Doomwyte
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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Triss
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Eulalia!
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The Great Redwall Feast
A Redwall Winter’s Tale
The Tale of Urso Brunov
Seven Strange and Ghostly Tales
The Ribbajack
BRIAN JACQUES
Doomwyte
Illustrated by DAVID ELLIOT
PHILOMEL BOOKS
PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Copyright © 2008 by The Redwall La Dita Co., Ltd.
Illustrations copyright © 2008 by David Elliot.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, PHILOMEL BOOKS, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
Jacques, Brian.
Doomwyte / Brian Jacques; illustrated by David Elliot. p. cm.—(Redwall) Summary: The Redwallers face some of their most dangerous villains yet in a treacherous hunt for long-lost treasure. [1. Animals—Fiction. 2. Buried treasure—Fiction. 3. Fantasy.] I. Elliot, David, 1952–ill. II. Title. PZ7.J15317Do 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2008000662
ISBN: 1-101-15799-2
For PFC Donald Reas Axtell,
a true warrior.
Contents
Prologue
Book One The Raven
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Book Two A Prince’s Descendants
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Book Three Baliss
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
The warm days are past, the dry dust has settled, those long-dead summers, a dim memory, small birds have flown south, cold east wind is dreary, so come ye and sit by the fireside with me. Let’s add a good log, stir up the pale ashes, ’til they glow crimson gold, twixt the grey and the black, I’ll recall to you my adventurous young seasons; together, my friend, we’ll go journeying back. Meet my comrades long gone, whom I’ll always remember, I hope when I’ve joined them, you’ve learned what it means, that a story passed down can live on forever. I’m the Teller of Tales, and the Weaver of Dreams….
BOOK ONE
The Raven
They danced and twinkled in the woodlands at night…those little lights.
1
Blustery and wild were the days of late spring, wet and windy, with little sign of more placid weather. Thus it was that night, when Griv sought shelter from battering rain and buffeting winds out of the east. Redwall Abbey was the perfect place. Tossed about on the dark skies, like a scrap of black-and-white rag, the magpie caught sight of the imposing building as she was swept high over the swaying green of Mossflower woodlands. Skilfully she went into a steep dive, tacking and sidesweeping on drenched wings. Homing in on the Abbey’s west face, Griv sought shelter on the leeside, out of the gale.
She made an ungainly but safe landing upon the sandstone sill of a second-storey dormitory window. What attracted the magpie to that particular spot was the welcome golden light, slanting narrowly from between wooden shutters. Ruffling and grooming her wet plumage, Griv edged along the sill until she was securely lodged, twixt stone and timber, in a corner.
Ever curious, she peered through a slim gap in the shuttering. There were creatures inside, young mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs. One, a mouse, only slightly older than the rest, was speaking. He was relating a story to his audience, who were listening intently, hanging upon his every word. From her perch on the window ledge outside, Griv listened also….
The narrator, a young mouse named Bisky, was in full dramatic flow. Leaping up on the little truckle bed, he made a number of gouging gestures above his head. Bisky held out his other paw as though he were thrusting a dagger, relating avidly to his goggle-eyed friends, “One, two, three, four! Prince Gonff stole the four precious stones, which were the statue’s eyes. Aye, mates, old Gonff popped ’em out, just like that, robbed the eyes from the great Doomwyte Idol!”
A Dibbun hedgehog (Dibbun is the name given to the youngest Redwallers) interrupted curiously, “Why did ’e doo’d that?”
Frintl, his older sister, sighed impatiently. “’Cos ’e wuz Gonff the Prince o’ Mousethiefs, dat’s why, sillyspikes!”
Bisky was accustomed to Dibbuns butting in—he carried right on with the story. “Well, there was all manner of ’orrible vermin chasin’ after Gonff, but he just laughed, ha ha, an’ he escaped ’em easily….”
“Wot bees ee gurt Doodley whoit eyeful?”
Bisky looked down at the tiny mole who had poked his head out from beneath the bed. Moles speak with a curious accent, but Redwallers can always understand them. The young mouse smiled. “It’s the Great Doomwyte Idol, a big statue with four eyes. They’re actually precious stones,
that’s why Gonff the Prince of Mousethieves stole ’em.”
The mole Dibbun, who was called Dugry, nodded solemnly. “Ho urr, Oi see. But whurr did zurr Gonffen take ee h’ idol’s h’ eyes to?”
