“Row, ye bilge-bottomed blaggards! Brekkist! Wot swab mentioned brekkist, eh? Ye don’t get a single sniff o’ the cook’s apron until the keel hits the shallows! Row! Let’s hear those backbones a-creakin’, git those sweeps movin’, ye misbegotten maggots, ye far-flung flotsam, ye jumped-up jetsam!”
Quartle sniggered to Portan as they pulled furiously, “Ole Blood’n’guts says the nicest things, don’t he? I always wanted to be a jumped-up jetsam!”
He missed the stroke and tumbled backward. “Whoops, sorry, must’ve caught a crab!”
Portan whispered as he pulled his comrade upright, “Well, don’t tell anybeast, old lad. They’ll all want some!”
The wind stiffened, sending the vessel riding full tilt and landward. Once again, Cuthbert started berating his hapless crew. “Lay to wid those oars! D’ye want to run us onto a reef? There’s rocks ahead! Ship yore sweeps, finish with those oars afore ye wreck me valuable vessel, ye cloth-eared clods! I told ye to row, not t’go bloomin’ mad!”
Quite a bit of muffled laughter broke out among the oarcrew, but they gratefully shipped oars whilst Cuthbert, aided by the fat Corporal Drubblewick, frantically shortened the mainsail to decrease the vessel’s speed. With Tiria at the bowsprit calling directions and Cuthbert manning the tiller skillfully, they charted a course between rocks and reefs. The Purloined Petunia made a stately landfall, her keel crunching into the pebbled shallows.
Even before they had dropped anchor, the main body of the crew made an eager stampede for the side, everybeast wanting to be first ashore. Cuthbert suddenly cast off his maritime coat and reverted to his role of Major Blanedale Frunk. However, it was only with the timely assistance of Captain Rafe Granden and Colour Sergeant O’Cragg that the Long Patrol were stopped from disembarking and wading ashore. The roars of the three officers froze the crew in their tracks.
“Stand fast there, ye mutinous mob. Come to attention all of ye!”
“Yew ’eard the h’offisah, stan’ fast! Just twitch h’an ear, laddie buck, h’an yore h’on a bloomin’ fizzer!”
“Steady in the ranks, pay ’tenshun to the Major now!”
Cuthbert strode the deck, glaring through his monocle. “Lady Tiria, Cap’n Granden, Sarn’t O’Cragg an’ my goodself are goin’ ashore. We’ll form the advance guard in case of attack. Subalterns Quartle an’ Portan will drop anchor an’ furl sails. Corporal Drubblewick an’ the cookin’ detail will follow us ashore to light a fire an’ ready up some vittles. The rest of ye, form a chain from ship to shore, an’ bring all supplies’n’arms to land safe’n’dry, an’ in good order. Whilst you are on yonder island, you’ll conduct yourselves like Long Patrol hares. Right, stan’ easy, dismiss, an’ attend to your duties!”
As the hares went about their tasks with military efficiency, Tiria wandered a little way up the beach. She climbed upon a rock and stared around. So this was the fabled Green Isle, she thought, the home of her distant ancestors. This was actually where the High Queen Rhulain had once ruled.
Colour Sergeant O’Cragg marched up and came smartly to attention. “Major Frunk’s compliments, miss. Will ye be dinin’ with the Patrol?”
Savoury odours drifting from cauldrons over the cooking fire reminded Tiria that she was hungry. “Oh yes, please, Sergeant. That would be nice!”
The burly hare saluted. “Right y’are, miss, but the major says ye don’t get h’a bite ’til yore dressed properlike h’in yore regalia!”
The ottermaid looked indignantly at the tunic and kilt she had worn for the voyage. “Why, what’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
A smile creased the sergeant’s rough-hewn face. “Major Frunk says ye look like h’a ’edgehog wot’s been dragged back’ards through h’a bush, beggin’ yore pardon, miss. H’accordin’ to ’im, you gotta be h’attired h’as befits h’a future queen. H’either that or ye starve. Those h’are ’is words, not mine, miss!”
Fuming with the injustice of it all, Tiria was forced to go back aboard the ship and change into her regalia. She marched stiffly into camp, where she sat stone-faced amid the garrulous hare crew. Corporal Drubblewick served her with a bowl of mushroom and barley soup, some freshly baked griddle scones and a beaker of raspberry cordial.
