An old colonel, rake thin and sporting long, drooping mustachios, waited until he received the Badger Lord’s nod. Then, in a wobbly voice, he announced, “Gentlebeasts, ye may be seated!”
There followed a resounding clatter of benches and chairs. Then the customary din broke out afresh. Good-humoured ribaldry went back and forth as the orderlies wheeled out laden serving trolleys.
“I say, chaps, who’s that beautiful gel sittin’ next to his Lordship, wot?”
“Well, it ain’t you, Mobbs! You could blinkin’ well turn apples sour by just lookin’ at ’em!”
“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Gribbsy, you’ve got no eye for beauty at all. Hah, your motto is, if ye can’t eat it, then it ain’t nice!”
“Give your bloomin’ jaw a rest, Mobbs old lad. What’s for dinner, cookie old thing?”
The supply master sergeant, a huge hare with a broken nose, glared at the offender. “A dry crust an’ a short whistle if’n you call me cookie again, me laddo!”
A stout lance corporal chuckled. “Hawhaw, that’s the stuff to give him, cookie, you tell the blighter. Hawhawhaw!”
He withered under the sergeant’s icy stare. “Ye’ve never tasted my lance corporal pie, have ye? One more remark from you, young Flibber, an’ I’ll send a slice home to yore mother!”
The food was excellent and the portions enormous. Tiria was relieved to be sitting by Cuthbert, who devoured everything she nudged to within his paw range. Not a crumb that came near the gluttonous hare was spared.
“Good show, wot! The old mountain pie, ain’t tasted that in a blinkin’ badger’s age, wot!”
He dealt rapidly with summer salad, baked mushroom and turnip flan, cheese and carrot turnover, barley and leek soup and a plate of potato and chestnut pasties. Licking crumbs from his whiskers, Cuthbert began chivvying the servers for dessert.
Lord Mandoral eyed Tiria with obvious approval. “I was right, you are truly a High Queen, Tiria Wildlough.”
With a downcast gaze, the ottermaid mumbled, “I’m a queen without a crown. I failed miserably at that wreck today, sir. It was a disaster!”
Her paw was enveloped by the big badger’s own. “Nonsense, you were very brave! Huh, just the thought of you down there in the dark depths, battling with a monster, made my blood run cold. I don’t mind telling you, it’s not a thing I would have fancied attempting. But you went to it without a second thought. Mark my words, miss, that was the true sign of a leader, a real warrior!”
When dinner was over, the usual din of rowdy ballads and loud jokes broke out. This was halted by a big, barrel-chested hare. Colour Sergeant O’Cragg had a thunderous voice.
“H’atten . . . shun! Silence h’in the ranks, ye gobboons! Milord Mandoral ’as the floor. Sah!”
Staying seated, the badger made his announcement. “At noon tomorrow, Major Blanedale Frunk will be sailing for Green Isle. His purpose, to establish Lady Tiria Wildlough in her rightful position as queen there!”
Tiria looked about to say something, but a forbidding glance from Captain Granden bade her to hold any questions.
Mandoral paused, his eyes roving the mess. “There will be some opposition to this move from vermin foebeasts, wildcats, I am led to believe. Therefore, I would be remiss in my duty, sending the Lady with only Major Frunk and a hawk for protection. Major, how many of our Long Patrol could your vessel accommodate?”
Cuthbert’s ears twitched pensively. “Hmm, let me see, sah. The Petunia could take a limit of twoscore. But if ye count weapons, vittles an’ all that tackle, I’d say a score’n a half safely, Milord.”
Mandoral had no reason to doubt the old hare’s estimate. “A score and a half it is, then. Captain Granden, you’ll command when they reach Green Isle. Please select thirty hares for the task. Mind, I only want seasoned warriors, the best our Long Patrol can offer.”
Every hare in the mess sat stiffly to attention, each longing to be chosen for the mission. Captain Granden drew his long rapier and began striding slowly between the tables. He tapped the chosen ones on the shoulder with his blade, naming them.
“Colour Sergeant O’Cragg, Master Sergeant Bann, Corporal Drubblewick, Lieutenant Sagetip. . . .”
He continued until he had the required number. Tiria saw her two subalterns sitting with moist eyes, the very pictures of dejection. Standing up, she called out, “Excuse me, Cap’n Rafe. I’d like to take Quartle and Portan along with me to Green Isle.”
