Loamhedge

24

Large drops began falling, slow at first, sending up small puffs of dust as they struck the dry plain. A distant thunder rumble echoed from the high cliffs, followed by a faroff flash of lightning that illuminated the southeast horizon. Then the deluge fell in earnest. Saro stood upright, blowing water from her nosetip as she blinked at the sheeting curtains of heavy rain.

“Nobeast can see us now. Let’s head straight for the cliffs!”

Joining paws, they jogtrotted toward the foothills, battered by the relentless downpour. Lightning ripped over the dark skies in blinding sheets, while thunder boomed and banged overhead. Dust turned quickly to mud, their paws squelched into it. Springald tightly gripped the paws of Fenna and Saro. The intensity of the storm was frightening, she had never been out in open country at such a time before. At Redwall, it had been relatively easy to run inside and shelter from the elements, but out here it was different.

They gained the foothills, slipping and sliding up the wet grass. Bragoon shielded his eyes as he glanced upward.

“Keep goin’, it ain’t too far now. Yonder black hole that Horty spotted looks like it could be a cave of some sort. Let’s make it up that far an’ shelter.”

Horty’s wet paws slapped down in the sludge and mud. Wiping water from his eyes, he chanced a backward glimpse at his pursuers. Although the main body were still a respectable distance off, three fast runners had broken away and were coming doggedly onward, closing the distance considerably. The young hare bit his lip. The trio were armed with spears; if they got within throwing range, he would be finished. It was time for a change of plan. Still with stamina in reserve, Horty shot off to the right, back among the foothills, where he stood a chance of losing the Darrat mob.

Birug panted, squinching his eyes against the rain as he saw the hare change course and dart into the dunes. The High Kappin urged his rats on. “Catchim, or Hemper Figlugg make Burcha Glugg outta you!”

Topping a rise, Horty spotted the barely discernible hole in the cliffside, far along to his right. He tripped and went rolling downhill. Spitting grit and coated with sand, he swiftly picked himself up and pounded on to the next dune, muttering to himself, “Ears up, old lad, keep pickin’ ’em up an’ puttin’ ’em down, wot. Huh, if only the young skin’n’blister could see her handsome brother now—a blinkin’, gallopin’ sandbeast!”

A spear buried itself in the sand, not far behind him.

Birug appeared at the top of the hill that Horty had just come over. Two others trailed behind him. He seized the spear from one of them and flung it. The Darrat leader’s aim was bad—he watched the spear strike the hillside flat and slide back down. Birug rested a moment on all fours, fatigued.

Horty gained the next hilltop and turned. Holding a paw to his nose, he wiggled it and called out cheekily, “Bloomin’ old flesh scoffer, go an’ boil your own head an’ eat it, wot wot!”

Stung by the hare’s jibe, Birug hauled himself upright and came after the hare with renewed energy. Horty scuttled off, chiding himself for his momentary foolishness.

“Have to keep the old lip buttoned, wot! Seems a jolly determined type o’ cove for a rat, full of the old vermin vinegar. Curse his caddish hide!”

Afternoon passed, without the rain slackening its intensity. It was humid, without a trace of breeze. Rivulets gathered into swollen streams, racing down the cliffside in floods of umber-hued water.

Bragoon was first to reach the black hole. His prediction had been correct: it was a cave—large, dark and deep. He helped Springald and Fenna enter first, while Sarobando brought up the rear. Once inside, all four flopped down, exhausted. The otter shook himself like a dog and shrugged off the packs he had been burdened with.

“Whoo! Wretched weather, wonder when this rain’s due to stop?” He sat up against the right wall, peering out. “Come on Horty, mate, where’ve ye got to?”

Fenna joined him. “I hope he’s alright!”

Springald rose and began to wander off to explore the big cave, but Bragoon pulled her back.

“You stay close up here, miz. We don’t know wot might be back there. Can’t risk a fire, either—too dangerous. Break out some vittles, if’n they’re still dry enough, and a drink, too. Funny how ye can be out in the rain all day an’ still be thirsty.”

The mousemaid found dry oatcakes and some crystallised fruit, which they washed down with some home-brewed cider. Fenna stared out into the persistent downpour, then jumped slightly as thunder boomed out overhead.

Saro patted her shoulder. “Nought t’do but sit an’ wait, matey. Don’t fret now, that young rogue’ll make it.”

