The rat did not stir or nod, sensing that the wildcat was merely ruminating. She was right. Trunn smiled, as if humouring Groddil.
‘Ah, my faithful fox magician, you disobeyed me again. I wanted the stripedog alive, yet I’ve been told that many who were down there heard you shouting for him to be slain. I know you three are telling the truth about the stripedog’s death. There were too many witnesses for it to have been a lie. But think, Groddil. There’s something you forgot. Can you recall what it is, my friend?’
Groddil was far too petrified to answer, though he knew his master was about to tell him. Still smiling, Trunn spoke.
‘What became of nearly a score of hares? Did you magic them away? Perhaps they vanished into thin air, or faded into the rocks down there. Tell me?’
Groddil had no choice but to reply. ‘Mightiness, I am told there was only one of the longears seen, who escaped, helped by the stripedog. What became of him and his companions nobeast can say, sire. We could find no trace of them, though we searched hard and long.’
Ungatt Trunn disregarded the fox. He was staring at two rats, who were providing the prisoners’ escort for Groddil, Fraul and Mirefleck. ‘Aren’t you two the new recruits to my Blue Hordes? Refresh my memory – what are your names?’
The rat with a disfigured tooth curving on to his chin replied for them both. ‘Yer ‘Ighness, we’re brother searats, I’m Ripfang an’ this is Doomeye, my kinrat.’
Trunn nodded as he assessed the pair. ‘Former pirates, eh? I like that. Well, this is a lucky day for you. I’m promoting you both to the rank of captain. Exchange uniforms with Mirefleck and Fraul. From now on they are to be the lowest of Hordebeasts. They will be your servants, bring you food, carry out your wishes and keep both your accommodations and your kit clean. You have my permission to treat them as harshly as you please.’
Stripping the uniforms from the former captains, Ripfang and Doomeye grinned in wicked anticipation. The wildcat observed the mixture of shame and relief on the faces of his demoted officers before continuing.
‘Not so fast. You aren’t off the hook yet, my friends. Before you take up your duties with my new captains you will return to the cave where the stripedog perished. Take our friend Groddil with you; he’ll enjoy it, I’m sure. Now, here’s what you must do. The three of you will stay down there, until you capture the hares, or find out how they escaped. These two captains will take an escort to guard you. Each day that you are not successful in your task you will be flogged with willow canes and given no food. Oh, cheer up. There’s water aplenty down there, a great pool of it – you won’t get thirsty. Ripfang, Doomeye, get these idiots out of my sight!’
The unhappy trio were marched unceremoniously off. Ungatt Trunn curled his tail about the Grand Fragorl’s neck and drew her close to him, purring pleasurably.
‘Did you see their faces? I spared them, humiliated them, they looked relieved. Then I sentenced them to a living death and they just looked blank. I tell you, Fragorl, pleasure comes through power, and power is everything!’
The hares sat down to rest a moment in the long, downsloping tunnel. Bramwil rubbed the back of his neck and complained, ‘Ooh! ‘Tain’t much fun marchin’ with the old neck bent all day. Ceiling should be a bit higher, wot?’
Stiffener smiled at the ancient hare. ‘Marchin’ all day, ye say? How d’you know whether ’tis day or night? Looks all the same to me down ’ere.’
Bramwil tugged at Blench’s smock. ‘Er, how’re things on the vittle front, marm? Give young Stiffener a carrot – he can’t tell night from bally day, wot. I can though, an’ I’ll tell ye how. That blue light ahead is goin’ dimmer, so it must be evenin’ out there!’
Blench turned her bag inside out and shook it. ‘H’ain’t a crumb o’ vittles left, ole Bram. Yore right, though – it must be gettin’ dark outside, the light has faded.’
‘I could do a spot o’ damage to a rhubarb tart right now. Wouldn’t mind if it was hot or jolly well cold . . .’
Stiffener glared at Willip in the torchlight. ‘A word in yore ear, marm. Don’t start talldn’ about scoff, ’tis the fastest way for a hare t’go mad. You’ll have everybeast goin’ on about feasts they were at seasons ago. All that ripe fruit an’ crumbly cheese an’ summer salad, aye, an’ bilberry cordial. Look, you’ve got me at it now!’
Trobee’s stomach rumbled, and he sighed unhappily. ‘Yes, let’s. Well, what else is there to bloomin’ well talk about? My tummy’s in a blinkin’ turmoil!’
