Brocktree raised a paw to touch the double-hilted weapon. ‘My sword wouldn’t do you any good, and it’s not for sale or trade. You and another like you couldn’t lift it.’
King Bucko laughed and bounded down the steps, paw outstretched. He gripped the badger’s paw and applied pressure. ‘Och, I like ye well, mah friend. D’ye mean tae challenge me?’
Brocktree stood smiling easily, allowing Bucko to squeeze his paw to the maximum. Then the Badger Lord squeezed back. White-faced and trembling, the hare was forced to his knees. He managed a pained smile. ‘Jings, ah hope ye don’t challenge me. Would ye not let mah paw free afore ye flatten et completely?’
The badger released his paw. Bucko stood up, massaging it and smiling ruefully.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be challenging you,’ Brocktree assured him, ‘but one of my party will. I’ll let you know who when the time’s right.’
Bucko glanced over Brocktree’s followers, then dashed up to Skittles and knelt in front of the hogbabe. ‘Hah, so you’re the wee terror who wants tae fight King Bucko, eh? Let’s see whit ye can do then, mah laddie!’
Skittles needed no second bidding. He jumped upon the hare and began pummelling with his tiny paws. ‘I fight ya, Skikkles be’s a good fighterer!’
Bucko held him off, shouting in mock horror, ‘Ach, get the wild wee beastie off me or ah’ll be kill’t!’ Still rubbling his paw he winked at Brocktree. ‘Just as weel ye never breakit mah paw. Ah’ve got a challenge tae answer shortly. Gang ye along an’ watch – ’twill be a bit o’ sport tae entertain ye. Guards, bring mah battlegown!’
The guards draped King Bucko in a magnificently embroidered cloak and he set off, with Brocktree and the others following.
A log-circled ring had been cleared further down the streambank. Dotti stood between Ruff and Gurth to view the combat. Creatures packed the circle’s edge, fifty deep, while others climbed trees or took to the rocks. An enormous hedgehog stood to one side of the ring, a gang of his followers stroking his spikes and massaging his hefty gnarled paws. He kept shrugging his shoulders and sniffing a lot. King Bucko entered the ring to deafening applause. Throwing off his cloak, he joined both paws over his head and shook them at his followers in salute.
There was a line scratched at the ring’s centre. Bucko stepped up to it, flexing both knees and rolling his head about to limber up. The big hedgehog stepped up, threw a few punches in mid-air and snuffled. A fat bankvole came next, who stood between the contestants and roared out the rules in a voice that would have put a choir of crows to shame.
‘Good creatures h’all, h’attend my words!’ The crowd fell silent as the bankvole swelled his chest out. ‘Thiiiis daaaaay! H’a challenge ’as been given to yore king, Bucko Bigbones, the Wild March Hare of the North Mountains! By none h’other than Picklepaw Ironspikes, Champeeyun h’of the Southern Coasts! Roooools are as follows! No weapons or h’arms t’be used by either beast. Apaaaaart from that . . . h’anythin’ goes! Theeeee fightah left standin’ picks up the crown as victoooooor!’
Silence continued as Bucko gave his crown to the bankvole, who marched ten paces over the ground and held it high. He dropped the crown, and as it hit the ground the fight started. Dotti could not hear herself think for the noise.
‘Och, gev hem the auld one two, Yer Majesty!’
‘Show ’im the Picklepaw Punch, go on, Ironspikes!’
‘I’ll give ten candied chestnuts to one on ‘Is Majesty!’
‘A silver dagger to a copper spoon ole Ironspikes drops ’im!’
‘Watch out for his jolly old left, sire!’
‘Don’t wait around, Ironspikes, gerrin there!’
With a footpaw each on the line the fighters faced each other. Both ducked and weaved, though it was only the hedgehog throwing massive barnstorming swipes with left and right. As yet the hare had not offered a single blow. He stood firm, merely bobbing and bending backwards, avoiding each haymaker as it whooshed by overhead or either side of him. Bucko was smiling, Ironspikes almost purple with anger and exertion. Dotti could not help whispering to Gurth, ‘What’s King Bucko doing? Why doesn’t he try to hit the hog?’
