour, an' knows not the sword. Er, what else? Oh yes, he's got destiny marked on his blinkin' brow, an' er, what next?"

She paused on one paw, wrinkling her nose. "Er... er ... gottit! He walks with a banished one, an' a flame, that's it. Find him an' haul the blighter back to the jolly old mountain. Oh, well remembered, that, maid!" Still balancing on one paw, she took stock of her position.

To the west, the great sea was an expanse of turquoise and blue, twinkling under a clear summer sky. Below her was the coastline shore, sweeping up into the dunes. Ahead, and off to the right, lay heath, low hills and scrubland, with a fringe of treeline in the distance. Not having the faintest idea where she was going, Maudie picked up

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a pawful of sand. She tossed it into the air, calling aloud, "I say, Mother Nature old thing, which way do I go now?" Incoming sea breezes blew the sand grains off toward the distant trees. Maudie threw a casual salute to the sky. "Thankee, marm, the woodlands it is!"

Setting herself a brisk pace, she marched off, still trying to repeat the instructions. "Find a blinkin' badger with destiny marked on his armour, or somethin' like that. Er, one who shuns the simple sword for life, an' walks with a confounded fear of a flamin' banished one. Oh, my giddy aunt! Not to worry, Maudie old gel, you'll know the blighter when you trip over him, wot!"

Having spent her first night out camped in the dunes, Maudie had broken her fast in the early morn, with a dried crust of oatbread and a swig of water. She complained to herself as she marched through the scrubland.

"Huh, a skinny old crust an' a single gobful of water. What sort of food's that to give an expert cook? I'll bet the chaps back at the mess are crammin' their fat faces with all kinds of fascinatin' fodder. Right, that's it! As soon as I get the chance I'm goin' to whip up a good cooked lunch for m'self!" The thought of hot food cheered Maudie up no end. Never downhearted for long, the incorrigible haremaid broke out into song, making up the words as she went along.

"Oh, I love nothin' better than a meal that's served up hot, so stir your stumps there, Cooky, an' let's see what you've got.

A pie, a pastie or pudden, a flan, a stew or cake, to save a poor maid starvin', let's see what ye can make.

Me tummy's a-rumble, apple crumble

just might halt its din; a fair old scoop of mushroom soup,

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would stop me growin' thin.

You'd win my heart with a damson tart,

I'd wolf it at one bite, an' follow it up with a fruitcake at dinnertime tonight!

Oh, serve more salad, I fear my ballad is coming to an end, take pity on me with a fresh pot o' tea,

'cos I'm fading fast, dear friend.

Pretty soon, I fear, you well may hear

this maiden's final moans, tell Mama not to weep, or to lose any sleep, when they find her daughter's bones!"

As she trilled the last notes of her song, Maudie became aware of a mole. He was trundling along a few paces behind her, pulling a small wheelbarrow. He was an old creature, dusty and ragged. Moreover, he was weeping copiously. The haremaid halted, and the mole bumped into her, probably because he could not see through his tears. Maudie gave him her kerchief, enquiring gently, "I say, old lad, are you alright?"

The mole blew his snout resoundingly, then snuffled. "Hurr, missy, that'n bee's the saddest likkle song oi ever hurrd en all moi loife."

Maudie felt quite upset, so she started comforting him. "It's not true, y'know, just something I made up. There now, dry your eyes an' stop cryin'."

The mole did as he was bid, though he looked rather rueful. "But oi do luvs a gudd, sad song, marm, thurr b'ain't nuthin' loike a gurt ole weep, makes a body feel better roight h'away."

Maudie gave him a small curtsy. "Oh well, I'm sorry I stopped you bawlin', if y'like that sort o' thing. You just jolly well carry on if you like weepin', wot!"

The mole tugged his snout politely (as good-mannered moles do) and extended his paw. "No, no, oi'm over et

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naow, miz, oi bee's called Bungwen ee Hurmit. You'm must've bee'd gurtly 'ungered to be singen' ee song loike that 'un."

The haremaid shook Bungwen's paw. "Actually I am a mite peckish for some hot vittles. My name's Maudie, pleased t'meet you, Bungwen."

The mole sat on his barrow, which was loaded with roots, tubers and berries. He smiled affably. "Mouldy, that bee's a noice name. Oi tell ee wot, Miz Mouldy, iffen you'd push me'n ee barrer to moi dwellin', oi'll treat ee to an 'ot lunch, wudd that suit ee?"

At the mention of a hot lunch, Maudie seized the barrow shafts. "I say, splendid! You just roar out the directions, old fellow, an' you've got a lunch guest!"

Bungwen's dwelling was a cave dug into the side of a hill. Heaving himself from the barrow, he beckoned Maudie inside. "Cumm ee in, Miz Mouldy, this yurr's moi 'umble 'ome!"

It was indeed humble, but comfortable, a small cave, with ledge seats padded thick with dried grasses. It contained a stove, built from rock slabs and chinked with solidified mud.

The hermit mole poured Maudie a beaker of dark liquid from a jug. "Naow, you'm set thurr an' sup that, miz, 'tis moi own tansy'n'coltsfoot corjul. Oi'll make moiself bizzy with ee stew, t'woant be long en cummen!"

It was rather dark inside the cave, but there was enough light coming in from the entrance to distinguish things. The cordial was chilled, and tasted delicious. Maudie sipped it as she watched Bungwen tending to the cauldron on the stove. Some of the herbs he was adding to his stew were very aromatic.

"Hurr, wot brings ee owt yurr, miz, bee's you'm losted?"

The haremaid shook her head. "I'm not lost, I'm on an important mission. By the way, have you seen a large badger type roaming your neighbourhood--huge, hefty,

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fearless-lookin' type? I think he carries a flame, an' has a banished one with him. Don't suppose you've spotted the chap, wot?"

Bungwen stirred the cauldron, tasting a small drop. "Only ones oi sees round yurr bee's they rarscally sandy blizzards, miz, they'm woan't leave oi alone." As he spoke they heard the wheelbarrow being upturned outside. Bungwen put the lid on his cauldron, and brandished the ladle. "They'm smelled moi cooken an' cummed to steal et!"

Mocking, hissing voices came from outside.

"Gizzzzzz vittlessssss, ssssoilmoussssse!"

"Give vittlessss to ussss, or elsssse!"

Maudie restrained her friend from dashing outside. "I say, steady on, old lad, who are those blighters?"

Bungwen growled. "Oi tole ee, miz, they'm blizzards, narsty bunch o' villyuns!"

The haremaid flexed her limbs in a businesslike manner. "Right ho, 'nuff said, matey. Now you stay out o' this, an' I'll toddle out an' educate those bullies!"

She strode resolutely out of the cave, assessing the situation at a glance.

About a dozen male sand lizards were scattering the contents of Bungwen's barrow about. Their emerald green flanks glistened in the sun, dark, reptilian eyes flickering hither and thither, seeking more mischief. When they saw Maudie, the group froze, staring balefully at her.

She glanced coolly back at them, issuing orders like a nursemaid dealing with unruly youngsters. "Clean the sand out your ears an' listen to me, you blitherin' bunch. Kindly put that barrow back the way you found it, an' clear off, smartish, wot!"

One, bigger than the rest, reared up on his tail. "Ssstay out of our biznesssss, longearsssss!"

Maudie began bouncing on her footpaws, milling her forepaws in small, tight circles. "No point talkin' t'you foul felons, wot! You need two swift lessons, one in manners,

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the other in the noble art of hare boxin'. Right, defend y'self, sir!" She shot out a quick, thudding hook to the lizard's jaw, sending him flat on his back. Not for nothing was Maudie (the Hon.) Mugberry Thropple, Regimental Boxing Champion of the Long Patrol. She threw herself upon the startled bullies, yelling the war cry of perilous hares. "Eulaliiiaaaa!"

With all four paws going like pistons, the haremaid sent her foes scattering. Thunderous punches, and punishing kicks, rained savagely on the reptiles. She was everywhere at once, jabbing, swinging, feinting, uppercutting and lashing out fiercely with her footpaws. "Blood'n'vinegar! Forward the buffs! Eulaliiiaaa!"

With lightning precision, Maudie managed to overcome the lizards, even stopping the few who tried to sneak off. The beaten reptiles cowered on the ground, squeaking and whimpering abjectly. The avenging haremaid stood over them, scowling sternly.

"Up on y'paws now, you slimy crew. Set that barrow upright an' place every thin' back in it neatly. Stir y'stumps!"

The sand lizards tottered about, nursing bruised heads and fractured tails as they did Maudie's bidding.

Bungwen the Hermit was awestruck. "Boi okey, Miz Mouldy, oi never see'd ought loike that afore. You'm surr-pintly a gurt, moighty wurrier, burr aye!"

Maudie winked broadly at the old mole. "Think nothin' of it, old top, glad to be of service, wot! Here, you lizard types, form up in a line now. Quick's the word an' sharp's the action, jump to it, laddies! Now, let's hear you apolo-gisin' to Mister Bungwen."

The reptiles were forced to bow politely as they hissed, "Ssssorry, sssssir!"

Bungwen nodded, grinning from ear to ear, as Maudie stamped up and down behind her vanquished foes, treading heavily on their tails as she cautioned them.

"Sorry? I should jolly well think so, you pan-faced, twiddle-pawed, string-tailed, misbegotten lot! Now be

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gone from here this instant, and just let either of us catch you in these parts again. By the left, we'll make you weep for a full season. Now get out of our sight!"

Bungwen thoroughly enjoyed sending the bullies on their way with good solid kicks to their nether parts. Paw in paw, the mole and the haremaid swaggered back into the cave, with Maudie chuckling, "Well, that certainly worked up my appetite, wot!"

Bungwen watched in amazement as Maudie downed several bowls of the hot stew. "Beggen' you'm pardun, miz, but oi'd be afeared to meet ee if'n you'm bee'd proper 'ungry!"

The haremaid nodded, holding forth her beaker for more cordial. Eating was a serious business with Mad Maudie, leaving her no time for idle chitchat. After taking a brief nap, she gave her host some rudimentary boxing tips, and made him a gift of her sling and pouch of slingstones, which she seldom found use for.

"Well, time for me t'be movin' on, old thing, I should make the woodlands by early evenin'. Goodbye, an' remember, don't take any old lip from those bullies, give 'em the old one-two if they ever show their warty snouts around here again, wot!"

Bungwen Hermit shook Maudie's paw warmly. "Oi'll do jus' that, miz, an' thankee furr yore cump'ny. You'm take gudd care of eeself naow. Hurr, oi'd watch owt furr surrpints on ee scrublands, thurr bee's one or two slith-erin' abowt this season. If'n ee sees a gurt owlyburd, doan't be afeared of 'im, ee's a gudd friend o' moine, name o' Asio Bard wing. May'aps ee's see'd this badgerer you'm lukkin' furr. Goo'bye Miz Mouldy, gudd fortune go with ee!"