Stiffener peered down the tunnel. ‘Then think about ’ow lucky we are. Light fadin’ means we got a good chance of not bein’ spotted under cover o’ darkness. There’s somethin’ in our favour, mates.’
Purlow started up, batting at his scut. ‘Yowch, confound it, somebeast just bit me!’
Stiffener swung the torch in his direction. ‘Where?’
‘Right on the end o’ me bobtail, old lad, where d’y’think?’
Stiffener shoved him roughly aside. ‘I never asked where y’were bit, I meant where was the beast that bit ye?’
Blench held out her no longer empty bag with both paws. ‘Ah, look, bless ’im, ’tis only a liddle crabthing. Got a spiky back too. Big claws for such a young ’un, though.’
Purlow wagged his paw in the crab’s face. ‘You small cad, how dare y’bite my tail? Wait’ll I tell your mama!’
Trobee grabbed the torch from Stiffener and stared wide-eyed. ‘Zounds! You won’t have long t’wait, old lad. Here comes his mama right now, an’ the whole confounded crab clan!’
They were spiny spider crabs, with spiked backs covered in sharp spines, long red legs and fearsome-looking claws. Very aggressive crustaceans indeed. Blench tipped the baby crab on to the floor in a hurry.
‘Oh corks, there must be ’undreds an’ ’undreds o’ the villains. Wot d’ye suppose they want?’
Stiffener weighed up the dangerous situation. ‘So that’s wot the rhyme meant, the spinies! Listen to that watemoise buildin’ up down there – the tide must be comin’ in. We’re in those crabs’ way. They’re tryin’ t’get further up the tunnel to stop theirselves bein’ washed away by the waves. I don’t like the way they’re clackin’ those big nipper things an’ openin’ their jaws. Maybe they think we’re vittles, somethin’ good to eat!’
Scuttling sideways, the teeming masses of crabs, advanced, claws held high and snapping open and shut, blowing froth and bubbles from their gaping mouths. The noise of them could be heard over the advancing tide outside. It sounded like a shower of hailstones as their hard-shelled legs rattled against the rocks. The hares looked to Stiffener.
‘What d’you think we should do?’
The boxing hare decided instantly there was only one answer to Bramwil’s query. ‘We’ve got to run for it, straight through the middle o’ those blighters, an’ not stop for anythin’. They’re tryin’ to get away from the sea, we’re tryin’ to get to it, might be a bit of an ’elp. Trobee, me’n’you will take the lead an’ see if’n we can batter through. The rest of ye, stay close together. Willip, Blench, stick in the middle, keep tight ’old of Bramwil. Well, ’ere goes, mates. Eulaliaaaa!’
The charge carried them helter-skelter down the tunnel, straight into the crabs. Trobee and Stiffener bulled aside as many as they could, striking about with a couple of javelins. It was an almost impossible task; hares and crabs were so tightly packed in the narrow tunnel confines that it was difficult to make way. Powerful claws tore the javelins from their paws, spiny shells bumped them painfully, pointed legs scratched at them in the wild scramble. Some crabs were toppled over backwards and the hares ran over their hard-shelled undersides, avoiding kicking legs and snapping pincers. However, it could not last. The tunnel was far too narrow, and soon became completely jammed with a jumbled mêlée of hares and crabs.
Stiffener looked up. A gigantic specimen was bearing down upon him with both claws ready for action.
‘Trobee, throw me the torch, quick!’
The boxing hare scorched his paws as he caught the torch and thrust it savagely into the big crab’s mouth. It gurgled and hissed, latching both claws on to the torch. It was a scene of complete chaos, with trapped hares shouting amid the forest of clacking pincers.
‘Aagh, get this thing off me!’
‘Owouch, me ear!’
‘Leggo, you rotter, gerroff!’
‘Hold Bramwil up, don’t let him fall!’
‘Eeek, there’th one god me nothe!’
Then the wave came.
Peak of high tide sent a monstrous roller crashing up the tunnel entrance with all the awesome power of the stormy sea. Boiling white, blue and green, it shot up the bore of the rocky passage and hit the mass of hares and crabs like a mighty sledgehammer, shooting them hard uphill. Then it sucked them back in a whirling vacuum of seawater. Stiffener spun like a top, jolting against rocks and crabshells, his nose, mouth, eyes and ears choked by the salt water. The entire world became white and filled with roaring noise as he went ears over scut. Stomach down he was hurled flat, his mouth gaping wide as he skidded along until it was full of sand.