Granden shook his head vigourously. “Not possible I’m afraid, m’Lady. They’re both too young!”
Tiria objected. “How can you say that? They’re about the same age as I am!”
Mandoral interrupted. “You heard the captain, Lady. He’s in charge of the expedition. If he says they’re too young, then you must take his decision as final.”
The ottermaid looked from the Badger Lord to the captain. Aware that everybeast in the mess was watching her keenly, she drew herself up regally and spoke out firmly. “If I am to become Queen of Green Isle, I have to learn to make my own decisions. I say the subalterns will go!”
Granden’s face hardened. Thrusting out his jaw, he responded firmly, “I have made my choice, miz, and it stands. They stay!”
Tiria sat down slowly. Her reply was somewhat cool and distant. “Then I stay, too. That is my decision, Captain.”
In the awed silence which followed, Granden looked in bewilderment to Mandoral, whose booming laugh broke the suspense. “Hohoho! You don’t disobey a queen, Captain. I think you should defer to Her Majesty.”
Granden locked eyes with Tiria, staring hard at her. Not to be intimidated, she stared back just as hard. Suddenly the glimmer of a smile twitched the stern captain’s lips. He bowed elegantly and sheathed his rapier.
“As you wish, Milady. The subalterns sail with us!”
Thunderous cheers and loud applause rang out for Tiria. Quartle and Portan hastened to her side, grinning madly.
“I say, stifle me flamin’ scut, miz. Top hole, well done!”
“Rather! That’s the first time I’ve ever seen old granite-gob Granden backin’ down to any blinkin’ beast, wot!”
Still chuckling, Mandoral beckoned to her. “Make sure you treat Captain Granden right. He was only carrying out my orders.”
Tiria kept a straight face as she replied graciously. “Milord, we queens treat everybeast fairly, both our subjects and our allies!”
Both Tiria and Mandoral suddenly broke out laughing.
The following afternoon, a light breeze ruffled the sun-tipped waves in the bay as the Purloined Petunia rode, fully laden, at anchor. Regimental Major-cum-Captain Cuthbert Bloodpaw Frunk stood high on the stern. With a ladle in each paw, he hovered over the upturned barrel which would serve as his stroke drum. The vessel’s oar ports had been opened, twelve each to port and starboard. Twenty-four hares sat waiting, each gripping a long oar. Quartle and Portan sat either side of the tiller, ready to steer outward bound. Pandion Piketalon perched at the masthead; below him, two hares straddled the crosspiece. Up forward, the two burly sergeants stood by the anchor cable. Tiria was alone, out on the prow, facing west to the open sea.
Cuthbert was in his element as he began roaring orders to all and sundry in his roughest maritime tones. “Ahoy, let’s go to sea, me buckoes! Haul anchor, ye slab-sided scallawags! Make sail aloft, ye blunderin’ bluebottles! We’re bound for death or glory, whichever comes first!”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! As he belaboured his drum, he bellowed out orders to the rowing crew. “Bend yore backs, ye skinny sideswabs! Avast there, ye paddle-pawed poltroons! Pull! Pull! Pullllll!”
The big hare felt happier than he had for many long seasons. “Steersbeasts! Hold her westward, ye dither-pawed dodderers! Sweep oars! Pull, ye gripe-gutted galoots! Heave ho, me blunderin’ buckoes! I’ll make seabeasts of ye, or I’ll wallop yore whiskers, keelhaul yore scuts an’ nail yore noses t’the mainmast! Pull! Puuuuullllll!”
The ship, caught by the breeze
and swept on by two dozen long sweep oars, shot forward like a flying fish.
Pandion raised his beak to the sun-kissed skies. “Karraheeee! Take me to my home! Karreeehaarr!”
The two subalterns gripped the tiller tight between them, amazed at the speed the ship was gaining by the moment.
“I say, Quarters, in a bit of a blinkin’ hurry aren’t we, wot!”
“Rather, Porters. D’you think Ole Blood’n’guts is tryin’ to gain a march, so’s we can stop for tea?”
Cuthbert leaned over them both, squinting villainously. “Either of yew chubby-cheeked charmers lets go of that tiller an’ I’ll make subaltern skilly’n’duff out o’ ye both. How’d ye like that for tea, eh?”