Bungwen stood atop his hill, waving and weeping, as the haremaid set off in the late noon sunshine. He blew his snout loudly, and called out to her, "Pay ee no 'eed to moi tears, miz, oi dearly do luvs a gudd ole blubber!"

Maudie felt sad to leave him, but she straightened her shoulders and strode out resolutely for the woodlands. The

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countryside was quiet, save for the usual heathland noises, droning bees, the chirruping of grasshoppers and the high trill of descending skylarks. Keeping a wary eye out for snakes, she sang an old barrack room ballad to herself.

"O Corporal I'm weary, can't ye hear me, when do we stop for tea,

I feel I'm goin' out o' my mind, would you like to come with me!

"Right, left, left, you clod, here comes the awkward squad!

"Pass me a flagon from out o' the wagon, the fat old Sergeant said, the cook says he can't read the cookery book, so he's makin' a broth of his head!

"Right, left, left, you clod, here comes the awkward squad!

"The Quartermaster's goin' faster, he ain't goin' to halt, the Colonel's a nut as we all know, an' I think it's a Major fault!

"Right, left, left, you clod, here comes the awkward squad!"

Maudie chuckled to herself, recalling the season she was put in training. All the recruits were so dim and clumsy that they were named the awkward squad. The treeline was in plain view now, stately beeches, spreading oaks, and shrubby elders were easily discernible. Maybe that was where Bungwen's friend, the owl Asio Bardwing, lived.

There was no discernible sound from behind her, but a sudden instinct caused the haremaid to turn around. She thought she caught a swift flash of shiny green flanks

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topping a mound, but then they vanished from sight. She thought that it could be the sand lizards following her, bent on some sort of revenge for the beating she had meted out to them, but she could not be sure. Maudie reasoned that it would not do any harm to let them know she was ready and able for them. Unshouldering her knapsack, she made an elaborate show of rolling up her tunic sleeves, and spitting on her paws, in a truculent manner. Then she yelled out a challenge.

"Come for another dose, wot? You snotty-snouted sneakers! Well, here's the gel who's jolly well ready for ye, show yourselves if ye bloomin' well dare! You blighters are dealin' with a Long Patrol Boxin' Champion. Did ye know Big Stinky Wothers, eh? Well, he didn't last one round with me. Aye, an' Nutpaw Jarkins, Sides wiper Smythe, an' Fearless Frink Maclurch. I laid them all out, despite the fact that they were proper pugilists! Hah, I could whip the flippin' lot of ye, with one paw tied behind m'back. So come on, who'll be first for a good helpin' o' paw pudden, ye lily-livered layabouts?"

There was no reply from the scrublands.

Maudie shouldered her pack and pressed on, muttering to herself darkly. "Just let 'em try, they don't call me Mad Maudie for no thin, wot! Sand lizards, hah, they'll be slit gizzards by the time I'm finished with 'em!"

She reached the trees whilst it was still daylight. Gathering some firewood, the young haremaid set about lighting a small fire, in the shade of an oak. Rummaging through her pack, she came up with some chestnut flour, dried berries and hazelnuts. Adding water to the flour she kneaded it into a firm, stiff dough. Sprinkling it liberally with nuts and berries, Maudie rolled it out into a long sausage shape. After coiling it around a green stick, she proceeded to cook it over the flames. The result was an appetising, if somewhat curiously shaped, cake which she called a Throppletwist, in honour of her family name.

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Bungwen had tucked a flask of his cordial into her knapsack; it complemented her supper quite nicely.

The haremaid sat with her back against the oak, eating her Throppletwist, which was cooked to the greenstick, and sipping cordial. Maudie was a garrulous creature, and often held conversations with herself.

"Wonder if Corporal Thwurl's nose is still swollen? Big, droopy-faced rule stickler, I should've jolly well given him a cauliflower ear, wot! I'll bet some of the chaps back at barracks would go green if they could see me now. Assistant Cook, sent out on a blinkin' secret important mission, eh. 'Strewth, if I make a bloomin' good go at this, Lord AsheyeTl prob'ly promote me to Colonel Cook in Charge. Hoho, C.C.I.C. I'd liven 'em up a bit, wot?"

Maudie put on what she imagined was a doddery commanding voice, issuing orders to all and sundry. "Hawhawhaw, you there, young feller me laddo, fetch me a bumpkin o' Fine Fettle Olde Cider, there's a good chap. I say, Corporal, wot'syourface, Thwurl, yes, you sah. Kindly slice me a scone, an' bung some raspb'rry jam on it. Don't stand there catchin' flies with y'mouth, jump to it, laddy buck. Ah, this is the jolly old life, wot wot!"

She chuntered on to herself as the evening sun dipped into the western horizon. It was comfortable, sitting by the little fire, taking supper in the warm afterglow. Maudie had been walking all day, apart from the few hours she had spent with Bungwen Hermit. The young haremaid let her eyes slowly droop shut. She was hardly aware of the two sand lizards, each holding the end of a rope. They scampered on either side of her, racing around the oak trunk, which Maudie had her back to. She blinked and sat up straight. "What the bloom ..."

The reptiles raced by her again, meeting up at the rear of the tree, where they swiftly knotted the rope. Maudie strained at her bonds, but her body and forepaws were bound tight to the oak. She was trapped. The haremaid's

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first reaction tumbled forth indignantly. "I say, let me loose, you sneaky rotters, or it'll be the worse for you. Flippin' cads!"

The rest of the lizards slithered out of cover to confront her. The largest of the bunch, the first one she had attacked earlier, came right up to Maudie. There was a blotchy swelling on the side of his jaw. He hissed viciously at her, pointing to the injury. "Sssee thissss? Now you will sssssuffer for it!"

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7

Orkwil Prink spent his first night away from Redwall beneath an overhang of bushes on a ditchside. It was the first time since his infancy that he had not slept in the Abbey. The young hedgehog's former joyous mood deserted him as soon as night descended.

He found himself flinching whenever anything moved in the breeze; imaginary shapes in the darkness frightened him. Even the nocturnal woodland sounds sent a shudder through Orkwil. Miserably, he crept along the northern path. Then he tripped and fell into the ditch.

Luckily, there was very little water in it, but there was quite a bit of mud. Panicked, he floundered about, sloshing through the malodorous mire. Bush fronds, dangling down, tangled into his headspikes. Orkwil gurgled in terror. Had some hideous beast of prey caught him? He struggled to free himself, and then realised it was merely an overhanging bush.

Sobbing with relief, Orkwil hauled himself up the ditch-side and found shelter amid the dense vegetation. Perching between two thick branches, and plastered with smelly mud, he wished fervently to be back safe inside Redwall. But alas, that would not be possible for a full season. He wiped away a muddy tear, thinking, That's if I live that long!

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Oh, for the dear old Abbey. Laughing and joking with friends, by the fireside in Cavern Hole, a delicious supper, maybe hot soup and toasted muffins. Then up to the dormitory, and his little truckle bed, for a peaceful night's sleep, between lavender-scented quilts, with a soft pillow for his head.

Orkwil licked at his salt tears, then spat away the mud. Here he was, through no fault of his own, none of that lot back there understood him. Mouldy old Elders! Trouble with them was that none of them could take a little joke. Huh, they all got their stuff back, didn't they? Well, nearly all. Still, that was no reason to turn a harmless little hog out into the wilds. It was their fault he was stuck in a ditch, covered with slutch. Orkwil managed to extract a plain oat scone from his bundle. He gnawed at it, thinking up recriminations to heap upon his tormentors' heads.

Suppose he got trapped here and couldn't get out, what then, eh? A huge storm might come, with torrents of rain, and the ditch would fill up, into a raging river, to wash him away and drown him in the process. Probably Granspike Niblo would find his young battered body, when she was out gathering watercress. Orkwil pictured the scene. His limp carcass being carried back to Redwall, on a stretcher strewn with woodland blossoms. The Dibbuns howling with grief, and the Elders having to accept the blame for their harsh sentence. Hah, they'd be sorry then, especially that Marja Dubbidge, and Fenn Bluepaw, seeing as it was they who started all his misfortunes. Father Abbot Daucus would shake his head sadly and say that no youngbeast would ever be banished for a full season again. Redwallers had learned a stark lesson from young Orkwil Prink, a good little creature, cut off in his tender seasons.

Orkwil finished his plain oat scone, feeling very self-righteous. At least he had done something good for all the other young Redwallers. Saved them from such harsh punishments in the seasons to come. Well, of course he had. He wagered they would probably raise a memorial over his

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grave in the Abbey grounds. Aye, and hold an Orkwil Prink rememberance day, once every summer. At this point, Orkwil could not hold himself back from shouting aloud.

"And that'll teach you all a lesson, won't it?" His cry disturbed two blackbirds that were nesting in the bush, which shook as they fluttered off. What was that? Orkwil wondered. He crouched there, shivering, until he fell into weary sleep, clinging to the branches.

Is not the light of day a wondrous thing? It banishes all fears and worries of the previous night. Warm sunlight shafting into the leafy bush canopy wakened Orkwil. He stretched his paws, yawned and promptly fell from the shelter of the bush, down into the ditchbed ooze. Uttering some very fruity oaths, which would have earned him a good dressing-down at the Abbey, he scrambled back up onto the pathside.

Wolfing down another plain oat scone and an apple, Orkwil breakfasted as he resumed his journey, regardless of the foul-smelling mud, which was caked thick on his spikes. As he trudged along, an idea began forming in the young hedgehog's mind. Maybe he could find a friendly little family of woodlanders, dormice or bankvoles. They would probably live in a snug little cottage, somewhere along a riverbank. He could become useful to them, helping with the everyday chores. Then he could pass away a pleasant season, with a roof over his head, and vittles aplenty. Maybe he would stay with his new friends for more than a season, perhaps two.

Orkwil giggled aloud. They'd start getting worried at Redwall, when he didn't turn up at autumn. Probably wear their paws out, sending search parties to look for him. Now, where was the nearest river on the northern path? It had to be the River Moss. He'd heard Skipper Rorc talking about it. There was a ford that crossed the path, someplace further up, Skipper had said so.

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With a lighter heart, and a renewed spring to his paws, Orkwil forged onward. He halted at noon, peering up the path, not sure whether the shimmer in the distance was from the heat haze, or the ford waters. Plumping himself down on the mossy bankside, he undid his bundle. There were only more plain scones and a flask of pennycloud cordial. The young hedgehog pulled a face. "Measly little rations, they're prob'ly having a great lunch back at the Abbey, out in the orchard, like they always do in summer. All kinds of trifle, an' pudden, strawberry fizz, an' all that. Hmm, what's this?"