Gurth kept both eyes on the fighters, assessing them. ‘Ee king be a gurt scrapper, miz, ee’m wurrin’ ee ’edgepig daown. Lukkee naow, miz Dott, ee king gotten ole Ironspoikes!’
The haremaid could not see how Bucko had the hedgehog beaten. Suddenly Ironspikes dropped one of his paws and straightened up, just for a split second, but that was enough. Bucko crouched and swung a massive sideways left as he came up. Bumpff! It connected with Ironspikes’s jaw, his eyes rolled and he fell like a stone, spark out!
Dotti had to shout to make herself heard over the cheering. ‘Oh corks, what a fighter, what a punch! I’ll bet nobeast could beat King Bucko, eh, Gurth?’
The good mole smiled at his young friend. ‘Hurr, miz, nobeast cudd beat ee king at boxen, but oi bet moi tunnel a clever wrassler wudd, burr aye!’
King Bucko picked up the crown and replaced it on his head, and the hares draped his cloak about him. He leapt over the logs, right where Dotti was standing, and winked roguishly at the haremaid.
‘Och, ’twas a piece o’ cake, lassie. Yon hog was nought but a great fat brawler. Ahey, you’re a pretty wee thing, ain’t ye!’
Dotti did not want to appear over-impressed by Bucko, so she stiffened both ears and looked distant. ‘Actually pretty’s the wrong word, sah. I’m a fatal beauty really. Runs in the family, y’know.’
Bucko smiled as he chucked her under the chin. ‘Och, away with ye, missie, ah’ve seen fatal beauties an’ yer no one o’ those. Still, like ah say, yer a pretty wee thing.’
He swept by her and was carried off on the shoulders of his jubilant supporters. Ruff noticed Dotti’s quivering lip and angry features, and put a paw about her shoulders. ‘Ahoy there, me ole mate, wot’s wrong with yore face?’
The haremaid shrugged Ruff’s paw off. ‘Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my face. But I’ll jolly well tell you something, Ruff. I don’t like that cad Bucko King, or whatever he calls himself. I’d like to take the blighter down a peg or three, wot!’
Ruff stared at her in surprise. ‘An ’aremaiden like you, Dotti, d’you think you could beat ’im?’
The noise was audible as her teeth ground together. ‘I don’t think . . . I know I can beat the blusterin’ bounder!’
Campfires burned all over the glade area as night fell warm and soft. Lanterns hung in the trees reflected their colours into the stream. King Bucko’s court was celebrating yet another victory by their ruler; the noise and merriment continued unabated. Dotti sat with Fleetscut beneath the willow. The rest of their party had gone off to join in the fun and games.
The old hare had a worried look as he spoke to his young friend. ‘I say, dash it all, miss Dotti, I was the one who should’ve challenged Bucko Bigbones, not you, a young haremaid, wot!’
Dotti poured cider for Fleetscut. ‘Sorry, old chum, y’far too old, he’d eat you. Besides, you ain’t the one he bloomin’ well insulted. The honour of the Duckfontein Dillworthys was at stake – I had to challenge the rotter. Not a fatal beauty, eh? I’ll show him!’
The dark bulk of Lord Brocktree loomed up out of the night. He joined the two hares beneath the willow, shaking his head at Dotti. ‘I delivered your challenge to Bucko Bigbones. Sorry, miss, he wouldn’t accept it.’
The haremaid sprang up, eyes flashing angrily. ‘Wouldn’t accept it? What d’you mean, sah?’
The Badger Lord shrugged. ‘He just flatly refused to accept any challenge from a young maid. I delivered the message formally, with due gravity and ceremony – it was all done with proper dignity.’
Dotti was quivering all over, apart from her ears, which stood up ramrod straight. ‘And what did the blaggard say? Tell me, sah, word for word!’
