Returning swiftly to her former position at the window, Tiria continued to scan the sea, though her mind was in a state of turmoil. How did Mandoral know about the Rhulain? Why had he told her to watch that area of the sea, and where had he disappeared to? She tried to fathom it all out. In the midst of her deliberations, Tiria suddenly saw something which set her senses tingling.
The ebbing tide had receded sufficiently to expose a rock, in the very spot she was watching. In a flash, Tiria recalled the dream she’d had on the night before she left Redwall Abbey: the Rhulain appearing out of the sea to deliver the message which had sent Tiria in search of Green Isle. When the High Queen had sunk back beneath the waters, she had left what appeared to be the tip of her hooded figure, showing above the waves. There it was now, far out on the deep—a rock shaped like the top of the Rhulain’s hood!
A deep voice sounded close by. “The rock is only visible when the tide is at its lowest ebb. It shows quite clearly in moonlight, don’t you agree?” Mandoral had returned. He was carrying a sheaf of scrolls, which he placed on a barrelhead.
The ottermaid stood wide-eyed. “I’ve seen that rock in my dreams! What is it? I mean, what does it stand for, sir?”
The dark eyes of the Badger Lord widened in surprise. “You mean you don’t know?”
Pointing to the rock, he explained solemnly. “That is where the Queen of Green Isle was lost forever—she, her brother and an entire crew of Wildlough otters. Their ship was wrecked on that rock, and they were slain by murderous wildcats!”
Tiria felt very young and ignorant in Lord Mandoral’s presence. “But how do you know all of this, sir? It must have taken place in the far distant past, long before your time.”
The Badger Lord indicated the pile of scrolls. “Recorded history, Tiria. Did I not tell you that I have become a student of all the events at Salamandastron?”
The ottermaid gazed longingly at the scrolls. “Let me study the history, too, Lord. I must find out more about the High Queen.”
Mandoral allowed one of his rare smiles to the young otter. “No need for that, I can tell you all about the Rhulain. I have researched the subject thoroughly.”
The big badger swept Tiria up, as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and deposited her on the windowsill. “First, you must understand that the queen was no stranger to Salamandastron. She had visited here before. This was in the reigning seasons of Lord Urthwyte, the great white badger. Through my studies I learned that they were friends. Throughout the ages, Badger Lords have possessed formidable skills in the making of weapons and armoury. Take, for instance, Boar the Fighter. It was he who made the fabulous sword for your Martin the Warrior. Lord Urthwyte was gifted with a particular talent, the manufacture of armour. Nobeast before or since ever produced shields or armour of such strength and beauty.”
“And did he make armour for the Rhulain, sir?”
Mandoral’s massive paw touched Tiria’s mouth gently, silencing her. “I am always saying to the young hares here, the only way you will ever learn is by listening, not by speaking.”
Tiria watched in silence as Mandoral went to the pile of scrolls. He selected one, which he spread on the windowsill alongside the ottermaid.
“This is a sketch drawn by Lord Urthwyte. It was to be a new armoured breastplate he had designed for the High Queen. Now you know why I mentioned her to you. Look!”
It was the regal otter lady, just as Tiria had seen her in that first dream. About her brow was the slim gold circlet, containing the large round emerald. Beneath her richly embroidered cloak of dark green, the breastplate could be seen. It was burnished silver metal, with a gold star radiating from its centre. She wore a short kilt, around which her sling was belted, with a stone pouch attached. Tiria took in all of this at a glance, but she stared hard and long at the face.
Tiria was aware of Mandoral voicing his thoughts aloud.
“The moment I saw you down on the shore, I felt that Queen Rhulain was reborn. Now I am certain of it.”
The ottermaid was still gazing at the sketch. “Aye, sir, she could be my older sister for sure!”
The Badger Lord lifted her effortlessly down from the sill. “Come with me, I have something to show you.”
When Tiria saw him draw back a hanging wall curtain, she knew where Mandoral had vanished to previously. He unlocked the door which stood behind it.
“This is my own personal bedchamber-cum-study-cumrefuge from mess halls packed with noisy Long Patrol hares.”