Opening a small package, which he had not noticed before, Orkwil was delighted to find about a dozen candied chestnuts. He chuckled happily. "Good ole Granspike, bet she slipped them in for me!" He was stuffing them down when he felt a sharp pain in his back. "Yowch!" Orkwil turned and saw a magpie, about to peck him again. Angrily, he lashed out at it, shouting, "What d'ye think yore doin', be off with ye, bird!"

The magpie, a handsome black and white fellow, merely hopped back a pace, and stood with its head on one side, staring impudently at the young hedgehog.

Orkwil raised a clenched paw threateningly. "Ye cheeky wretch, I said be off!"

The magpie leapt forward, pecked at Orkwil's paw, and skipped nimbly backward. The young hedgehog was furious.

"I'll give ye such a clout... I'll..."

The bird gave a mocking cackle. "Raaaahakarr!"

Orkwil retaliated then. He grabbed the staff, which his bundle had been tied to, and swiped at the magpie. It hopped out of range, and Orkwil ran at it, swinging the staff. "Ye hard-faced featherbag!"

The magpie flew up, then hovered, cackling raucously, but staying just out of the staff's reach. Orkwil sought about and found a pebble, which he flung at the bird. This time it dodged to one side, then flew across the path, into

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one of the trees bordering Mossflower Wood. Orkwil brandished the staff at it.

"You start pesterin' me again an' I'll break yore beak!" He turned back to his lunch, only to find it all gone. The plain oat scones, and the remains of his candied chestnuts, were missing. Only the kerchief his bundle had been wrapped in lay on the ground. The uncorked flask had been tipped over, and all the pennycloud liquid had spilled into the ground.

Orkwil was furious, more so when he was greeted by a chorus of harsh cackles from the nearby trees. A group of about nine magpies was perched in the branches, gobbling down his supplies. He waved his staff and ran at them, thwacking away lustily. The scavengers merely flew up to higher branches, where they continued eating their plunder and mocking him. Chattering with rage, the young hedgehog hopped and leapt, trying to reach them with his staff.

"Ye scum-beaked thieves, ye patch-faced robbers, just let me get my paws on ye!"

Safe in their high position, the magpies performed little strutting dances, adding to Orkwil's anger. This did not improve matters. He redoubled his efforts, hurtling himself at the tree trunks, throwing pawfuls of earth, and any stones he could find.

It was a futile exercise, though it took Orkwil some time to realise this. He ended up flat out on the path, huffing and blowing for breath, completely worn out. The magpies continued their derision, even dropping leaves and pieces of twig down on him.

After awhile, Orkwil wearily stood up and walked away from the scene, with the birds' scornful cackles echoing in his ears. The ditchmud had set hard between his spikes, it was heavy, uncomfortable, and itched him unmercifully. He became sullen and morose again. How far was it to this river ford, he needed a long soak, and a good bath. The nerve of those birds, too, stealing all his supplies like that.

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Thieves and robbers, that's all they were! Then he recalled that the same thing had been said of himself, only a day ago at the Abbey.

Noontide shadows were lengthening when Orkwil saw the ford, running across the path up ahead. Stumbling and staggering with exhaustion, he tottered forward, grunting with the effort of placing one footpaw in front of the other. On reaching the ford, he lay on his stomach in the shallow edge, letting forth a sigh, which sounded like a deflating balloon. Water, fresh running water! Orkwil sucked up huge draughts of the clean, cold liquid. Then he rolled into the ford and went deeper, allowing the current to carry him downriver for a distance. Grabbing the hanging branches of a willow tree, he halted his progress. His footpaws just barely touched bottom, the river came up to his chin. After ducking his head several times, Orkwil clung there, feeling the soothing current washing him clean and refreshing his body. What a wonderful thing riverwater is, he thought. Then he noticed the watervole watching him from the far bank. Redwall Abbey had taught Orkwil manners, he nodded amiably to the creature. "Good day to ye, sir."

The watervole was a big, bushy old beast, his dark brown fur heavily streaked with grey. He squinted at the young hedgehog, snapping out a reply. "Never mind what sort o' day 'tis, what're ye trespassin' round here for, eh?"

Orkwil put on a friendly smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was trespassin', I was only taking a bath."

The watervole nodded, first up-, then downriver.

"Plenty o' river both sides, without dirtyin' up my stretch. Are ye stealin' my watercress, is that it, eh?"

Orkwil shook his head, still acting friendly "No, sir, honestly. Matter o' fact, I've had all my supplies stolen from me. Back there, down the path. It was a bunch o' magpies that did it."

The watervole smiled maliciously. "Serves ye right then, don't it. No thievin' magpie'd get near my watercress. Not

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my fault yore vittles got pinched, 'tis yore own! Nobeast takes a bath round here 'cept me, so get movin', 'edgepig!"

Orkwil had been building up a dislike for the watervole. He was about to deliver a few cutting insults, when the watervole suddenly spoke cordially to him.

"Do y'see these big clumps o' watercress growin' by the bank, matey? Would ye pick some of 'em for me?"

Orkwil saw his opportunity to do what he had been planning. Help somebeast out, who lived by the river. Maybe this watervole wasn't such a bad old codger. There might be a chance that he could live with him for the season, helping out. Holding his chin high, he waded across, to where the watercress grew in profusion. "Certainly, sir. My name's Orkwil Prink, now you just let me know when I've thrown enough watercress over. Here comes the first lot!"

He began heaving bunches of the plant to the watervole, who caught them eagerly, stacking them high. The young hedgehog went to his task with a right good will, conversing as he did. "This looks like good, fresh cress, sir, what'll ye be makin' with it, a salad?"

The watervole nodded. "Aye, salad, though that'll do for lunch tomorrow. I'm goin' to make a big pot o' my favourite, watercress, mushroom an' watershrimp soup."

The young hedgehog chuckled. "Sounds wonderful, I've never tasted a soup like that before, sir."

The watervole clambered out onto the bank. He picked up a bow and arrows. Notching a shaft to his bowstring, he sneered, in a cold, hard voice, "An' yore not likely to taste it, Orful Stink, or wotever yore name is. Now leave that watercress alone, an' get out o' here, afore I puts an arrow in yer. Go an' find yore own food someplace else, you ain't gittin' none o' mine. Move!"

Orkwil was shocked by the watervole's meanness, and told him so in no uncertain terms. "Why, ye nasty old skinflint, y'selfish, crafty, graspin', cressgrabber! If I'd have known..."

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The watervole aimed the arrow, drawing back his bowstring threateningly. "Shut yore mouth, 'edgepig, an' make yoreself scarce. I'll give ye a count o' three, then I shoot!"

By the look in his mean little eyes, Orkwil knew that he was not joking. He immediately began swimming back to the ford.

Evening was setting in as Orkwil waded from the water. He sat dejectedly on the ford bank, smarting with indignity from his treatment by the watervole, and listening to the rumbling growls from his stomach. He was hungry. Orkwil cast about, in an effort to find some food, but he was pretty useless at foraging for himself.

That was the trouble with being brought up in an Abbey, he reasoned bitterly. If you wanted food, you went to the kitchens, and they fed you. Aye, and it was all deliciously cooked, too. There was no grubbing around in the soil, or searching the wilderness. Orkwil knew that young ones learned about such things as self-survival at Abbey school. But he was always missing, hiding away somewhere in a barrel, the result being, he never attended. Life wasn't fair, he concluded. But he picked himself up and began foraging about for vittles.

It was dark by the time he returned to the ford. All he had managed to gather was some dandelion roots, a few berries that the birds had missed, an apple that was hard and green and a plant that he surmised was edible, but he was unsure whether to eat the top or the bottom of it. He drank a bit more water, and sat down to think hard about a solution to his predicament.

It came to him suddenly. He had been branded a thief, so why not be one, properly, at least it was one thing he was good at. He flung the bits he had gathered away, waded to the other side of the ford, then set off downriver along the bank. Orkwil knew when he was in the area of the water-vole's home, he could smell the soup on the fire.

Now, how to separate one miserable, fat beast from one

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steaming pot of soup? That was the problem. It was solved for him when a rustling in the underbrush caused Orkwil to dodge behind a sycamore. It was a pair of vermin, a big, brutish river rat, and his equally sly-looking mate. They, too, had smelled the soup, and were figuring out how to lay paws on it. The vermins' solution was simple. The big male rat produced a hardwood club.

"It'll be that ole watervole, I've spotted 'im round 'ere afore. We'll just charge in, knock the livin' daylights outta the ole fool, an' rob 'is vittles!"

His mate took a saw-toothed knife from her ragged smock. "Aye, drag 'im out onto the bank, then when we've ate the food, we kin 'ave a bit o' fun with 'im!"

Orkwil had never encountered hostile vermin before. He was horrified at their savagery. Peeping around the sycamore trunk, he watched as they searched the bank-side. The female found the entrance to their victim's home. Smothering her sniggers, she pranced about, waving the knife in anticipation.

Her mate brandished his club, muttering a warning. "Don't yew go stickin' 'im with that thing right away, couple o' taps on the noggin with this'll send 'im t'sleep. We can play games with 'im later. Alright, foiler me!"

They vanished into the entrance. Orkwil had a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach about what was going to happen next. He stayed behind the tree trunk, trying to reason things out. Really speaking, it was none of his business. The old watervole had been very nasty to him, why would he want to help a creature like that? Then there was the question of two fierce river rats, carrying weapons. They were obviously killers. Suppose they'd caught him, would the watervole come running to offer his help? Huh, hardly!

The spikes on the young hedgehog's back stood rigid, as agonised squeals and cruel laughter issued forth from the victim's dwelling. There was a moment's silence, then the river rat emerged, dragging the watervole by his footpaws, and calling to his mate.

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"Fetch that soup out 'ere, I'm starvin'. Heeheehee, did ye 'ear the way this 'un squealed? Bumblin' idjit, wouldn't 'old still so I could knock 'im out proper. Huh, 'e near fell in the soup twice!" He set about binding the unconscious creature with a rope he had found in the dwelling.

His mate staggered out, bent double with the weight of a cauldron full of hot soup. She set it down, licking her paws. "Mmmm, s'good soup, this, fulla watershrimps!"

Both rats leaned over the soup, dabbing their paws in, alternately blowing and licking on them, as they planned their captive's fate.

"We could shove 'im in the empty soup pot with a few rocks, an' see if it'll float in the river. Heeheehee!"

"Nah, best if'n we jus' puts 'im inna pot, lights a fire under it an' cooks 'im. Watervole soup, heehee!"

It was at that moment Orkwil decided he could not cower in hiding from the vermin, something had to be done immediately. Grabbing his staff tightly, he leapt out of hiding and charged the rats. Fortunately, they had their backs to him, and did not see the young hedgehog until too late.