Lord Mandoral stood at the window of his high chamber. He saw reflecting sunlight flashing from Tiria’s armour as she stood on the bowsprit, waving good-bye to him. The Badger Lord merely nodded his big striped head in acknowledgement. He watched the vessel receding over the water, its long sweep oars making it look like a damselfly skimming over a vast millpond.
Mandoral’s lips barely moved as he softly chanted an old warrior’s farewell to the tall young ottermaid he had come to respect and admire.
“May fair winds attend thee always,
may thy days be bright and long,
may good weapons ever serve thee,
may thy limbs wax fleet and strong.
I will dream of thee by moonlight,
I will watch for thee by day,
until on thy returning,
I will come to thee and say,
‘Drink ye the wine of victory,
now lay aside thy sword,
for home and hearth and friendship
are the warrior’s reward!’ ”
27
Leatho Shellhound struggled wildly to avoid the spear as Kaltag stabbed viciously down at him. Bound as he was by both paws to the cage bars, he did not have much room for manoeuvre. The outlaw ducked his head forward, wrenching his body to one side as the wooden cage rocked madly against the high tower wall. He felt a stinging pain close to his left paw as the spearhead glanced off it.
Kaltag’s eyes glittered in the darkness as she drew back the weapon and thrust it down, screeching out vengeance for her dead son. “Eeeyaaaah! Go to Hellgates, murderer! Die! Die!”
Twice more the spear grazed Leatho as he wriggled about within the confines of his narrow prison. Defiant to the end, he roared insults at his tormentor. “Is that the best ye can do, Mangetail? Ye need a few lessons with the spear. Cut me loose, Scruffcoat, an’ I’ll show ye how it’s done!”
Kaltag yowled with rage. Gripping the spearpole with both paws, she centred on the back of the otter’s neck, readying herself for the killing strike.
Leatho knew his fate was sealed. Bound and helpless, he could not last much longer. He tensed himself, listening to the cat’s rasping breath above him. Suddenly a hubbub broke out from the upper chamber. The spear slithered down through the bars and stuck, quivering, point first, in the pier far below.
Kaltag began wailing insanely. “Let me go, take your stupid paws off me! Shellhound must pay for my son’s death!”
Weilmark Scaut and two catguards held her tight, dragging her back from the windowsill. Kaltag bit, scratched and kicked at them, but to no avail, as the three cats hauled her roughly from the chamber.
Riggu Felis stood outside. Quickly he slammed the door shut, snarling, “Get her downstairs. Nobeast comes into this room but me!”
Kaltag was borne away, yelling accusations at the wildcat. “Coward! Traitor! Will you see Jeefra’s killer left alive?”
The warlord yelled down the stairwell after her, “Keep that madbeast away from here. She’ll ruin all my plans. I need Shellhound alive!”
Felis went into the chamber and stole across to the window. Leaning out, he rattled the cage with his axehaft, taunting the captive. “Well, I’m glad to see you still alive, my friend.”
As Leatho looked up, he could see the disfigured face beneath the chain mail half-mask. He growled scornfully at the wildcat. “That’s more’n I can say for you, ripface!”
Felis continued baiting his prisoner. “Would you like a drink of water? I’ll spare you some if you beg for it. Lovely cold, fresh, clear water, just beg nicely and I’ll tell the guards to fetch some.”
For answer, Leatho bared his teeth and rattled the cage. “All I’ll beg for is a chance to get out of here an’ stand facin’ yore ugly mug. Then it’ll be yore turn to beg!”
The wildcat backed off slowly, calling to his captive, “Oh, I’ll let you loose soon enough, the moment your friends surrender to me. Then they can watch you licking my footpaws every day, with Scaut whipping you whenever you stop. That should make a pretty sight, eh?”
The outlaw heard the chamber door slam shut. He sagged forward in his bonds, head drooping. To his surprise, the rope holding his left paw creaked, stretching slightly. Hope surged anew through Leatho. He jerked and tugged on the rope, feeling the fibres starting to part. The spear, of course, it had to be! In the darkness, Kaltag’s frenzied stabs must have hit the rope, partially slicing through and weakening it.