The squirrelmaid forced a smile. “If he’s not here soon, I’ll light a fire and make a pot of soup. Horty can smell vittles a league away. He’ll show up then, I wager.”

She sat miserably, pondering the foolishness of her statement. Horty could be lying slain out there in the rain.

Horty staggered gamely on, the three rats not more than six paces behind him. They had picked up their spears again and thrown them at him several times. With the courage of desperation, the young hare, having managed to avoid the throws, remained unscathed. Birug and his two rats had left the spears where they fell, and carried on, stubbornly pursuing the fugitive. It was only a matter of time now, and they would have him. As the High Kappin blundered forward, Horty moved out of his reach.

With his tongue lolling, the rat gasped out, “We . . . catcha!”

Horty stumbled, tripped and wriggled out of his reach. Gaining his footpaws, he stood panting. “Couldn’t . . . catch your old . . . grannie . . . Slobberchops!” He blundered on another pace or two, then collapsed.

Birug nodded to the other two rats. “Gerrim . . . now!”

All three crawled forward on their bellies, reaching out to lay paws on the fallen hare when, without warning, the hillside gave way, sliding down a tremendous avalanche of wet sand. It enveloped the three rats completely, burying them under a huge mound.

Horty lay at the edge of the mass, covered right up to his neck. He was trapped fast. A paw, almost the size of his own head, seized both of the hare’s long ears and yanked him out with one mighty pull. Horty revived with the pain, his eyes flickering open. He stayed conscious just long enough to see a lightning flash illuminate the head of a giant badger with a scar running lengthwise down its striped muzzle.

The young hare blinked. “Nice weather, wot . . . Oh, corks!” Then he passed out.

Only the Dibbuns slept upstairs in their dormitories that night, while every other Redwaller guarded the barricades. It was the longest, saddest night Martha had ever witnessed. The still form of Junty had been wrapped tenderly in blankets and borne down to the place he loved best, his cellars. Clearing the barrels and lifting some floorstones, Foremole Dwurl and his crew dug a grave for the good Cellarhog. Junty was laid to rest. Once the grave was filled in and the flooring stones replaced, Abbot Carrul took a charcoal and wrote words upon it. At some later day the moles would chisel the words into the stones as a permanent epitaph for a beast whom all Redwallers loved dearly. Tears often smudged the charcoal letters as Carrul wrote:

“Here lies a fallen warrior, slain by vermin whilst helping his fellow creatures. Hard working, good and faithful. A credit to his kind. Always a kind word or smile to all. Junty Cellarhog, Keeper of Redwall Abbey cellars. His October Ale was the best. Rest peacefully, old friend.”

Above stairs, Martha rolled her cart around Great Hall, relieving those who were wearied. When she was not doing that, the tireless haremaid helped Granmum Gurvel to ferry food from the kitchens.

Toran watched Martha—she was never still, always finding something to do for the common good. He halted the little cart with his rudder. “Come on, beauty, time ye took a nap or ye’ll be worn out.”

Martha protested. “I’m fine, honestly I am!”

But, deaf to her pleas, the ottercook opened the lap rug and tucked it beneath the haremaid’s chin. “No arguments now. I’ll wake ye if’n yore needed, miss. You stay out the way here, in this quiet corner away from broken glass an’ slingstones. I’ll have t’go an’ get more stuff to barricade those windows.”

He hurried off to assist Brother Weld, who was struggling with a door he had taken from its hinges. “Here, Brother, you take one end an’ I’ll take the other.”

Weld sighed thankfully. “We’re getting a bit old for this sort of thing. D’you think we’ll hold them off, Toran?”

Gritting his teeth, the big otter growled. “Filthy scum, if they get in this Abbey, ’twill be over my dead body. Don’t worry, Brother, we’ll keep ’em out!”

Old Phredd helped them to shore the door up against the windows. “Huh, the way I see it, we’re under siege. ’Tis those vermin who are keeping us in!”

Toran clenched his paws tightly. “That’s right. Strange ain’t it, bein’ kept prisoner inside yore own home.”

Old Phredd added miserably, “Aye, what do we do if the food runs out?”

Toran’s clenched paw wagged under the ancient Gatekeeper’s nose. “Quit that kind o’ talk now, d’ye hear me? There’s vittles aplenty for all, so don’t go scarin’ everybeast!”