She inspected the badger’s retreat. It had one smaller window, shelves full of volumes and parchments, a table, a comfortable chair and various pieces of armour and weaponry hanging from two walls. The Badger Lord took a bundle from a cupboard and placed it upon the table.
“That last ill-fated voyage made by the Rhulain has been documented by Lord Urthwyte. She came from Green Isle to Salamandastron to be measured for a new armoured breastplate. Urthwyte was planning on making one for her. Apparently he thought the old one was getting rather thin and battered. Like that of Badger Lords, Otter Queens’ apparel can get some fairly rough treatment. From Urthwyte’s records, I gather the new armour would take a full season to manufacture. Alas, she was never destined to see it. But even after the High Queen’s death, Urthwyte continued with the breastplate until it was completed. He was a beast with a love for his art, you see. I had the regimental tailors re-create the cloak and kilt from the drawing you saw. As for my own contribution, I made the sling and stonepouch. Unfortunately, there is one piece of the regalia missing, the coronet. We possessed gold enough, but nothing remotely resembling the great round emerald which would have completed it. I want you to take these things, Tiria Wildlough. They are yours by right, I think. I’m sure they will fit you well.”
Tiria opened the bundle slowly. The cloak and kilt were tailored skillfully from a thick, dark-green velvet, the hue of mossy streamstones which lay in shaded shallows. The ottermaid could not suppress a gasp of awe as she beheld the breastplate. It was a true example of the armourer’s art, a waist-length, sleeveless tunic. The back was a mesh of fine silver links, forming a chain mail. The front was also pure silver, beaten, smoothed, and burnished to a mirrorlike finish. This was surmounted at its centre by a radiating star of bright gold. The inside was padded with a soft, azure blue silk.
Tiria exclaimed as she picked it up, “Goodness, it’s light as a feather!”
Mandoral nodded. “Indeed it is. I wish I knew what sort of secret metals Urthwyte infused into it. Don’t let its lack of weight fool you, Tiria. It would stand against any blade, even a spearpoint. Do you like the sling I made?”
It was slightly longer than Tiria’s sling Wuppit and a little broader, a grey-black in colour and rough to the touch. Tiria tested its balance and pliability. Taking a stone from her own pouch, she loaded the weapon, twirling it experimentally, then smiled her approval.
“This is a marvellous sling, sir, far better than my old one. The material is tough and very coarse, good to grip. It would never slip, I can tell. What’s it made of?”
The Badger Lord pointed out the window. “The hide of a great fish, a shark that was washed up dead on our shore. There’s more than a few lances and arrows among my hares, tipped with the teeth and bone shards of that beast. I knew the skin would come in useful for something, so I had it treated and cured. I see by the way you twirl that sling, you can use it. Can you throw far?”
Speeding up the sling’s revolutions, Tiria suddenly whipped off the stone, sending it whirling through the open window. As it sped off into the night, Mandoral watched the sea until he saw a faint phosphorescent splash, far out over the calm waters.
“I have some good slingers in the Long Patrol, but none as good as that. You can use a sling!”
Tiria joined him at the window, her eyes seeking out the rock where the Queen’s ship had sunk so long ago. “All I need now, so that the otters of Green Isle will know me, is the coronet. If the Rhulain went down with her ship
, it must still be there. Gold does not rot, nor will it rust away, even in seawater. I will go there once it is light. If the crown is there, I will find it!”
Mandoral glimpsed the light of determination in her eyes. “I believe you will. I can see that nobeast would attempt to stop you. I will come with you, Tiria.”
She bowed courteously. “I will be glad to have you with me, sir.”
Even before dawn had properly broken, a gang of hares had hauled the Purloined Petunia down to the floodtide and set her in the flow. Cuthbert, as the commander of the vessel, cut a bizarre figure. In his dual role as ship’s captain and regimental major, he wore the musselshell patch over one eye and his monocle in the other. Over his Long Patrol tunic, he had donned his tawdry nautical frock coat. Pointing with his swagger stick, he bellowed out orders.
“Haharr, buckoes’n’chaps, take ’er out a point to port, wot!”
Quartle and Portan, who were jointly in charge of the tiller, began to complain.
“I say, sah, it’s high flippin’ tide! How are we supposed to see the bloomin’ rock, wot?”