One mighty whack of the yew staff between the club carrier's ears knocked him out cold. As the rat crumpled to the ground, his mate whirled around. She drew her knife swiftly, but Orkwil, aided by the speed of panic, was even quicker than she.

Crack! He hit both her paws, sending the knife flying. Thud! He thumped the butt end of his weapon hard into her stomach. As the river rat doubled over, with the breath whooshing from her, Orkwil struck again. Thwock! Right on the crown of her head. The vermin stood staring at him for a split second, then her eyes crossed as she tumbled facedown on the riverbank.

Orkwil was shaken from snout to spikes with the audacity of his rapid attack. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. Never having been involved in

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serious combat before, he had to think about what to do next. Of course, tie both the rats up before they came to.

He loosed the rope from the unconscious watervole, and dragged the rats, one by one, to a nearby beech tree. Placing their backs to the trunk, Orkwil tied their forepaws together, so they had the tree in a backward embrace. Then he attended to the vole. Grabbing some bankmoss and mud, he piled it on the old creature's head wound, and spoke to him. "There, you'll live to grumble again, old misery. Though you don't deserve any help, after the way you treated me. So I'm going to charge you a bowl of soup for my help. I think that's fair enough."

Orkwil got a bowl from inside the dwelling. He filled it, and drained it, three times before he was satisfied. The watervole was beginning to stir, groaning feebly. Orkwil placed the empty bowl alongside him, and took his leave. "I've left ye those two rats to deal with, old 'un. I don't suppose they'll get much mercy from ye, though. Oh, an' thanks for the soup, 'twas very tasty!"

This time, instead of going back to the ford, he headed downriver a short way. Not far from the bank, he found a large patch of ferns. A sudden weariness overcame Orkwil Prink. This was due to the excitement brought on by his first fight, plus the three bowls of soup, which he had guzzled with unseemly haste. The young hedgehog made his way to the centre of the fern bed and curled up there. Within moments he was fast asleep.

He was also sinking slowly into the ground, because Orkwil had unwittingly chosen to sleep in a swamp.

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8

Once the Bludgullet's lookout sighted land off the portside, Vizka Longtooth gave orders to heave to, and follow the coastline. The weather had become milder and was considerably warmer. It had been four days, and Gorath was still chained to the mast. The young badger had received nothing to eat, or drink, apart from a few mouthfuls of rainwater. He looked gaunt and ill, with his head wound now solidified to a hardened scab, which stuck out on his brow like some grotesque decoration. But he would not give in, either to blandishments, starvation or beatings, which were regularly inflicted upon him. The golden fox, however, still lived in hopes of converting Gorath to the life of a Sea Raider.

It was a calm summer morn, and Vizka was taking breakfast, as usual, just out of reach, but well in sight of his prisoner. He spooned warm oatmeal and honey from a bowl, making much show of enjoying it, as he taunted Gorath. "I'll wager ye worked 'ard ter grow dese oats, an' yore honey is jus' der way I likes it. Sweet'n'thick!"

The badger kept his head down, not bothering to look up at his tormentor. Vizka held the partially filled bowl out to him.

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"Ye knows yer like it, Rock'ead, cummon, talk ter me, d'yer want some, eh?" When he received no reaction, the golden fox merely emptied the remainder of the bowl over the side. "I had enough o' dat, let d'fishes eat it!" Vizka picked up the length of tarred and knotted rope. "Ha, lookit wot I found, d'yer wanna taste o' dis, eh?" He was about to swing it, when his brother, Codj, approached, pointing landward.

"See, Cap'n, a river, crossin' der shore, off dat way!"

Shading his eyes, Vizka peered at the wide estuary. It ran across the sands, into the sea. "Anybeast knows dis river? Ask der crew, brother."

Codj saluted, going off to the main cabin, where some of the crew were breakfasting. He returned with Glurma, the fat, greasy ratwife, who was ship's cook. She had served on other ships before coming aboard the Bludgullet. Vizka nodded toward the river.

"You know dis place, eh?"

Glurma wiped grimy paws on her stained apron. "Aye, Cap'n, dat's der River Moss, runs out o' Mossflower Country."

Vizka signalled his steersbeast to take Bludgullet in closer. "Big river, did ye ever sail up it?"

The ratwife gnawed at a dirty paw claw. "Long time back, afore yew was borned."

The golden fox cuffed Glurma's paw away from her mouth. "Tell me 'bout it!"

Glurma sniffed and spat into the sea. "Sailed up dere wid Cap'n Boljan, in der Sharkfin, lookin' fer Red Abbey-walls. Never got dat far, though, only to der fordplace. Shrewbeasts, an' h'otters, 'undreds of 'em, druv us away. Mad fighters dose shrewbeasts an' h'otters, we wuz lucky ter gerrout alive. Huh, never went back dere!"

Vizka Longtooth mulled over the information, murmuring, "Yew was lucky t'git anyplace in a vessel liddle as der Sharkfin. An' wid Boljan, too, hah, dat 'un was scared've 'is

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own shadder. Red Abbeywalls, eh?" Vizka suddenly realised what the cook was trying to say. "Ye mean Redwall Abbey was dat der name o' d'place?" The golden fox suddenly seized the ratwife, shaking her. "Redwall Abbey! Wot did Cap'n Boljan say about it?"

Glurma struggled to free herself of the golden fox's grip. "I'll tell ye if'n y'stop rattlin' me bones!" Vizka released the cook, who spoke willingly. "Aye, Redwall Abbey, dat's wot Boljan called it. An' 'e knew der way, 'cos 'e 'ad a chart. It wuz straight up der River Moss, carry on through der trees, 'til ye comes to a ford. Den yew abandons ship, an' marches south down der road fer mebbe a day or more, an' ye kin sight it, plain as a pikestaff. Biggest place ye ever clapped yore eyes on, an' der richest, too. Dat's wot Boljan said!"

Gorath still sat beside the mast, his head hanging low, and both eyes closed, the picture of a hopelessly beaten prisoner. However, inside his heart was thumping wildly, he had heard everything the cook had said. Redwall Abbey! This was the land of Mossflower that his grandfather had told him of. Suppressing the quivers of excitement that threatened to betray his feelings, the young badger slouched even lower, allowing his wounded forehead and muzzle to touch the deck. He listened carefully to what was said.

Vizka Longtooth issued orders. "Drop anchor an' furl dat sail. Codj, git all paws up 'ere on deck. I got summat ter say!"

With its prow facing inland, the Bludgullet rode at anchor in the river mouth. Gorath raised his head a fraction. He stared across the shore, to the coarse-grassed dunes, and the woodland fringe in the distance. Somewhere out there the Abbey of Redwall lay basking in the still summer haze. The golden fox flicked him across his back with a long, knotted rope.

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"Looks nice, don't it, Rock'ead? But yew won't be seein' none of it, 'til ya learns some sense, or starves t'death. Makes no diff'rence t'me, 'tis yore choice."

Vizka Longtooth leaned on the tiller, waiting until all his crew had arrived. The deck was jam-packed with vermin of all types, eager to hear their captain's pronouncement. The golden fox took Gorath's pitchfork, Tung, pointing landward with it. "Ye've all 'eard o' Redwall Abbey, I wager?" A murmur of anticipation ran through the ranks. He gave it time to die away, then continued. "Dere's some says 'tis only a pretty story, an' others says 'tis real. The biggest, richest place anywheres. Well, wot d'ye say buckoes, would ye like to find out?"

The vermin crew roared their approval. Now Vizka was really talking, this was better than scrounging around the barren Northern Isles, robbing impoverished farms. If there was such a place as the Abbey of Redwall, what secrets, and treasures, lay waiting there to be taken?

The fox captain's long teeth gleamed as he smiled. "Aye, mates, Redwall Abbey, dat's where we're bound! But mark ye, I only wants loyal crewbeasts at me back when I takes dat place on. Are ye wid me, eh?"

Brandishing a bristling array of weapons, the crew roared aloud. "Aye, Cap'n!"

Suddenly the tines of the pitchfork were pointing at the ferret, Grivel, and the two rats, Feerog and Durgy. Vizka's tone was almost cajoling them. "Haharr, an' worrabout yew three, which one of ye'd like ter lead der shore party to Redwall?"

The trio jostled one another as they strode forward, each pointing to himself. "I'll do it, Cap'n!" "Pick me, Cap'n!"

"Y'can trust me t'do der job, Cap'n!" Codj gave his brother an injured look, figuring that he had been passed over as leader of the shore party. Vizka

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winked at Codj, widening his toothy smile. Codj kept wisely silent, knowing the coming danger to somebeast, which his brother's smile always heralded.

Vizka waved the pitchfork at his crew. "Avast, who o' these three do I choose?"

Now everybeast was shouting out, calling the name of the one they fancied. The golden fox let them carry on awhile, then waved the pitchfork for silence.

"I think we should let 'em choose atwixt 'emselves, by test o' combat. Last beast standin' alive gits der job!"

Shrieks of delight echoed from the barbaric crew. "Aye, Cap'n! Test o' combat! Aye!"

A ring was quickly formed, with the three contestants at its centre. They stared uneasily at each other, then began circling. Each knew that nobeast refused an order from Vizka Longtooth, whose smile had become a wide grin of enjoyment. He signalled with the pitchfork. "Haharr, go to it, me lucky buckoes, no mercy an' no quarter. We'll see who's fit ter be der leader!"

Grivel had his cutlass out halfheartedly, he shrugged at Feerog. "We ain't got no choice, mate!"

Feerog did not hesitate; whipping out his sword, he ran Grivel through. As he did, the big, black rat, Durgy, jumped him from behind. Durgy did not have a sword, but he was expert with his dagger. Feerog gave a gasp of surprise as the blade plunged between his ribs, he collapsed silently. It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. A hush fell over the crew as they gazed at the two who had just met death.

Durgy turned to face his captain, pointing to himself with the dagger. "I think it'll be meself who'll be leadin' yore shore party, Cap'n!"

Vizka shook his head. "Not after ye've slayed three o' my crew, Durgy."

Codj looked puzzled. "Three? But dere's only two of 'em."

Vizka was enjoying himself, he nodded affably to the crew. "Three if'n ye counts pore Snikey. Durgy an' 'is two

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mates was plottin' agin me, but Snikey 'eard 'em, so Durgy did 'im in, an' tossed 'im o'er der side. Ain't dat right, mate?"

Durgy was at a loss for words. Vizka winked at him.

"Thought ye'd fooled me, didn't ya, but der cap'n o' de Bludgullet knows everyt'ink. Don't 'e, Cooky?"

The fat, greasy cook, Glurma, nodded.

The crew knew then who had informed on the plotters.