Bisky spread his paws wide. “Right here to Redwall Abbey he brought them!”
Dugry thought about this, before asking, “Hurr, then whurr bees they?”
The young mouse explained patiently, “Nobeast knows where the eyes of the Great Doomwyte Idol are, ’cos Gonff hid ’em.”
The little hogmaid Frintl posed a question. “Hah, an’ I don’t s’pose you know where they are?”
The storyteller shook his head. “No, ’cos they’re in a very secret place, but someday I’ll find ’em, just see if’n I don’t!”
A young squirrel, Dwink, who was the same age as Bisky, chortled scornfully. “Yah, wot a load of ole pieswoggle! You made it all up, big fibberface Bisky!” He hurled a pillow, which caught the young mouse in the face. Bisky flung it back, but missed.
“’Tisn’t pieswoggle, Samolus told me it was true!” Dibbuns like nothing better than a pillow fight at bedtime. In the wink of an eye the dormitory was transformed into a noisy battleground. Babes and young ones squealed with merriment as they flung and swung pillows at each other.
Outside on the window ledge, the magpie Griv had heard everything. Regardless of the stormswept night, she flew off, headed for a place where her information might prove profitable. Griv, like most magpies, always had an eye to the main chance.
Back at the dormitory, the pillow fight was at its height, as was the noise. Redwall Abbey’s Infirmary and sick bay were on the same floor as the Dibbuns’ dormitory. Brother Torilis, the Herbalist and Infirmary Keeper, did not bother to knock. Flinging the door open, he strode straight into the scene of chaos. His paw shot up, catching a pillow in mid-flight. A hush fell over the entire chamber, broken only by a volebabe falling from the top of a wardrobe onto a bed, where he lay at rigid attention. A few small feathers and wisps of pillow stuffing drifted silently to the floor, as every young eye became fixed upon the tall, saturnine figure of the squirrel Herbalist. His voice was quiet, but loaded with menace.
“What is going on here?” No answer being expected, or given, he continued, “And who, may I ask, is responsible for this riot?”
The bleak gaze of Torilis swept the dormitory, coming to rest upon the hogmaid Frintl. She could no more resist Torilis’s stare than a baby chick confronted by a hunting serpent. Frintl’s chubby paw shot forth, pointing at Bisky. Words bubbled forth unbidden from her.
“’Twas him, Brovver, a-tellin’ fibby stories, he’s the one wot started it, honestly, Brovver!”
The Infirmary Keeper turned swiftly on the culprit. “I might have known. You, as one of the older dormitory creatures, ought to know better. You should be setting an example, instead of behaving like a madbeast!”
Bisky bit his lip at the injustice of it. Dwink was the one who had started the pillow fight. He tried to explain. “But Bro—”
Torilis’s harsh tone cut across his words sharply. “Silence! Not another word, you young savage! Directly after breakfast tomorrow you will appear on Abbot’s Report!”
Bisky knew there was no point in protesting. Nobeast, particularly a young one, would dare argue with the grave-faced Brother Torilis. Instead, he contented himself with glaring at Frintl.
With a final strict instruction, the Infirmary Keeper swept from the dormitory. “Straight into your beds, and go to sleep immediately, all of you!”
As the door slammed shut, Dwink curled his lip at Frintl. “Why couldn’t you keep yore mouth shut?”
The hogmaid began to blubber and babble at the same time. “’Twasn’t my fault, soon as he looks at me like that I can’t help it….”
Brother Torilis had not gone straight back to his sick bay chamber, he had paused outside the dormitory door. Now his voice rang out like thunder. “One more word and you’ll all be up in front of the Abbot tomorrow. Silence in there!”
The dormitory became immediately quiet, some of the more nervous Dibbuns trying hard not to breathe aloud.
On a moonless night, Mossflower Wood could be a daunting prospect, particularly for travellers who were not familiar with its thickness and diversity. It was made doubly eerie by the storm. In the total darkness, anybeast roaming abroad could be easily unnerved. Winds wailed through the crowded avenues of massive tree trunks. Sometimes the gale rose to a sound like that of a tortured beast, whilst often it subsided to a dirgelike moan. Driving rain caused foliage and twigs to bend in a mystical dance. The patter of raindrops upon broad leaves was said to sound like some phantom, creeping up behind the unwary wanderer. All in all not the best place to be, the woodlands on a stormy night.