A moment later he was upright in the night air, waist deep, with waves bashing him. Coughing up grit and brine, he wiped the stinging seawater from his eyes. A familiar figure waded towards him. Blench.
‘Watch out, Stiff, ’ere comes Willip!’
A wave sent Willip crashing into the boxing hare’s back. He staggered up and joined paws with her and the cook. ‘Keep tight ’old, marms. Let’s find the others. Where’s ole Bramwil got to, anybeast seen ’im?’
‘Hi there, young feller, over here, wot!’
Only then did Stiffener realise that it was raining hard. Bramwil was sitting on the shore in the downpour, waving a piece of driftwood, several others with him.
Trobee came swimming along, his head popping up alongside Stiffener. He saluted, sank, and resurfaced spitting a jet of seawater into the air. ‘Phwah! All present an’ correct, I think – there’s Purlow floppin’ about upcoast. Ahoy there, Purlow, how d’ye do!’
‘Fine, old chap. How’re you? Lots of weather we’re havin’ for the time o’ season, wot wot?’
‘Keep yore voices down, mates,’ Stiffener called out in the loudest whisper he could muster, ’there might be vermin patrols around. Bramwil, we’ll meet ye in the lee o’ those rocks.’
It was a cold, windy, wet and moonless night as they huddled together on the north side of a ragged rockspur. Bramwil could just make out the shape of Salamandastron’s dark bulk to the south of where they sat.
‘This chunk o’ rock is part of our mountain, a great spur, buried beneath the sand an’ stickin’ up again here by the sea.’
Willip crouched down and scuttled towards the end of the rock protruding into the sea. ‘Bramwil’s right,’ she reported when she came back. ‘I saw the mouth of the tunnel we came out of, though ’tis so thickly overgrown with seaweed a body would never know ’twas there, wot.’
Bramwil shivered, shaking his saturated fur. ‘Well, we made it, chaps, we’re alive an’ free. But with no weapons or food. What next, young Stiff, eh?’
Stiffener blinked rain from his eyes. ‘Can’t stay ’ere, that’s fer sure, mates. We’d best move while the goin’s good. There’s some rock ledges an’ dunes east of ’ere – I picked blackberries there last autumn. Let’s take a look over that way, eh?’
In the hour before dawn they topped a rise in the sandhills. Some white limestone cliff ridges loomed up on their left. The rain was becoming heavier, whipped sideways by the wind. With both ears plastered flat to his head and his fur thoroughly sandgritted and wet, Stiffener looked back in the direction of Salamandastron.
‘See, lord, I kept me vow so far, an’ don’t you fret now. I’ll be goin’ back to our mountain, an’ if there be a single hare alive there I’ll rescue ’em. I promise!’
20
DOTTI HAD NEVER in her life seen anything like the court of King Bucko, nor had any of her travelling companions. It was situated in a broad, beautiful woodland glade, backed by a steep rocky hill, with a stream bordering one side, fringed with crack willow, guelder rose and osier. But there any resemblance to a peaceful sylvan setting ended. It was packed to bursting with teeming life. Lord Brocktree’s party wandered about, relatively unnoticed. There were moles, otters, voles, hedgehogs, mice, squirrels and shrews everywhere, but hares formed the main presence. Hares, big, strong, young and bold. Fleetscut nodded at them. He had to raise his voice so that Dotti could hear him above the din as they pushed and jostled their way through.
‘Well stap me ears, we’ve got a right bunch o’ corkers here, miss. There’s a lot o’ mountain hares – one can tell by the remains of their white winter patches, wot. As for the rest, there’s a few gypsies, but a chap can recognise the offspring of Salamandastron hares. D’y’know, I can pick out the ears an’ faces of most – look just like their mothers an’ fathers they do. Dearie me, it makes me feel jolly old, I can tell ye. Some o’ these great lumps o’ fur’n’bone, huh, I bounced ’em on me knee when they were tiny leverets!’
Dotti giggled at the thought it conjured up. ‘Heehee, you’d get a blinkin’ broken knee if you tried bouncin’ any o’ those big hulkin’ boyos now, wot?’