Brocktree’s huge paws fiddled about with a thin branch. ‘He said you should be at home,’ he explained, almost apologetically, ‘hel
ping your mama to do the washing, and that the whole thing was a silly little joke. Then he laughed with his cronies for a while and told me to tell you there was no way he was going to fight a haremaiden. Said one tap of his paw and your face wouldn’t be so pretty, not with a broken jaw. His final words were: “Learn to cook and stay clear of real warriors, before you become fatally injured, with no chance of ever becoming a fatal beauty.” That’s it, as best as I can remember, miss.’
Dotti grabbed Fleetscut roughly and hauled him upright. ‘Give me that barkscroll you were telling me about, the one found by that Rabblehog. Give it t’me this bloomin’ instant!’
The old hare rummaged in his tunic and produced the battered and stained scroll. Dotti snatched it from him.
‘Listen t’this, sah – the blighter’s own challenge!’ Her voice shaking with temper, she read the lines aloud.
‘Come mother, father, daughter, son,
My challenge stands to anybeast!
I’ll take on all, or just the one,
Whether at the fight or feast!
Aye, try to beat me an’ defeat me,
Set ’em up, I’ll knock ’em down!
Just try to outbrag me, you’ll see,
King Bucko Bigbones wears the crown!’
She waved the tattered barkscroll in Brocktree’s face. ‘Now, sah, you’ve heard it. Is that a challenge or not, wot?’
The Badger Lord nodded gravely. ‘Couldn’t be any clearer, ’tis a challenge right enough!’
Dotti quickly rolled the scroll and jammed it in her belt. ‘Huh, that’s flippin’ well good enough for me. Come on!’
She stormed off, her footpaws almost punching holes in the ground. A wide grin spread across the badger’s face. He took hold of Fleetscut’s paw, tugging him along in her wake. ‘Hurry along, old one, I wouldn’t miss this for a feast prepared by Longladle himself. Things are going to plan, even better than I dared hope they would!’
King Bucko was in high good humour. He sat on his treefork throne, swilling dandelion beer and laughing uproariously with his comrades as he relived the fight with Ironspikes that afternoon.
‘Och, the fat auld fraud wiz swingin’ both paws like a windmill an’ puffin’ like a northeast gale, d’ye ken. So ah just ducked an’ came up wi’ mah guid auld left cross. Whacko! Did ye see the big braw pincushion topple, hahaha!’
‘Aye, y’pick the easy marks, don’t you, Bucko?’
The laughter ceased. All eyes turned on Dotti, who was standing, paws akimbo, on the bottom log step. The king waved his sceptre dismissively at her. ‘Ach, awa’ wi’ ye, lassie, go an’ look fer some babbies t’nurse.’ Sycophant hares around the throne guffawed loudly.
Dotti bounded up the steps and shook out the barkscroll. She thrust it under the king’s nose. ‘It says here that you’ll fight mother, father, daughter or son. That’s what it says. Right?’
The big mountain hare flicked the scroll from her paws with his sceptre and tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Mebbe et does, mebbe et don’t. Whit are ye gettin’ so stirred up aboot, mah pretty one?’
Dotti’s paw prodded him hard in the chest. ‘Don’t you ever call me your pretty one, you great blowbag! I’m here to take up your challenge!’
One of the guards tried to lay paws on Dotti for prodding his king. He froze as a swordpoint from below tickled his tail. Lord Brocktree was staring up at him.
‘Stay out of this, or I’ll make it my fight with you!’
Dotti prodded Bucko again, harder this time. ‘Well?’
The king’s former good humour was fast deserting him. ‘Ach! Ah’m nae goin’ tae fight wi’ no wee haremaid. Whit d’ye think I am, a bully?’
Dotti marched off down the steps, her nose in the air. ‘Since you ask, sah, I’ll tell you what I think you are. You’re no king, just a liar an’ a coward!’