These thoughts had occurred more than once to Slegg and Gridj, as they stumbled and floundered their way through Mossflower. The two rats had been lost for almost a day and a night. Their object was to reach the western seashore, which Slegg seemed to know all about. Gridj, the younger rat, was regretting he had ever listened to his companion, and was telling him so in no uncertain terms.
“Which way now, mate, straight ahead, eh? Go on, cabbage brain, straight ahead you said. Huh, an’ we been goin’ straight ahead, all day an’ ’arf the night. Aye, straight ahead in circles!”
Slegg took an optimistic view of their troubles. “Lookit, mate, yore only a young un yet, leave it t’me, I got experience, y’see. If’n we just push on straight ahead, we’re bound to arrive at the seashore sooner or later. I allus sez, no matter where ye are, yore on land, right? So, if’n ye walk straight ahead, then ye’ve gotta arrive at a seashore.”
Gridj sat down on the saturated loam, figuring he could not get any wetter than he already was. “Well let me tell ye wot I allus sez, scraggynose. I allus sez when yore lost in the dark, an’ yore follerin’ yer tail round in rings, then ye may’s well sit right down an’ wait’ll daylight, when ye can see where yore goin’ proper. But don’t yew lissen t’me, go on, straight ahead. I’m stayin’ here!”
Slegg carried on a few more paces, then halted. Shaking his head forlornly, he turned, walked back and sat down with his companion. Animosity had been growing between the pair, so each one held his silence. A short time elapsed, then Slegg felt compelled to speak. He did so in a sulky tone.
“Yew called me cabbage brain, an’ scraggynose. That ain’t right, I never called yew nothin’.”
Gridj sniffed. “Well, I ain’t sorry, see. Wot would yew call anybeast wot got ye lost, eh?”
Slegg shrugged. “Dunno, I’m no good at name callin’, I was brought up decent. Wish I was back ’ome right now, or mebbe sittin’ in a liddle cave by the seashore, on nice, warm, dry sand, wid a fire, too. Cookin’ all kinds o’ fishes in a pot, lobsters an’ cockles, an’ crabs….”
Gridj pointed an accusing paw. “Yew said cockles wasn’t fishes. Lissen, mate, do ye really know wot yore talkin’ about? I mean, did ye ever go t’the seashore? Tell the truth!”
Slegg had never set eyes on saltwater. Instead of answering, he broke out into a song, which he had learnt from a searat when he was younger. His harsh unmelodious voice rang out into the storm.
“Come take a stroll down by the strand,
aye haul in close to me,
ye’ll live a life so free an’ grand,
just sailin’ on the sea.
There’s flatfish an’ dogfish an’ codfish, too,
there’s big jellyfish galore,
to fry to roast or boil in a stew,
wot beast could ask for more!
So come on, messmate, shun the land,
the sea runs deep an’ blue,
with beaches full o’ golden sand,
a-waitin’ there for you.
There’s halibut, herring, haddock an’ dabs,
they jumps right out o’ the sea,
cockles’n’mussels’n’limpets an’ crabs
an’ a whale for you’n’ me!”
&nbs
p; Slegg was about to launch into another verse, when Gridj halted him with a sharp jab to the ribs. He winced. “Yowch! Wot did ye do that for?”
The younger rat muttered an angry reply. “Y’don’t know who might hear ye, give yore gob a rest!”
Slegg blew rainwater from his snout. “There ain’t the sound or sight of anybeast round ’ere. Huh, I’d be glad t’see ’em if’n there was!”
Gridj’s reply was to clamp a paw about Slegg’s mouth. “Ssssshhh!”
Slegg freed his mouth indignantly. “Don’t yew start shushin’ me, I kin talk whenever I like. Yore gettin’ a bit too big for yore tail!”
Gridj pushed the older rat’s face to one side, whispering, “Will yew stop blatherin’ an’ look over yonder? Over that way, wot can yer see?”
Slegg blinked hard as he peered between the rainswept trees. “It’s a light! Wot’s a light doin’ out ’ere in the middle o’ the night?”
His companion rose stealthily. “I dunno, let’s go an’ take a closer look. Come on, go quietly. That means keep yore big trap shut!”
Slegg got the last word in, hissing, “An’ yew, too!”
They advanced cautiously toward the light, which was little more than a pale, glowing flame. It seemed to hover at eye level, but as the rats came closer, it brightened slightly, and began moving away from them.