Leatho could not twist his head far enough to inspect the rope, but he knew he could eventually snap it. Even though his limbs were swollen and numbed with cramp, the tenacious otter pulled, twisted and jerked against his bond. Each fresh assault tore more of the fibres, snapping away the closely woven strands. He grunted with pain as one final wrench parted the rope, allowing the deadened paw to hang limply at his side. Dizzy with the effort, Leatho rested for a moment. Then, with no firm plan in mind, he set about freeing his other paw. Hauling himself up on the bars, the outlaw got his teeth into the other rope. He gnawed away, strand by strand, until he had chewed right through it. With a deep sigh, he allowed himself the luxury of sitting down on the cage floor. Leatho slowly rubbed the life back into his aching limbs and shoulders, thinking hard. Now, what next?
Early birds began their twittering chorus in the first rays of dawn as the otterclans arrived at the far shores of the lake. Crouching in the rushes, surrounded by his warriors, Big Kolun Galedeep cooled his paws in the cold water. He peered through the mist, which hung like a milky veil over the stillwater.
“Wot d’ye think, should we go in now?”
His brother, the tall, sombre Lorgo, spat on his paws, rubbing them together in anticipation. “Aye, dawn’s a good time to attack. The cats won’t be up an’ about just yet!”
Banya Streamdog interrupted them. “Hold on, mates. We can’t go chargin’ in without a plan. If’n the Felis cat’s got Leatho a prisoner, he’s bound to have the fortress well guarded. Stands t’reason he’ll be expectin’ us to try somethin’.”
Kolun dug his big oar into the water moodily. “I s’pose yore right, so wot d’ye suggest we do? We can’t just lie here all day twiddlin’ our rudders!”
Besides being a tough warriormaid, Banya was seldom short of practical ideas. “A sensible plan would be t’send out scouts first. Whulky, Chab, you take the left bank. Lugg, Ganno, you take the right. See if they’re patrollin’ the pier an’ the slave compound. Make a count of the cats y’can see an’ wot sort of weapons they’re totin’. That way we’ll know just wot we’re up against. Oh, an’ most important, keep yore eyes skinned for the Shellhound.”
In the main gate lodge which led onto the pier, Riggu Felis took a leisurely breakfast. The wildcat felt that, with his plans reaching fruition, his position was becoming more secure. Picking at a freshly caught trout and sipping pale wine, he reflected on other matters which required his attention. It was one of the warlord’s strengths: He never left loose ends untied.
Weilmark Scaut stood attendance upon his master, a task which invariably made him nervous, owing to the wildcat’s unpredictable nature. After accidentally slopping wine onto the table while refilling the warlord’s beaker, Scaut murmured apologetically, “Yore pardon, Lord.”
Without helmet or mask, the face of Ri
ggu Felis was set in a tight, fearsome grimace, owing to the severe injuries inflicted on him by the osprey. Scaut wiped up the spillage as the wildcat questioned him.
“Is my prisoner well guarded?”
The weilmark nodded vigorously. “Aye, Lord. I posted two guards on the chamber door, an’ two more at the bottom o’ the stairs.”
The warlord’s tongue licked pensively at his flayed upper gums. “Good. The Lady Kaltag, where is she?”
Scaut wondered where this conversation was leading. “In her room, Sire. I posted three guards on her door.”
Felis sipped more wine. “See that she is closely watched. Well, we should be expecting those outlaw otters to pay us a visit sometime today, Scaut. Listen now, make sure the slave compound is well guarded, but keep the rest of my force out of sight. Don’t send any guards out scouting or patrolling. Now, about the slaves, keep them penned tight in their quarters. I don’t want them out working or fishing the lake. Is that understood?”
The weilmark bowed clumsily. “I hear you, Lord!”
The wildcat’s next question caught the feral cat officer totally off guard. “Tell me, who do you think murdered my faithful counsellor?”
Scaut stared dumbly at the floor. “Sire, I don’t know who slew Atunra.”
Riggu Felis chided him mildly. “Come on, you must have some idea. Was it Pitru?”
The weilmark murmured unhappily, “Lord, it is not my place to accuse yore son.”
The warlord put aside his beaker. “You recall that when we returned here after hunting the Shellhound and his crew, we learned that Atunra had gone missing. That was when Pitru appointed himself Fortress Commander, was it not?”
Scaut’s head bobbed dutifully. “Aye, Lord, yore right.”