The fat hare wiggled his ears at her. “I say, M’lady, jolly spiffy outfit, wot!”
Cuthbert strolled over, nodding his approval. “Top marks, a very smart turnout indeed! Ye really look the part now, Milady. Well done!”
Tiria treated him to a withering stare. “I’m so pleased you think so, Major.”
He indicated the other hares with his swagger stick. “Oh,’tis not just me, it’s the rest o’ the Patrol, doncha see? They’ll be goin’ into battle to regain this isle for ye. That bein’ the case, some o’ these buckoes may be slain defendin’ your title, miss. War’s war y’know, an’ they’d feel much better knowin’ they’re riskin’ life’n’limb for a queen who looks like a queen, an’ not some raggedy otter gel, eh wot?”
Tiria, completely humbled by this statement, put aside her food. “Please accept my apologies, Major Frunk. I never thought of it that way. From now on I’ll do my best to look and act like a queen. Forgive my foolishness.”
Cuthbert tapped her paw with his swagger stick, answering kindly, “Come on now, don’t get so jolly well upset. Eat up your vittles, Majesty, an’ remember: Handsome is as handsome does, wot!”
Tiria cheered up, accepting the hares’ compliments and putting up with their jokes. When the meal was finished, Captain Granden gave the order for everybeast to inspect arms.
“Before ye fall in t’march, look to those weapons. All lance an’ spearpoints to be correctly tipped. Pay special attention to your blades, sharpen ’em blinkin’ well. Bowstrings t’be waxed an’ tested, you archers, check your quivers. Slingbeasts, I don’t want t’see any frayed slings or half-filled stonepouches. This beach is full of bloomin’ good pebbles. Make bally sure your arms ain’t goin’ to let ye down if push comes to shove, buckoes. Then y’can fall in, formed in three ranks. Major Frunk an’ my goodself will scout ahead. Sarn’t Major O’Cragg, will ye take over please?”
He murmured in Tiria’s ear, “Ye’d best march with the Patrol, Lady. We don’t want to risk losin’ you just yet!”
The advance scouts had departed by the time the Patrol were ready and formed up. Tiria marched alongside Quartle and Portan, with Sergeant O’Cragg leading off at the front of the columns. The hares sang a marching song, though not too loudly, just to keep them in orderly stride.
“Left right, left right,
put those paws down lively now.
One two, one two,
come on chaps let’s show ’em how.
’Tis on to death or glory,
for every willin’ beast,
an’ what’ll we have to show for it,
a song a fight an’ a feast!
Left right, left right,
every mother’s son of ye.
One two, one two,
o’er shore’n’hill’n’vale’n’lea.
The Long Patrol are on the march,
from dawn ’til evenin’ light,
as long as we can end it with
a song a feast an’ a fight!
Left right, left right,
eatin’ dust an’ poundin’ earth.
One two, one two,
’tis all a warrior’s worth,
a dash o’ blood’n’vinegar,
for that we’ll string along,
while we’re alive we’ll all survive
on a fight a feast an’ a song!”
Sunlight glinted brightly off Tiria’s armour. Her short emerald cloak swaying jauntily, she picked up the words of the hares’ tune and sang it a second time. As she marched, thoughts began to tumble through the young ottermaid’s mind. She had come all the way from being an Abbeymaid who had hardly been far outside of Redwall, to a would-be warrior queen marching across Green Isle with the Long Patrol. And all in the space of one s
eason! If only her father and all her dear friends—Brink Greyspoke, Abbess Lycian, Brinty, Girry, Tribsy, Friar Bibble and the rest—could see her now! A resolve rose within Tiria. She would not let any of them down, especially the gallant hares of Salamandastron. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she marched onward regally. Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was right: Handsome is as handsome does!