A carnival atmosphere reigned over the court. Groups of hedgehogs competed with oak clubs on hollow logs, trying to outdrum one another; squirrels were performing acrobatic feats, flying over the heads of the crowd. A mob of young otters lounged against a stack of barrels, with foaming tankards in their paws, roaring out bawdy songs with no pretence whatsoever to harmony or tune, volume seeming to take precedence over all else. Shrews and voles wrestled in packs, one team against another. Mice and moles were cooking over a huge open fire, laughing as they exchanged friendly insults about the results of each other’s culinary efforts. A motley orchestra had set itself up on the lower hill slopes. All manner of creatures scraped on fiddles, rattled tambourines, shrilled on flutes and whistles, battered away at bohrans – flat single-headed drums with double-ended striking sticks – and twanged a variety of odd stringed instruments. Some mountain hares even droned away on sets of bagpipes.
Lord Brocktree was the only badger present at the massive gathering, standing out head and shoulders above other beasts. His backslung battle sword received many admiring glances, and not many creatures tried to bump or jostle him – in fact, not any.
The Badger Lord winced, clapping paws over both his ears. ‘By my stripes, how any creature could put up with this infernal din is beyond me! Let’s find somewhere less noisy!’
They took refuge on the streambank beneath a couple of crack willows, which afforded generous shade. Log a Log Grenn signalled two of her Guosim. ‘Kubba, Rukoo, find your way back t’the ford an’ see if you can find a sidestream to bring our boats up here.’
Jukka sprang moodily to a low willow branch, where she jabbed her short spear viciously into the trunk. ‘I like it not, this place of loud fools. ’Tis an affront to the ears an’ eyes, a gathering of madbeasts!’
Fleetscut noticed she was staring accusingly at him. ‘Well pish tush an’ a pity about you, milady. What d’you want me t’do about it, eh? Do I run around shushin’ them all up, or would y’prefer me to carry you back to your pine grove, wot?’
Whirling her loaded sling, Jukka sprang down. ‘Thou hast insulted me enough, longears. Let’s settle this thing betwixt us, here an’ now!’
Brocktree was between them suddenly, knocking the sling awry. ‘Cast one stone, Jukka Sling, and I’ll snap off the paw that does it and feed it to you!’
A hare, with six others attending him, marched up to Brocktree. ‘By the cringe’n’the left, sah, you’ll be the Badger Lord who’s come a-visitin’, wot! His Majesty King Bucko wants a word with you. Don’t know who you other bods are, but y’d best wait here, wot!’
Fleetscut placed himself in front of the officious young hare. ‘Aye, but one of these other bods knows who you jolly well are, earw
ag. Son of Bramwil, if I’m not mistaken. Hmm, y’won’t remember me, but I knew you. Little fat feller with a runny nose, always sniffin’ an’ weepin’. What was it they called you? Dribbler, that was it!’
The hare, a fine fit-looking beast, sniffed and turned on his heel, stating huffily, ‘That, sah, was a nickname. I’m properly called Windcoat Bramwil Lepus the second. You may bring your retinue with you if you wish, Lord Badger!’
Stifling a smile, Brocktree addressed his creatures. ‘Fall in and follow me, retinue. Let’s go and see this Bucko!’
Steps made from logs led up to the fork of an old cherry laurel, padded and draped with hanging velvet to form the royal throne. King Bucko Bigbones was bigger than most hares and obviously strong-framed. He lounged casually in the tree fork, one footpaw dangling, the other up against the outward-leaning left limb. A broad belt girdled his ample waist, decorated with coloured stones, polished arrowheads and lots of medallions. Around his head, though cocked jauntily over one eye, he wore a gold circlet interwoven with laurel leaves. In one paw he held a sceptre of sculpted oak with a crystal chip set in its top. He cast an eye over his visitors as if they were of no great interest.
‘D’ye no bow yer heids or bend a knee tae a king?’
Brocktree’s answer was equally dismissive. ‘We bow to no creature, even self-appointed kings. Do you not find it common courtesy to rise in the presence of a Badger Lord, instead of sitting draped up there like a drunken beast?’
The Royal Guard surrounding the tree throne put paws to their weapons, but the king shook his head at them. ‘Nae call fer that, yon beastie’d prob’ly floor the lot o’ ye. Jings, but yer a big ’un, an’ saucy too, as I heard. By the rocks! That’s a braw battle blade ye bear. Ah’ll trade ye for et, anythin’ ye like!’