Glurma ducked off silently to her galley. One or two of her vermin shipmates cast glances of disgust at her. But Vizka distracted their attention, carrying on with his summation of the good times ahead for his loyal crew.

"Belay, buckoes, I nominates Codj t'be der shore party leader. We'll take dis Redwall Abbey, an' loot it down to der stones. Loads o' booty fer all paws, eh!"

At the mention of looting and booty, the crew cheered lustily. Everybeast was firmly on the golden fox's side.

He leaned on the pitchfork, smiling indulgently at them. "Aye, booty, grog an' vittles fer my trusty cullies!" He paused, shaking his head sadly. "All 'cept fer one, an' I'll leave 'im to yew, ain't no room aboard Bludgullet fer mutineers. Harr, 'tis a sad day for yore ole cap'n. I'll go an' mourn in me cabin."

The circle of drawn weapons closed in on Durgy.

Vizka Longtooth paused before entering his cabin. He listened to Durgy's last scream, and heard the splash as his carcass hit the water. Then he wiped away a mock tear. "Harr, a sad day indeed!"

That evening the Sea Raiders poled their vessel up the navigable channel across the sands. Codj commanded two squads, both tugging on hawsers attached to the ship's bows. By dusk they were into the dunes. Gorath stared at the sandy walls, either side of the deck. Freedom had never looked so near, yet been so far from him. The young badger waited until the crew took to their bunks and hammocks. When the decks were deserted, he inspected the chain that

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held him to the mast. It was neither old nor thin, but a thick, solid iron chain, which could not be broken by any score of strong beasts. The lock went between two links, holding the chain tightly about his waist, a big lock, stout and secure. He did not know who was the key holder, though he suspected it was either Vizka or his brother. Gorath knew nothing of locks, this was the first one he had ever encountered. His big, blunt claws made no impression on it, though he tugged, heaved and even bit at the thing. Somehow, someway, he had to free himself, and escape from these vermin. He had to reach Redwall if he had any chance of staying alive.

Hunger, weariness and anxiety cast him into a sleep that was more of a faint than a slumber. He dreamed of a mouse, a fearless-looking creature, who wore armour, and carried a shining sword. The mouse spoke words into his exhausted mind.

"To perish midst vermin will not be thy fate, watch for the young thief, be still and wait!"

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9

Mad Maudie (the Hon.) Mugberry Thropple was neither a whiner nor a pleader. Being surrounded by lizards, and bound to a tree, did nothing to dampen her fighting spirit. When the big lizard leaned over her, hissing and threatening, the haremaid managed to give him a hard kick in his green, mottled stomach. The big lizard gave a curious gurgle, and collapsed clasping his injured midriff. Maudie booted out again, dealing him another kick in the back, at about the spot where she imagined a lizard's bottom would be. Then she gave him a piece of her mind.

"Now then, you slinky blighter, pay attention! You don't frighten me in the slightest, not you, or those other caddish types skulkin' over yonder, wot!"

The big sand lizard crawled out of Maudie's reach. His face had taken on a sickly pallor, but he staggered upright, hissing viciously. "You will die forrrr thisssssss!"

Maudie twiddled her ears at him. "Yah, boo an' sucks t'you! Just wait'll I get loose, I'll boot your blinkin' tail into the middle of next season, you great, slithery wretch!" She wriggled and tugged at the rope, but to little avail, it still held her fast to the trunk of the oak. Whilst she struggled, Maudie kept an eye on the reptiles.

The big lizard had gone over to consult with the others.

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They huddled together, making lots of lizardlike noises, and constantly pointing in the haremaid's direction. Maudie kept her spirits up by shouting insults at them.

" 'Strewth, a fine lot you bounders are, d'you have to hold a full-blown conference to decide a simple maiden's fate? Hah! What's all the hissin' for? You sound like a load of old kettles, boilin' away at teatime. Now, if I were you, which I'm jolly well glad I'm not, I'd go an' find some types who'd be scared of you. Off ye go, an' frighten some frogs, or torment some toads, wot!"

As if taking her advice, the lizards dispersed, hither and thither. Maudie wrinkled her nose.

"Funny, maybe they've decided to heed my flippin' wisdom. Hmm, they're an odd lot, really, payin' attention to me. P'raps I've got a hidden talent as a lizard lecturer?"

However, after a brief interval the lizards returned, each one carrying several pebbles or pieces of rock. Still keeping out of Maudie's reach, they placed the lot in a heap. Now the big lizard came forward, he picked up a good-sized pebble. "You will die the death of a thoussssand sssstonessss!"

Maudie saw him throw, she ducked her head to one side. The pebble bounced off the oak, followed by another smaller one, which grazed her ear. Maudie winced.

"Ouch! I say, pack it in, you rotters, where's your sense of fair play? Yowch, that hurt!" A sharp piece of rock had struck her footpaw. Suddenly, an unearthly screech rent the air!

The lizards stopped what they were doing and fled in silent terror. An owl landed at Maudie's side, it was a magnificent bird, with feather tufts on its head like short ears. Huge, yellow eyes blinked at the haremaid from a rounded, white face. Maudie could not help flinching as the savage, hooked beak flashed toward her. The rope was sliced through with a single slash of the owl's beak. His head swivelled around, almost in a full circle as he addressed the haremaid.

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"Whoohooooh! Ah've no doubt that thee'll forgive me, tarry there, lass, ah'm fair clemmed for t'want of a lizard!" He swooped off like a mammoth moth, great, rounded wings creating a loud, clapping sound as they smacked together on the downswing.

Maudie instantly remembered the name of the owl, which Bungwen Hermit had told her to watch out for. "Asio Bardwing, and just in the nick of flippin' time, too! Wonder where he's tootled off to, wot?"

Blowing on the ashes of her fire, Maudie added more wood, and got it burning again. It was now fully night. Maudie sat patiently by the small blaze, waiting to see if the owl would return. She was starting to nod off again, when he winged in. Perching next to her he nodded, then gave a tremendous belch. "Buuurp! Manners, owld lad! Ah'm right sorry t'be so long, lass, but ah'm right partial to a taste o' lizard now an' again. Yon big scoundrel won't bother thee n'more, nay!"

The haremaid gazed in horrified fascination at the tail of the big lizard, which was still hanging from the side of the owl's beak.

He noticed, and sucked it in with a quick slurp. "Beg pardon ah'm sure. Wot's tha name, lass?"

Maudie rose, treating him to a small curtsy. "My name's Maudie, sir, you must be Asio Bardwing."

The owl's yellow eyes went even wider. "Whooooh, how'd thee know that, are ye magic?"

Maudie chuckled. "Actually, I was told your name by an old friend of yours, Bungwen Hermit."

Asio shook his big, feathered head. "Never heard o' the beast, ah reckon you're magic. Maudie, eh? Bah gum, that's a reet grand owld name, mah Auntie Cordoolia had a second cousin, on Uncle Wilfrum's side, her name were Maudie, gradely owld duck she were. So then, Maudie lass, wot's thee doin' round here?"

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The haremaid explained. "Actually, I'm lookin' for a badger, large, hefty warrior type, carries a flame an' walks with a banished one. I don't suppose you've seen him?"

Asio's head swivelled almost right around. "Thou supposes reet, lass, 'appen ah've not seen anybeast apart from thee this season. Couldn't thee see this badger with thy magic?"

Maudie added twigs to her fire. "Really, I'm not at all magic, honestly."

Asio waved a talon, which was almost the size of a small dagger, in Maudie's face. "Fie on thee, ah knows magic when ah sees it, lass. Ah'll wager thee can read claws, am ah reet?"

Maudie did not like being ungracious to her rescuer, so she humoured Asio. "Read claws? Well, just a little bit."

Asio hooted happily. "Whoohoohooh! Ah knew thee could, the moment ah set eyes on thee, lass. Here, read mine. Wot does the future hold for me, will ah wed an' have little 'uns, ah dearly would like to have a mate."

Maudie had seen fortune telling performed, at the barrack room in Salamandastron, to pass time on long winter evenings. It was all in fun, of course, a bit of harmless trickery. She had never seen it done on a bird, however, but Mad Maudie was always game for anything.

"Righto, old chap, let's see your claws."

Asio held up one foot, tipped with four murderously long, curving claws. Maudie gulped at the sight of them.

"Er, righto, now hold 'em still an' let me see what I'll jolly well see. Your name is Asio Bardwing, right?"

Asio nodded solemnly. As Maudie strove to think of her next question, he marvelled, "Aye that's reet, lass, Asio Bardwing of the Big Bardwing nest. How did thee guess that?"

Maudie suddenly realised that she was dealing with an owl who had complete memory blankness. Accordingly, she played her role to the hilt, murmuring darkly, "I know

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this because I am Mad Mystic Maudie. Do you know a mole they call Bungwen the Hermit?"

Asio gasped. "Aye, old Bungwen the mole, I remember him now, bah gum, he were a good little bloke!"

Maudie made several passes over his claws with her paw. "Silence now, O feathery one, for I see destiny in your blinkin' claws, wot. I am getting a message from the Big Bardwing Nest, from somebird called Auntie Cordoolia, do you know such a creature?"

Asio looked flabbergasted. "Well, blow me down, she knows Auntie Cordoolia! Wot's her message, lass, er, mad Misty wotsyername, tell me?"

Maudie peered closely at the big owl's talons, and saw scraps of the big lizard still sticking to them. She felt slightly nauseous, but continued. "She says you have a long and happy life ahead of you, if you eat less lizards, and more vegetables."

Asio clacked his hooked beak disgustedly. "Ah were never fond o' vegetables, but ah'm quite partial to green things, frogs, toads, newts, lizards. Go on, wot else does she say?"

The haremaid intoned in a dirgelike voice, "She says you will meet a very pretty young owl. When you do, you must mind your manners and treat her kindly."

Asio clenched his talons with joy, almost taking off Maudie's nose as she reared back. "Tell me more, more!"

Maudie continued, "If you treat her like a toff, she'll jolly well marry you, and lay scads of bloomin' eggs. There, that's all I can see, everything's gone fuzzy!"

Asio thrust his beak to within a hairsbreadth of her nose. "Wot's a toff?"

Maudie shrugged. "Oh, er, a nice sort of chap."

The owl's eyes circled dreamily. "An' y'say she'll lay eggs, eh! Eggs, that's where little owls come from, tha knows. Bah gum, lass, thankee kindly!"

Maudie shook her head, as if coming out of a trance.

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"Oh, think nothin' of it, old bean, us magic hares do this sort o' thing all the flippin' time, wot!"

Asio hopped up into the branches of the oak. "Ah'm beholden t'thee, lass, bide there 'til ah get mah owlyharp, an' ah'll sing thee a song." He rummaged about in the foliage until he came up with a beautiful little harp. Hopping back down to the fireside, Asio began tuning it and getting his voice into pitch, whilst he posed dramatically.