29
Leatho Shellhound had decided on a course of action. His first job was to break out of the cage. But where then? It was far too high up for him to reach the pier below, so he planned on going upward. He would climb into the chamber above, through the window, from whence his prison was suspended. It would be a risky business, but the outlaw realised it was his only avenue of escape. Looking down through the floor bars, he checked below, lest any guards were watching. The pier and the lake beyond it lay deserted. Leatho did not stop to wonder why. Instead, he focussed on trying to loosen one of the roof timbers. Attempting to prevent the cage from hitting the side of the tower—and doing so with as little noise as possible—was no easy task. The roof bars were made of heavy wood, quite thick, and were firmly nailed in place with iron spikes. The outlaw otter attacked them with his bare paws, pulling, pushing, clawing and scrabbling, but to no avail. Clearly, it was going to be a long and painstaking chore. He began working on the iron spikes, desperately trying to budge just one. After a while his paws were skinned and bleeding from the effort, forcing him to take a rest.
As the Shellhound was licking his scratches and wishing he had some sort of tool to help, he heard the door creak in the upper chamber. Quickly he wrapped the severed rope ends around his paws and hung there limply, as though he were still bound and helpless.
Weilmark Scaut had decided to look in on the prisoner. He leaned over the windowsill and rattled the cage bars with his whipstock. “Hah, still alive, are ye, Shellhound? Wot’s it feel like, hangin’ up here without any vittles or water, eh?”
Determined not to rise to the bait, Leatho hung limply, head lolling forward, feigning unconsciousness.
Scaut thrust the whip through the bars, managing to tickle his victim’s ears with it. He whispered scornfully, “Ain’t so bold an’ sprightly now, are ye? Well, you just stay there like a goodbeast ’til yore rebel friends surrender. Aye, then we’ll take ye down, an’ I’ll give ye a proper taste o’ this lash. Pleasant dreams!”
Leatho heard him retreating back into the chamber, slamming the door as he left.
A dark shadow hovered over him, and a voice nearby whispered, “Raaaark! He is gone. Ye could do with some help.”
Leatho found himself looking up into the savage, goldenrimmed eyes of a mighty hawk as it hovered over the cage. He loosened his paws from the ropes.
“Who are ye, mate, an’ what’re ye doin’ here?”
The big bird perched on the cage roof. “Kraagarr! I am the enemy of all cats. I have been watching ye trying to get out of this thing.”
The otter smiled ruefully. “Ain’t havin’ much luck, am I?”
The hawk shook its head. “I will help ye. Push upward on this middle bar, an’ I will pull. Ready!”
Leatho began pushing, grunting with exertion as he set his paws to the bar. The big bird wrapped its fearsome talons around the bar. Flapping its powerful wings, it strained upward, pulling as Leatho pushed.
Crack! The bar snapped straight through its centre. Releasing its hold on the broken bar, the hawk hovered in the air for a brief moment, its fierce unwinking eyes scanning the area. “Yeeaakkah! Pandion Piketalon must go before cats come with bows and slings!”
Leatho waved to his newfound friend. “My thanks to ye, Pandion. I am called Leatho Shellhound. I, too, am an enemy of the cats. Mayhaps we’ll meet again.”
The osprey circled overhead gracefully. “Hayaarr! We will make the cats weep blood, Leatho. I will bring the Rhulain and her warriors to help ye!”
Without waiting for a reply, Pandion soared off swiftly into the distance, leaving the outlaw with the name pounding through his brain: Rhulain! Rhulain! The High Queen of Green Isle was coming, just as Ould Zillo had prophesied. He repeated the word aloud like a magic spell. “Rhulain! Rhulain!”
A quick downward glance assured Leatho that all was still quiet below. There was neither sign nor presence of catguards watching. By grabbing one end of the broken roof bar and yanking it sharply downward, he managed to pull it loose. It was a jagged length of timber with an iron spike through the top—crude but nevertheless a fearsome weapon in the paws of the outlaw. Clambering out onto the roof of his former prison, Leatho shinned up the short length of rope and hauled himself over the windowsill. He went into a fighting crouch, wielding his improvised club, ready to face anybeast who stood in his way. But the room was empty, save for a table and a few benches. Leatho crept quietly to the door, holding his ear to it. The two catguards out on the stairhead were talking. Leatho eavesdropped on their conversation.
“Huh, we’ve been stuck here guardin’ this door all day. When’s Scaut goin’ to send us a relief, eh? When?”
The other guard replied gruffly, “I don’t know. Why don’t ye stop complainin’ t’me? Go an’ ask him. I dare ye!”
Leatho felt the speaker lean his back against the door as he continued taunting his companion.