“Porters is right, Cap’n sah. You can only see the jolly old rock when the blinkin’ tide’s out!”
Seated together on the prow, Tiria and the badger smiled as they listened to Cuthbert roaring at the subalterns.
“Who asked yore opinions, ye blather-bottomed buffoons? You just steer as I tells ye, or I’ll have yore jolly old scuts for sammidges! Tides don’t matter, the water’s clear enough t’spot that rock. Why d’ye think I’ve got a lookout?”
He bawled up to the osprey who was napping on the masthead, “Pandion, matey, go an’ sort out that rock an’ waggle yore wings over it ’til we gets there, will ye?”
As the osprey took off over the rolling waters, Cuthbert continued to berate his hapless steersbeasts. “Ye slab-sided scoffswipers, wot d’ye know about navigatin’, eh? If’n I wasn’t commandin’, ye’d get lost in a bucket o’ water. Now steer a course after that bird yonder, or, so ’elp me, I’ll kick yore bottoms into next season!”
It was not long before the fish hawk’s keen eyes picked up the top of the rock below the surface. Pandion Piketalon hovered over the location, fluttering his impressive wingspan like some exotic black-and-white-barred fan.
Mandoral pointed. “Your good bird has found the rock, Captain.”
Quartle muttered to Portan, “Amazin’, he must have eyes like a blinkin’ hawk, wot!”
Portan guffawed. “That’s ’cos he is a blinkin’ hawk, old lad.”
Dawn breezes wafted the ship gently to the location. Pandion resumed his perch on the masthead, whilst Cuthbert ordered the subalterns to furl the sail and drop anchor. The Badger Lord took a long coil of rope with a chunk of rock attached to one end. Securing it to the prow, he dropped the weighted end into the sea. By this time, the sun was spreading its light over the waters.
Tiria watched the stone falling through the semitranslucent sea. It fell rapidly, bouncing off the sides of the underwater rock peak. When it had vanished into the depths, Mandoral instructed the ottermaid. “You must hold on to the rope at all times. Don’t let go of it, Tiria. When you want to come up, just give one normal tug and I’ll haul you up. Is that understood?”
Tiria winked at him confidently. “Don’t worry about me, sir, I’ll be fine. Otters know their way about underwater.”
She winced as the big badger gripped her paw, his voice becoming stern. “I know you’re an otter, but you listen to me, young ’un. It’s not the same as Abbey pools or forest streams, being down under the deep seas. Nobeast really knows what dangers may lurk down there, so you hold on to that rope tight. If you get into any real danger, then give it two sharp jerks, and I’ll have you out of there.”
Tiria took a firm grip on the lifeline. “I understand, sir, and thank you for all your help.”
She slid over the prow into the cold sea, with the crew’s best wishes.
“Haharr, Tilly me gel, you keep yore eyes peeled down there!”
“Aye, miz, best of jolly good luck an’ all that, wot!”
“Toodle pip, old thing, hope it ain’t too flippin’ cold down there. Rather you than me, I say.”
Then she submerged completely into cold, eerie silence.
BOOK THREE
Across the Western Sea
24
Leatho Shellhound regained consciousness painfully, discovering that he could only see through one eye. The captive outlaw found he could not move his paws; they were bound, outspread, to the bars of a wooden cage. He tried to wriggle free, but the whole structure wobbled and shook. Leatho gave up struggling and waited until his senses were fully restored before taking stock of his situation. The cage was suspended by a thick rope, high on the fortress tower. It hung beneath the windowsill of Riggu Felis’s personal chamber.
The top of Leatho’s head ached abominably from the blow of the wildcat’s axehaft. He tasted dried blood on his lips and guessed that his eyelid was sealed shut by some of that same blood, which had flowed from his headwound. Wrenching his face to one side, he rubbed the affected eye against his shoulder, blinking until it was cleared and he could see properly once more.
Below him, the pier was crowded with otterslaves, hemmed in by armed catguards. Gazing down on the sea of upturned faces, the outlaw’s defiant spirit rose as he roared at the catguards, “Heeee aye eeee! I am the Shellhound! Loose me, cowards, an’ I’ll fight ye all with my bare paws!”