Badredd watched the dawn wash the skies in rosy hues. The small fox was in his element. “Flinky, Crinktail, c’mere. I got a plan o’ me own at last!”

Both stoats, stuffing themselves on orchard produce, continued eating as Badredd explained his scheme.

“Load up a couple o’ sacks an’ take a stroll through the woods south of here. Eat what y’like as ye go.”

Flinky tossed away a half-eaten pear. “Sounds like a good ould job, Chief, but what’re we supposed t’be doin’?”

The little fox grinned craftily. “Recruitin’ more vermin. We need more beasts to take this place. Tell ’em that Redwall is bein’ conquered by Badredd an’ a vermin crew. Aye, an’ tell ’em there’ll be plenty o’ vittles an’ booty for anybeast who’ll serve under me. Have ye got that?”

Flinky saluted elaborately. “Leave it to us, Chief. We’ll bring ye back a gang o’ the best, so we will. No old or feeble ones, just grand fightin’ vermin. But wot about all this ripe ould fruit?”

Badredd snorted impatiently. “Use yore head, give it away to any vermin ye come across. Show ’em we got plenty of vittles. Say there’s lots more where that comes from, if they’ll come an’ serve under me. Do I have to tell ye everything?”

Crinktail touched the side of her nose knowingly. “We unnerstand, Chief, leave it to me’n Flinky.” The pair hurried off to the orchard to load up sacks of fruit.

Badredd began issuing orders to his depleted crew. “Floggo, Rogg, watch that big door, an’ the windows, too. Keep yore bows’n’arrows at the ready. Kill anybeast wot pokes his nose out!”

The little fox was glad he had the weasel brothers to serve him. They never argued and usually obeyed all orders.

“Juppa, Slipback, Plumnose, Halfchop, keep slingin’ stones at those windows. Whatever ye do, don’t stop!”

Juppa was pawsore and weary of slinging stones. “But we’ve smashed all the windows. Wot else is there t’keep slingin’ stones at?”

Badredd could feel his temper fraying. His voice gained a squeak as he shouted in the weasel’s face. “The idea of breakin’ the windows is so that ye can hurl stones through an’ hit anybeast inside the place. Or are ye too stupid to realise that?”

Juppa stood her ground, arguing back swiftly. “No, I ain’t stupid, but I’m hungry an’ tired! Us four’ve been chuckin’ stones at that Abbey all night. Oh, an’ there’s one more thing we ain’t too stupid to realise. We’re runnin’ outta stones to throw, while yore marchin’ about givin’ orders out an’ doin’ little else!”

Badredd waved his broken cutlass about threateningly. “Don’t ye dare talk t’me like that, I’m the chief around here!”

Slipback muttered loudly. “Wot’re ye goin’ t’do, run ’er through wid a broken sword?”

The little fox threw his half cutlass aside and stamped his footpaw down so hard that it hurt. “I heard that, Slipback. Do? I’ll tell ye wot I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ t’show ye three how to sling stones properly! Throw down wot stones ye got left an’ give me yore slings. Plumnose, Halfchop, start slingin’ alongside me. Come on, move yoreselves, take these slings an’ load up!”

Halfchop picked up a sling and loaded it with an apple he had been munching on. He grinned at Badredd. “Kachunk!”

The little fox glared speechlessly at the hapless rat. He shouted to Plumnose, “Teach that idjit to throw stones!”

Furiously, Badredd began slinging at a mad rate. The slingstones went everywhere—a few through the window spaces, some backward across the lawns when he released them too early. Others bounced back off the solid sandstone walls.

Slipback dodged a ricochet, grinning slyly. “Hah, let’s see ’ow long the mighty chief can keep that pace up!”

Juppa started moving out of range, ducking a pebble that had gone the wrong way. “Let’s get out of ’ere afore we get slain!”

She raised her voice, calling to Badredd, “We’re goin’ to get somethin’ to eat an’ take a rest!”

The fox kept hurling stones like a madbeast, panting. “Get out o’ my sight, ye useless lumps! When y’come back, bring more stones, a lot more!”

Plumnose, who was slinging at a much steadier rate, called happily to Badredd. “Huhuh, we’b godd lots ob stones, me’n my mate!”

The fox screeched back at him. “Sharrap an’ get slingin’!”

Halfchop had found a black-and-red banded pebble among his stones. He polished it on his fur and spoke to it. “Kachunk!”