“Go on, mate! You go down there an’ tell ole Felis you’ve stood guard long enough. Have ye heard wot ’appened to Yund? Hah, ye’d end up bein’ sliced to bits, just like him. Scaut might chop ye into smaller pieces, ’cos you ain’t even a scorecat. Yore only a . . . aaaaagh!”
The door swung inward, bringing the catguard stumbling backward with it. Leatho slew him with a single blow of his club. However, before he could get to the other, the catguard was already rushing downstairs, yelling, “Help! Escape! Shellhound’s on the loose! Escape!”
Leatho heard the rattle of spears and Scaut roaring like a madbeast, “Don’t let him escape! Get up there an’ capture him, quick!”
Footpaws thudded upon the stairs as catguards began racing upward. The outlaw seized a jug of water, together with a platter of bread and half a fish, which the two guards had been sharing. He retreated swiftly back into the chamber. Dragging the dead guard out of the way, he barred the door with the table and benches. Now nobeast could reach him, but it was a tricky situation. He was virtually being held prisoner again.
He retrieved the spear, which had fallen in with the guard, then stood swigging water and stuffing down bread and fish. The door began to shudder under blows from the guards’ weapons, but it was a solid oaken door and withstood their efforts well. The banging went on for a while, then suddenly ceased.
The next thing Leatho heard was Scaut calling to him, “Shellhound, I warn ye! Open this door, or it’ll go badly for ye!”
The outlaw otter laughed recklessly. “If’n ye want to see how badly things’ll go, then try openin’ the door an’ comin’ in here, ye lard barrel!”
When Riggu Felis received the news of his captive’s escape from the cage, he went into a fit of rage. Bounding out onto the pier with a score of catguards, he glared up at the empty cage hanging beneath the high window. The chain mail half-mask rattled against his fangs with each sharp intake of breath as he turned to the guards.
“Archers, fire arrows through that window!”
Leatho heard the command and threw himself flat against the window wall. Three shafts made it into the chamber; two stuck into the floor, while the third thudded into the door. Other arrows did not make it that far and stuck like feathered twigs into the wooden tower walls.
The outlaw presented himself at the open window space, grinning down at the warlord. “Is that the best ye can do, skinface? Try again!”
Leatho watched the guards fire more arrows and moved swiftly out of the way. The cats were selecting their next arrows, under their leader’s exhortations.
“Kill him! Wound him! Anything, but get him!”
Before they had a chance to notch arrows to s
trings, the carcass of the guard, whom Leatho had slain earlier, came hurtling down. Felis jumped out of the way, but the body struck two archers, stunning one and killing the other.
A booming shout rang out from the pier end. “Good shot matey, hang on, we’re comin’!”
Big Kolun Galedeep and a mob of otters came thundering along the pier. Riggu Felis yelled, “Archers, fire at those otters and retreat. Back inside!” The battle had begun.
As the fortress doors slammed shut, the pier and the shore to either side of it were swarming with otterclan warriors. Rocks and stones, arrows and lances hit the fortress walls.
Leatho leaned out of the high window, roaring his warcry. “Eeeee aye eeeeeh! Forward the clans! Eeeee aye eeeeh!”
Alerted by the cries of battle, Scaut came scurrying downstairs with his guards. His voice was shrill with surprise as he met with Riggu Felis.
“Lord, are we under attack?”
It was the wrong thing to say. A butt from the wildcat’s steel-helmeted head sent the weilmark sprawling.
“Of course we’re under attack, you blockheaded dolt! Call the guards out of the barracks, get them here quick!”
Weilmark Scaut obeyed his master’s command hastily, but his face was a picture of bewilderment as he accosted the last guard to leave the barracks. He grabbed the cat and shook him.
“There must be more’n threescore missin’. Where’ve the rest of ’em gone?”
The shaking guard’s teeth rattled as he tried to explain. “They’ve gone with Commander Pitru. I thought ye knew!”
Scaut shook him harder. “Gone! Gone where?”
The hapless guard tried to salute as he replied, “Lookin’ for otters. They went out the back o’ the barracks. Commander Pitru said it was Lord Felis’s orders.”
Scaut shoved the puzzled guard away from him. “Go an’ report to Lord Felis right now. Tell him wot you’ve just told me. Go on!”