A bucket of water drenched Leatho, causing him to gasp with shock. Riggu Felis leaned over the windowsill, still holding the bucket, his chain mail mask tinkling as it hung down from his ruined face.
“Shout all you like, Shellhound, your fighting days are gone forever. I have plans for you, outlaw. Would you like to hear them?”
Leatho raised his dripping face, teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me out of here and I’ll fight you to the death, half-face. Even with my paws bound behind my back, I’ll slay ye!”
The warlord laughed. “Brave words, that’s all you have left, outlaw. Listen now whilst I speak some words of my own.”
Throwing the bucket away, the wildcat leaned out over the sill, his voice ringing out to those below. “Hear me, I am Riggu Felis, a true wildcat, and Warlord of Green Isle! No longer will my domain be troubled by runaways and rebels. See, I have captured their chief, the bold Leatho Shellhound. He will remain up here until his friends surrender. Either they can give themselves up or they may sneak back here in future days to look up at this cage. They will see the bones of Shellhound bleaching in the sun and rotting in the weather. Gulls and carrion birds will pick at his remains. That will be on their heads. If the rebels do not give themselves up, he starves to death! Nobeast defies Riggu Felis. This is a lesson every creature on Green Isle must learn!”
Below on the pier, Weilmark Scaut unfurled his whip and cracked it viciously over the slaves. “Back to work, idlebeasts! Gather the crops, forage for kindling wood, fish the lake. Tonight there will be a great feast in honour of Lord Felis’s triumph!”
The captives went back to their enforced chores, despair stamped on their faces, some openly shedding tears. The wildcat foe had finally won. Their leader, Leatho Shellhound, was a prisoner, strung up in a high cage to die. Now their last sweet dreams of freedom had truly deserted them.
That afternoon, the wildcat sat out with Scaut beneath a pier awning, watching the coracles fishing out on the lake. Just as the weilmark was beginning to doze off in the warm sun, a prod from the warlord’s axehaft stirred him back to wakefulness.
“Who’s that coming along the shore?”
Scaut blinked. “It looks like your son Pitru with some of his guards. Shall I go an’ see wot he wants, Lord?”
Riggu Felis leaned back, closing his eyes. “No, let him come to me. We’ll know soon enough.”
The young cat swaggered up and stood in front of his father, who was feigning sleep. Pitru rattled his scimitar on the pier boards to gain attention, address
ing his father insolently.
“Hah, the mighty Lord of Green Isle, eh? Taking a nap while his slaves are escaping!”
Felis opened one eye disdainfully. “Oh, it’s you. What’s all this nonsense about escaping slaves?”
Pitru signalled to his catguards, who tossed a slain otter down on the pier. It was the body of Runka Streamdog, brother of Banya. Pitru indicated it with a wave of his blade. “This is one of them. He was supposed to be fishing. I spotted the empty coracle floating round by the reeds. There were two slaves—one managed to get away but we killed this one. And all the time our bold warlord was snoring the afternoon away. But I shouldn’t be complaining. The very old are like babes, they need their daytime nap.”
Instead of replying to his son’s insult, the wildcat turned upon Scaut, growling menacingly, “Didn’t you give that young idiot my instructions?”
The weilmark came to his own defence hastily. “Sire, I was half the mornin’ tellin’ everybeast yore orders, but Pitru an’ his guards weren’t to be found, Lord. I swear, I searched for’em everywhere!”
The warlord began advancing on his hapless minion, backing him toward the lake as he prodded him with a punishing claw. “My orders were that some slaves should escape! Otherwise, how would the rebels know about their leader’s capture and the fate I had decreed for him, eh? Who would deliver my message to them, you thick-eared dolt!”
He gave Scaut a final, savage shove that sent him splashing into the lake, which was fairly deep by the end pylons. Scaut went right under. He bobbed up once, banged his head on the pier’s underside and went down again.
Riggu Felis shook his head in disgust as he beckoned to the guards. “Get that buffoon out of there before he drowns.”
Pushing their spearpoles under the pier, the catguards probed about. Scaut surfaced, a moment later, hanging onto the spears and spewing out muddy water as he yowled like a madbeast. “Haaaaarggggg! Yooooaagh! Gemme out!”