Plinkplinkplink ... "Toowhoohoohoo!" Plinkplink ...

The haremaid felt like covering her ears, it was the most dreadful, tuneless din she had ever heard. But she sat smiling, and looking appreciative, out of courtesy.

The owl's chest puffed out like a balloon, as he launched into his discordant song. It was actually an owl courtship ballad, containing many drawn-out hoots.

"I've spoken to your pa and to your mother, too, whoohoo, they've given me permission for to woo, whoohoo, so now I can come calling upon you, whoohoohoohoo,

If I say I love you will you love me, too, whooooooooh!

"Cows go moo and doves can coo, some fish blow lots of bubbles, too, but only owls can woo hoo hoo!

"We'll fly into the sky so high and blue, whoohoo,

I'll catch butterflies and moths for you, whoohoo, you'll be the happiest owl that ever flew, whoohoohoohoo,

I'll stay forever true, my dear, to you, whooooooooh!

"For limpets limp round in a crew, they stick together just like glue, but only owls can woo hoo hoo oooooooooh!"

Maudie's ears were still buzzing from Asio Bardwing's hoots, long after he had ended his song. Despite her suffering

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she clapped enthusiastically, with both ears and paws, in the approved hare manner. "Oh I say, super hunky dory, wot, well done, Asio!"

The owl preened his feathers and took a bow. "Aye, it were rather gradely, even though ah say so m'self. Hearken, lass, shall ah sing thee another?"

The haremaid protested vigorously. "Good grief, no, you must save that spiffin' voice o' yours, in case an attractive young owl flaps by. Please don't wear your blinkin' beak out on my behalf."

The owl put aside his owlharp reluctantly. "May'aps yore right, lass, 'ey up, are y'not feelin' well?"

Maudie lay back, with a paw draped across her brow, doing her best to look pale and interesting. "Oh, I'll be alright, just achin' a trifle, from the rocks those lizardy blighters chucked at me. I feel a bit tired that's all."

Immediately Asio became the model of sympathy and help. "Right, you lay down there an' get a good owld sleep, lass. Ah'll see to the fire an' keep it goin'. Don't worry about owt now, ah'll be up in yon tree, keepin' an eye out for thee until dawn."

That night Maudie slept safe and sound, knowing she had no need to worry about sneak attacks, with Asio Bardwing in the tree overhead, protecting her.

Maudie rose refreshed, dawn had already broken, promising a warm summer day. Woodland birdsong could be heard far and near as Maudie blew on the fire embers, coaxing them into life with twigs and dried moss. She liked the woodlands, they were a pleasant change from heathland, mountains and shoreline. The shadow and light of trees afforded sunlit swards, placid dimness and dappled aisles amid the big ancient trunks.

Stretching and yawning, Maudie looked up into the oak foliage. She was not best pleased by what she saw. There was the owl, fast asleep.

Muttering to herself, the haremaid laid out some scones,

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for toasting. "You have a good night's sleep, an' ah'll watch out for thee, lass. Hah, the bloomin' old fraud, I could've been jolly well murdered in my own bed, with him snorin' his confounded beak off right over my head! Hmph, I'll let the blighter snooze on for that, see if he gets any brekkers off me? Fat chance! Anyhow, a cad like that prob'ly doesn't eat respectable tuck, wot! More likely he stalks the blinkin' neighbourhood scoffin' any wretched reptile that blinks an eye at him! Sleepin' on duty, too? By the left, he'd be on a fizzer if old Major Mull caught him nappin'...."

"Whoohoo, is that toastin' scones ah smell?" Asio came flapping down from his perch, almost knocking Maudie flat with a heavy buffet from his wings. "Well, ain't this grand, toasty scones, an' ah see thee've got honey t'spread o'er 'em, too. Ecky thump, lass, th'art a little treasure an' no mistake!"

The haremaid thought of enforcing her ban on the owl's breakfast, but one look at the wicked talons stuffing a scone between the razor curves of the lethal beak changed Maudie's mind. However, she was not her normal cheerful self, and treated Asio coolly as they shared the scones. After they had eaten, the owl began pacing back and forth, swivelling his head. "Ah've been thinkin', lass!"

The haremaid replied snootily, "Oh really, is that where the noise was coming from!"

Asio chuckled. "Nay, pudden'ead, owls don't make noises when they think!"

Maudie immediately felt sorry for her waspish remark. "Sorry, what was it you were thinkin', old lad?"

The owl explained. "This badger thou art lookin' for, ah can tell thee, hide nor hair of him ain't been sighted hereabouts all season. But if there was such a beast in the land, ah'll wager somebody at Redwall Abbey would've spotted 'im. Aye, Redwall, that's the place, lots o' travellers visits there, lass!"

Maudie's ears stood up straight. "Oh, corks, I've just

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remembered, that's where I was ordered to go. Redwall. Oh, I'd dearly love to visit that jolly old heap, I've heard so flippin' much about it, from the chaps at Salamandastron who've been there. I say, Asio, you don't actually know how t'get there, do you?"

The owl winked a huge yellow eye at her. "Ah did once upon a day, but ah've forgotten now. Still, never fret, lass, ah know who does, an' ah can take ye to 'em as well!"

Maudie began packing her scant belongings. "Splendid, right, lead on, O feathered matey. Er, by the way, who exactly is it that you know, wot?"

Asio pecked at a few scone crumbs that had stuck to his talons. "Hasn't thee heard of the Guosim?"

The haremaid stood, ready to leave. "Oh, y'mean the shrew chaps, Guosim. 'Guerilla Union of Shrews in Moss-flower,' first letter of each word, that's how they got their name, y'know, Guosim! I came across 'em one time, when I was out with the jolly old Long Patrol. Pretty odd bunch, the Guosim, singin' and feastin' one moment, then arguin' an' scrappin' the next, wot!"

The owl's yellow eyes widened in awe. "Well, blow mah feathers away, lass, ah never knew that was wot the name Guosim meant! Mossflower's Shrews in Union of Guerillas. How dids't thou remember all that? Ah were right when ah fust met thee. Magic, that's wot thee are, lass, magic!"

Maudie did not provoke further discussion with Asio by arguing. She followed him as he set out into the deep woodlands. The owl flew gracefully slow, keeping near to the ground, and gossiping constantly.

"Ah were plannin' on poppin' o'er to visit the shrews, but ah went an' forgot. Woe to birds that gets owld, that's wot ah says, lass. This head o' mine has gotten like a leaky pot, nothin' stays long in it these days."

Maudie nodded. "Just as long as you know which way we're goin', old chap, don't want t'get jolly well lost."

Asio hooted scornfully. "Get lost goin' to Bulrush Bower?

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Ah could find mah way theer blindfold, an' with both wings tied behind mah back, lass."

They ploughed deeper into the vast woodland tracts, to areas where the tree canopy was so dense that only a soft, green light prevailed. It was mossy underpaw, and silent, the monolith trunks of giant trees reared upward, like columns of black stone.

Asio winged toward a soft pool of golden radiance, which could be seen some distance off, remarking, "Ah'd have t'be daft to miss Bulrush Bower, sithee, there 'tis, lass. May'ap we'll be in time for lunch."

Maudie perked up at the mention of food. "Indeed, they sound like a jolly lot, can you hear 'em singin', listen."

Sure enough, the sound of rough bass voices, both old and young, became plain as they drew closer.

"Ho, truss up me troubles an' toss em away, go sink 'em deep down in the waters, even fathers an' mothers have grandparents, too, one time we were all sons an' daughters....

Guosim! Guosim! Bind 'em sling 'em douse 'em!

With a gee and a you and an oh oh oh, an ess and an eye and an em em em!

Oh Guosim I'm one o' them!"

Maudie found herself skipping along to the catchy air.

Asio merely muttered grumpily. "Huh, wot's all that supposed t'mean?"

The haremaid chided her friend. "Why should it have to mean anythin', it's just a jolly happy song, an' I for one blinkin' well like it!"

Bulrush Bower was a small pond in a clearing. It was, of course, fringed entirely by bulrushes. The place was packed with Guosim shrews, small, spiky-furred beasts with long snouts. Each one wore a coloured headband and a broad, buckled belt, into which was tucked a little rapier;

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their only other clothing was a short kilt. They showed no fear of their two visitors, though one fellow, an aggressive-looking type, drew his sword, barring their way. "Where d'ye think yore off to, eh?"

Maudie bowed formally, she knew how to deal with creatures like this. Her tone was cool and distant. "I'm a messenger from the Lord o' Salamandastron, take me to your chief. Don't stand there lookin' useless, put up that blade, an' bloomin' well shift yourself, laddie buck. Sharpish, wot!"

The shrew immediately did as he was bidden, they followed him, with Asio murmuring, "Marvellous! Ecky thump, ah knew the lass were magic!"

A large area of the sunny sward had been covered with picnic tablecloths, it was spread with scores of pies, each one with a cream topping. A fat-bellied shrew, with over-large ears, was striding around amid the pies. Dabbing his paw into odd ones, he would taste it, then pull a wry face. Turning to meet the visitors, he wiped his lips with a kerchief.

"Asio Bardwing, yore a day late, the festival started yesterday. I suppose you forgot as usual. Hello, who's this, a friend o' yourn?"

Asio blinked several times, revolving his head. "This is er, er ... oh, tell him who thou art, lass!"

The haremaid held out her paw. "The name's Maudie Mugsberry Thropple, sah, from Salamandastron."

The shrew seemed impressed, he shook Maudie's paw in a grip like a steel nutcracker. "Salamandastron, eh? Welcome, miss. I'm chieftain o' these Guosim an' my name's Log a Log Luglug."

Log a Log was always the given title for a shrew chieftain. Luglug pointed to his oversized ears. "Don't even bother askin' how I came by the name o' Luglug, or ye could find yoreself in trouble." Picking up a pie, he offered it to them. "I'd like ye to try this, an' tell me wot ye think.

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Our best cook an' her mate are off visitin' relatives. So some of the young 'uns volunteered to 'elp out with pie makin'. Wot ye see is the results of their efforts."

The pies looked appetising enough, but a taste from each of Luglug's guests confirmed his worst fears. After just one bite, Maudie and Asio pulled horrible faces, reaching for water to wash away the taste. Asio squinched his eyes hard.

"Burst me beak! Art thou tryin' t'poison us, Luglug?"

Maudie's ears shot up stiffly as she gasped out, "By the left! Pie, d'ye call that? Guuurrrgh! It's enough t'give you the clangs'n'collywobbles for ten seasons. What did they blinkin' well put in it?"

Log a Log Luglug shrugged. "Some fruit from three seasons back, swampvetch, stinkweed, pounded ransom, an' swine parsley. The usual stuff young scallywags put in when they wants to upset their elders. I wish we had a decent cook with us, I really do."

Maudie was not normally one to volunteer, but she saw an opportunity to curry favour with the shrew chieftain. "Say no more, sah, I'm the very chapess you're lookin' for, I was assistant cook at Salamandastron. Now, where's the bloomin' galley, an' some fresh ingredients, wot?"

Luglug called some of the older shrews over. "Show Miz Maudie the supplies, an' get a good fire goin' under them clay ovens. Do as she tells ye, an' mayhaps we'll get some-thin' good to eat t'day." He shook his head irately at the array of dreadful pies. "Dig a hole an' bury these, as deep as ye can!"

Maudie had a sudden idea. She approached Luglug, whispering in his ear, "'Scuse me, sah, but how about this for a wheeze..."

Luglug listened to the haremaid's scheme, then he grinned broadly and smote her heartily on the back. "I don't know wot a wheeze is, but if'n that's wot ye call it then I'm all for it!"

He hailed a passing young shrew. "Ahoy, Dinger, was you one o' the pie-makin' crew?"

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Dinger and several of his young friends smirked maliciously. Their culinary atrocities had not gone unnoticed. Dinger took a sweeping bow. "Aye, me an' me mates made 'em special for ye!"

Luglug selected two pies, passing one to Maudie. The shrew chieftain winked at Dinger. "That was good of ye, but we ain't greedybeasts, we'll share em with ye!" Splaaattt! The pie caught Dinger square in the mouth. Maudie's pie came a respectable second, landing flat on the forehead of a young shrew close to Dinger. A few of the young shrews got behind Maudie and Luglug, pelting them vigorously with the cream topped pies. That did it! Within moments, Bulrush Bower became the scene of a fully fledged pie fight. Amid howls of laughter, the dreadful missiles flew back and forth between young shrews and their elders. Pies squelched into faces as the shrews slithered and slipped to take aim, or to avoid flying pies.

When the first pie was launched, Asio fled into the cover of a spruce tree, being of the opinion that owls were pretty poor pie fighters. Not so with Maudie and Luglug; caked from tip to tail with squashed cream, crust and filling, they battled on heroically, giggling, gurgling and falling over backward whenever they were hit. It was enormous fun while it lasted, but finally the pies ran out, and everybeast sat down amid the slutchy residue.

Asio flew down to a lower perch, casting a jaundiced owl's eye over the haremaid and the shrew chieftain. He pointed a wing accusingly at them. "Thou wert the ones that started all this, look at the mess of ye, ah've never seen owt like it!"

Young Dinger rose from the debris, blowing pie filling from the tip of his snout. Exchanging reproving glances with Asio, he shook a paw at Luglug and his contingent, exclaiming, "Old 'uns these days, I don't know, wot's the world coming to, eh?"

The statement caused roars of unbridled laughter from

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all the Guosim. Heaving themselves upright, and supporting one another, the entire shrew tribe tottered into the pond shallows to clean up.

There were willing paws aplenty to help Maudie with her cooking, by midnoon her offering was ready. The haremaid did not attempt anything-fancy, she prepared food that was plain, but satisfying. Flatcakes with nuts and berries, fresh fruit salad, some shrew cheeses, chopped celery stalks and a cordial of dandelion and burdock. The Guosim chieftain complimented her as they sat eating together.

"This is a perfect feast for a happy summer's day, I can't remember the last time I had so much fun!"

Young Dinger called out, "Aye, me, too, Chief. Wot d'ye say we do this once every summer, pie fight an' all?" There were shouts of agreement from the Guosim.

Asio helped himself to another flatcake. "Mayhaps thou could call it Mad Maudie Day!"

Luglug clinked his beaker with the haremaid's cup. "Mad Maudie Day it'll be, thank ye, friend, if'n there's any-thin' we can do for ye, just ask me anytime."

Maudie was in like a shot. "Er, actually there is, sah, I was wonderin' if you could possibly show me the way to Redwall Abbey. I need t'get there, doncha know?" She explained the mission Lord Asheye had sent her upon, asking if the shrews had seen the badger with the flame, who walked with the banished one.

Log a Log Luglug stroked his snout reflectively. "Ain't seen nobeast like that 'ereabouts, miz, a badger like that'd stick out like a lantern at night. As for takin' ye to Redwall, well, that's quite a journey. But nothin' a Guosim couldn't manage. I'll do ye a deal, though: you stay 'ere an' cook supper for us this evenin'. Then first thing tomorrer we'll break camp an' take ye to the Abbey. Is that a bargain?"

Maudie shook Luglug's outstretched paw. "Rather, I'll say it is, how'd you like a drop of woodland broth to sup round the fire tonight, wot?"

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Mad Maudie (the Hon.) Mugberry Thropple had been trained by the best cooks at Salamandastron. Even the great Lord Asheye always asked for seconds when she served up broths, which were her speciality. That evening she produced a woodland broth which had the Guosim savouring every drop.

Asio assured the shrews solemnly, "Ah tell thee, yon lass is nowt but magic, an' thee can tek mah word on it!"

After supper, Maudie sat by the campfire with the Guosim as the young ones sang and danced. It was a soft summer night, with the darkened skies reflecting starlight upon the still surface of the pond at Bulrush Bower. Tomorrow she would start the journey to Redwall, and see the fabled Abbey for herself. Asio was dozing, though he opened one eye, to comment on the Guosim music.

"Hmm, tain't too bad, mayhaps ah'll give 'em a song later."

Maudie muttered under her breath, "I blinkin' well hope not!"

The owl craned his head forward. "Wot did thee say?"

Maudie smiled. "I said, save it for tomorrow, wot!" She watched the little shrewmaids dancing as Dinger and his friends sang the melody.

"Honour your partner, hop one two, twirl round twice, now tap that paw, curtsy low, my pretty shrew, altogether turn once more.

"Guosim maids are small and fair, nimble as the day is long, they wear ribbons in their hair, as they dance we sing this song.

"Two steps forward, one step back, point that footpaw, shake it round, grace and charm you'll never lack, tripping lightly o'er the ground.

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"Guosim maids are neat and bright, such a lovely sight to see, spinning round in pale moonlight, pray, miss, save a dance for me!"

Two elders continued the air with flute and drum, whilst the singers joined the maids, each taking a partner and twirling gracefully off around the lakeshore. Luglug nudged Maudie, whispering quietly, "Ole Asio's fallen asleep, now ye won't 'ave the pleasure of 'earing him sing."

The haremaid whispered back, "I've already heard him sing, an' it wasn't any bally pleasure!"

Luglug chuckled. "Aye, so have I, an' I'd much sooner put up with his snores than his singin', thank ye!"

Gradually the usual Guosim hubbub died down, the dancing ended, and the musicians ceased playing. Round the fire, and the lakeshore, Luglug's tribe lay down for their much needed rest. There was no need of coverlets, it was a warm, windless night. Maudie stretched out on the moss, imagining what Redwall Abbey would look like, as she fell into a slumber. Soon the only sound in the woodland depths was the gentle snoring of Guosim shrews, and the odd crackle as the campfire died into embers.

It was in the gray gloom which precedes dawn, when everybeast was wakened by the piercing wail of a shrewmum.

"Waaaaah! Where's my liddle Dupper?"

Maudie knocked Asio sideways as she sprang up. She joined Luglug, and several others, who were running to the lakeside. The Guosim mother was scurrying about distractedly, waving her paws.

"Dupper, where's my baby? Waaaah 'e's gone!"

The haremaid took charge of the situation. Grabbing the shrewmum by her flowery apron, she halted her, calling sternly, "Please be still, marm, you'll mess up all the tracks. Now, when did y'last see Dupper, wot?"

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Guosim scouts spread out into the surrounding trees, as the mother explained tearfully. "I 'ad Dupper in me paws last night, when I went t'sleep. Oh, where's the pore liddle tyke got to?"

The gruff voice of a Guosim scout came from the north corner of Bulrush Bower. "Over 'ere, mates!"

Maudie bounded to the spot, ahead of everybeast. She could tell, by the horrified look on the scout's face, and the ominous drag trail of tracks, what the shrew was going to say.

"The liddle 'un's been taken by a snake!"

The word struck terror into the Guosim, just the word snake sent them into a gibbering panic. It was Asio who got order, with a deafening hoot. "Whooooohooooo!"

Maudie could see by the state of the shrews that they would not be of any use to her. She nodded to the owl. "Right, quick's the word an' sharp's the action, laddie buck, we've got t'get that babe back, and jolly well soon!"

Luglug countered grimly. "Not much chance, miz, once a snake's got ye, that's that!"

The haremaid grabbed the rapier from Luglug's belt, and thrust it into his paw, whispering to him, "Bad form, sah, wot? You're supposed t'be a blinkin' chieftain among shrews. Look at the example you're settin' 'em. A little baby'll die if ye don't do anythin' about it. Now c'mon, stiff upper snout, wot!"

Luglug gritted his teeth. "Yore right, Miz Maudie, let's get after that evil worm right now!"

The owl, the haremaid and the shrew chieftain sped off into the still darkened woodland depths.

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10

Bludgullet was now sailing through the Mossflower woodlands, away from its normal habitat of the open sea. It was a novelty to the vermin crew, sunlight and shade, the absence of wind and tranquil, waveless waters. The only bar to their pleasure was that the ship had to be poled upriver. Without the aid of sail, and with the current, however gentle, running against them, they were forced to propel their vessel to its destination.

Vizka Longtooth kept to his cabin, leaving Codj and a stoat named Bilger in charge of the crew. The pair patrolled up and down the ranks of vermin crewbeasts, who were sweating at their long paddles, punting the ship along. Codj flicked a knotted rope's end about idly, he was secretly scared to use it. Some of the crew were vicious, bad-tempered beasts, who would not take kindly to being whipped. It was slow progress, and the crew soon became disenchanted with the rustic surroundings. They began complaining aloud.

"Yowch, I'm bein' eaten alive by h'insecks!"

"They ain't h'insecks, they're midges."

"Huh, they might be midgets, but they got giant teeth!"

"Ain't there no cool water t'be 'ad aboard dis tub?"

"Aye, an' we ain't stopped once fer vittles, I'm 'ungry!"

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"I'm gittin' splinters offen dese paddles."

"Yew ain't gittin' splinters offen der paddles, dat's wid scratchin' yore 'ead, mate!"

Codj sniggered openly at his clever remark. The recipient of it, a hulking, boulder-headed weasel, snarled at him.

"D'yer think yore funny, Codj Stumple? 'ow would yer like me t'bust dis paddle o'er yer stumpy be'ind?"

Codj was nettled by the remark about his lack of tail, but he did not fancy his chances against the big weasel. Pretending he had not heard the insult, Codj stalked off to his brother's cabin.

Vizka was rocking in a hammock, sipping grog. He eyed Codj irritably. "Worrizit now, annuder mutiny on our paws?"

The smaller fox fidgeted with the strands of his rope end. "It's dat lot out dere, nothin' but moan moan, alia time. Wot am I s'posed ter do? Yore der cap'n."

The golden fox heaved himself from the hammock, and peered out the open door at the sky. "It's gettin' on fer eventide, tell 'em t'down paddles an' rest fer the night. Anythin' else ter report?"

Codj shuffled his footpaws awkwardly. "Ain't much drinkin' water left."

Vizka lashed out, cuffing his younger brother's ear. "Well, don't tell me, thick'ead, lower der barrels inta der river. Dis is fresh water we're sailin' in, or didn't dat thought seep into yer brain?"

Codj tried to leave the cabin quickly, but Vizka caught him tight, by his tail stub.

"Next ye'll be tellin' me we're low on vittles. Organise a shore party, an' gerrinta dat forest out dere. Huh, d'place must be fulla fruits'n'roots, birds, an' eggs, an' all kinds'a vittles. Do I have ter tell ya everyt'ink, eh?"

Codj tried to justify himself. "But warrabout der stripe'ound, who's gonna watch 'im?"

The golden fox shoved his brother contemptuously out through the cabin door. "Don't talk stupid, dat ole Rock-

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'ead ain't goin' nowheres, wid an iron chain holdin' 'im t'the mast. Der stripe'ound'll be dead inna few days. I wuz watchin' 'im dis mornen, 'e ain't gotten long ter go now."

Gorath lay slumped alongside the mast, largely forgotten amid the new surroundings. The huge scab on his forehead protruded even further, his matted fur clung to his bones, like an ill-fitting garment. The young badger looked for all the world like a beast close to death. However, behind his closed eyelids, a fierce glimmer remained in his eyes. Deep inside Gorath, the will to live, and the desire to avenge his kinbeasts' deaths, burned like an unwavering flame. He did not fear death, his only concern was that he might die leaving his enemies alive.

In the early evening, Codj, heading a party of six, which he had paw picked, managing to omit the big, tough, mean crewbeasts, were foraging in the woodlands. It soon became painfully obvious that Sea Raiders were totally ignorant of woodland produce. Codj was bombarded with enquiries from the vermin of his party, about matters which were a mystery to him.

"Ahoy, Codj, didyer reckin dis is a vittle, it's some sorta juicy, green, rooty thing?"

Codj shrugged. "I dunno, take a bite an' try it."

"Yuuurrkk! Tastes 'orrible, all sour'n'bitter!"

The questions began to rile Codj.

"Where's all der red, rosy apples round 'ere, Codj?"

"Aye, an' where's all der trees wot dose strawberries grows on, eh?"

"Dere should be loads of stuff 'angin' from dese trees, dis is supposed ter be a forest, ain't it?"

"I likes soup, where does der stuff grow wot ye makes soup out of, dat's wot I'd like ter know?"

Codj brushed away a wasp that was trying to land on his muzzle. "Aye an' I'd like ter know, too!"

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A skinny rat called Firty cupped a paw to his ear. "Wot's dat?"

Codj looked around, walked into a beech trunk and roared at Firty, "Wot's wot? Take no notice if it ain't sumthin' yer can eat. Now shurrup!"

But Firty had definitely heard something. "It's some-beast yellin' out.... Listen!"

Orkwil Prink was the most weary and miserable of creatures, having spent half the night and a full day trapped in a marshy swamp. He had wakened from his sleep in the fern bed when foul-tasting, brackish water leaked into his mouth. The danger of his plight dawned upon the young hedgehog rapidly. During the night, he had wandered into the fern grove, thinking it a reasonably safe place to snatch a few hours' sleep, only to find he had walked straight into a swamp. It was the ferns that had buoyed him up long enough to fall asleep. Then they had collapsed under his weight, he was sinking!

Orkwil managed to grasp onto nearby fern stems, and haul his head free of the mess. He held on tightly, gasping for breath, and spitting out swamp water. Inevitably, he felt himself sinking again. Heaving upward, Orkwil managed to raise his body slightly. Furiously he began scrabbling about, hoping to find firm ground, but his efforts were all in vain. The weight of the miry sludge clogged around the young hedgehog's spines, dragging him down again. He had no idea of where solid ground lay, it was difficult to see anything in the darkness of night.

Salvation came in the form of a branch; it scratched his snout as he floundered about. Orkwil grabbed the limb, pulling it downward until he could hang on properly. It was an alder tree that had saved his life.

Now Orkwil Prink was suspended in a sort of limbo, half in and half out of the swamp, unable to go anywhere. He hung there, calling out at intervals. "Help! Somebeast save me! Help!" But no help came. Dawn broke slowly, to

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find him still hanging on to the alder, his voice down to a croak, and his paws numb with fatigue. Now he could see the rest of the tree. Orkwil figured that the alder trunk was rooted to the edge of the swamp, but he had no chance of reaching it. Long hours had taken their toll, now he had only the energy left to cling on for dear life. He wept bitterly as he pictured his inevitable end.

How deep was a swamp, did it reach the earth's core? No search party would ever find his poor young body. His voice was down to a hoarse whimper, he tried it. "Help, oh heeeeelp." It trailed off miserably.

As the morning wore on, Orkwil somehow contrived to wriggle his paws until they became entwined in the alder twigs. Now he did not have to hang on, he merely hung there bemoaning his fate, and composing his own eulogy, revelling in his own misery.

"A fine young 'un gone, and all for what? Some mouldy ole soup, an' that ain't a lot! Alas an' alack for pore Orkwil Prink, stuck in a swamp without vittles or drink, he hung there, brave beast, not darin' to budge, his head in a tree, an' his bottom in sludge. His last thoughts were of friends at the old homestead, would they know that their young hog was dead, and would they weep sadly o'er his empty cot? Those bandy-pawed elders, the snotty-beaked lot! Aye, Orkwil's departed, but who'll shed a tear, who'll blub on their salad, or cry in their beer? And who'll even notice one dark, stormy night, a small, muddy hog ghost, a pitiful sight. Will they say, friend Orkwil, come, welcome indoors! Or, you filthy young wretch, have you wiped those paws?"

As the hot, noontide sun beat down on the swamp, Orkwil ceased his blubbering and fell asleep out of sheer

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weariness. In the early evening he was wakened by a cloud of winged insects trying to sample his head. Unable to stop them, Orkwil yowled piteously. "Yah, gerroff me, you horrible villains! Can't ye leave a pore young creature to perish in peace? How would you like it, stuck in a swamp with midges gnawin' at yore snout, an' buzzin' down yore ears!"

A short distance away in the woodlands, Codj and his party heard Orkwil's protests. The stump-tailed fox drew his sword, pointing with it. "I t'ink it's comin' from over dere."

The little rat, Firty, grinned smugly. "See, I tole ya sum-beast was shoutin'."

Codj liked bullying anybeast smaller than himself. He rapped Firty's paw with the flat of his blade. "Seein' as yew 'eard it first, yew kin go in front, go on smart mouth, lead on!"

Firty ventured forth gingerly, registering his protest. "If 'twas Cap'n Vizka, 'e'd go first, I betcha!"

Codj pricked his tail with the sword. "Well, I ain't Cap'n Vizka, so move yerself, or I'll chop yer tail off!"

"Then Firty'd be a stumple like yew, haha!"

Codj wheeled on the party, who were shuffling behind him. "Who said dat?" He eyed the five blank-faced vermin sternly. "Cummon, own up, who's insultin' me be'ind me back, eh?" All five stayed silent, Codj waved his sword at them. "If'n somebeast don't talk soon, I'll make yez sorry. Now speak up, buckoes, who said it, eh?"

The standoff was broken by Firty's squeal.

Codj turned to see him standing at the edge of the ferns. "Worra yew skrikin' like an ole ratwife for?"

The small rat showed his muddy footpaws. "I ain't goin' in dere, it's all squelchy!"

One of the party, an old stoat, called out, "Wotjer mean, squelchy?"

Firty jabbed his paw furiously at the fern bed. "I mean squelchy enuff to sink ye down over yore ears!"

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Orkwil's impassioned plea was loud and clear now. "Oh take pity on me, kind sirs, help me, I beg ye!"

Jungo, a fat weasel, who possessed a single tooth, giggled. "Huhurrhurr! Sumone t'inks we're kind sirs, dat's nice!"

Codj silenced him with a glare, then issued orders. "Spread out, but don't go fallin' in de squelch. See who's makin' all dat noise!"

It was Jungo who found Orkwil. "It's an 'edgepig, 'e's stuck inna squelch, I kin see 'im. Over 'ere, mates. Huhuhurrr! A likkle 'edgepig!"

Codj was first to locate the spot where Jungo was calling from, he glared to and fro irately. "Where in de name o' blazes are ye?"

Orkwil's voice rang out hopefully. "I'm here, sir, in the swamp!"

Codj slashed angrily at the ferns with his sword.

"I'm not talkin to yew! Jungo, where are ye, oaf'ead?"

The slow-witted weasel's voice came from over Codj's head. "Hurrhurr, I'm up in dis big tree, I kin see de 'edgepig!"

The rest of the foraging party arrived at the alder. Codj beckoned upward with his blade.

"Gerrup dere, yew lot, an' don't come down wirrout dat 'edgepig, de cap'n'll wanna werd wid 'im!"

All of the Sea Raiders were skillful climbers. A solid tree was easier to scale than masts, spars and rigging on the open main. It did not take them long to lasso Orkwil with a length of rope. They heaved together, and he shot out of the ooze with a gurgle and a plop. The vermin swung him back and forth on the rope, releasing it when Orkwil was close to the alder trunk. He landed with a muddy squish, right next to Codj, who leapt aside, snarling, "Watch where yer splash dat squelch!"

The young hedgehog began unfastening the rope, which was noosed about his middle. "I'm sorry, sir, didn't mean to splash you. My name's Orkwil Prink, I've been stuck in that confounded swamp since last night. Thanks to you

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and your friends I'm safe now. Phew! I couldn't have lasted much longer in there, I can tell ye!"

The fox's footpaw stamped down on Orkwil's stomach, knocking the wind from him, and stopping him from untying the rope. Codj put his swordpoint to Orkwil's throat. "Gabby liddle 'edgepig, ain't yer? So then, Orful Stink, where do ya comes from, eh?"

The other vermin had descended from the tree, they laughed at Codj's little joke. It took Jungo a moment to catch on, then he guffawed appreciatively. "Huhurrhurr-hurr! Orful Stink, dat's a good 'un!"