In the horrified silence that followed, King Bucko came bounding down the steps after her, paws clenched tight. ‘Yerrah! Ye whey-faced whelp, we’ll settle this right here an’ noo. Ah’ll no have a lassie cheekin’ me!’
He scratched a line in the ground with his sceptre and tossed it aside. Placing his footpaw on the line, he snarled, ‘Get yer fuitpaw on this mark here an’ spit like this!’ He put up his paws in fighting stance and spat over the other side of the line.
Dotti gave him a frozen glare. ‘Didn’t your mater ever tell you ’tis rank bad manners to spit? Disgusting habit, sah, but quite in keeping with your form, wot.’
Lord Brocktree stepped in, pointing his sword at Bucko. ‘No quick paw-the-mark scraps here, Bigbones. Let’s do it properly at the designated time. Now, do you accept this hare’s challenge, answer yes or no?’
The mountain hare’s expression was murderous as he grated out his reply. ‘Aye, stripedawg, ah accept the challenge. Ye’ll be hearin’ from mah seconds afore midnight!’
Brocktree tipped a paw to his stripes courteously. ‘Thank you, I’ll look forward to it. I bid you good night.’
As they strode off, the badger took Fleetscut’s paw. ‘Hurry, go and get Gurth, Jukka, Ruff and Log a Log Grenn. Tell them to meet us by the willows on the streambank. Go!’
Dotti looked shaken. Brocktree patted her back gently. ‘Calm down now, miss. Temper’s the sign of a loser – it affects the reason too much. We’ve got to start your education and there’s not a lot of time to do it in. That’s always provided you want to win, eh?’
Dotti managed a smile. ‘Oh, I want to win all right, sah!’
21
STIFFENER MEDICK WAS leading his friends over the dunes towards the cliffs. Dawn’s first slivers of light showed pale-washed grey over behind the limestone heights. Rain teemed down unabated, squalled by the wind that flattened the dunegrass. Wet and weary they stumbled onward, assisting one another through the soft sand. Stiffener nearly jumped out of his skin when an otter popped up right in front of him.
‘Aye aye, wot’s this then, the old hares’ outin’? Ain’t picked out very good weather for it, mate, ’ave ye?’
Immediately recognising the creature as a friend, Stiffener blew a dewdrop of rain from his nose and grinned. ‘No we ain’t! Tell you somethin’ else too, we’ve lost our picnic baskets – linen, cutl’ry, vittles, the lot!’
The otter threw a paw round the boxing hare’s shoulders. ‘Worse things ’appen at sea, eh? Not t’worry, me ole lad, we’ll find ye a dry berth an’ a mouthful round the fire. My name’s Brogalaw, Skipper o’ Sea Otters, but let’s get you an’ yore fogeys in out the rain, then we’ll natter.’
Brogalaw led them to the cliffs. He clapped paws to his mouth and shouted at the blank stoneface, fighting to make himself heard above the storm: ‘Ahoy the holt, ’tis only Brog wid some ole hares wot’ve escaped from the wildcat’s bluebottoms on the mountain!’
Trobee coughed politely to gain the otter’s attention. ‘Beg pardon, old boy, but how’d you know that?’
Brogalaw winked. ‘Tell ye later, matey.’
A sea buckthorn bush growing against the cliff face was pushed aside at one corner. The homely face of an otterwife appeared, her nose twitching disapprovingly. ‘Lan’ sakes, Brog, get those pore beasts in out the weather.’
They filed inside, staring about. It was a big, rough and ready cave, full of otters and a fully grown grey heron which stood immobile on one leg, watching as Brog grouped them about the fire. Bread was brought to them, with cheese baked on top of it. From a cauldron by the fire, the hares were served with steaming bowls of stew. The otterwife watched appreciatively as they ate hungrily.
‘Good, ain’t it? That’s my special tater’n’whelk’n’leek chowder. I’m Brogalaw’s mum, Frutch. Ahoy, Durvy, break out some seaweed grog an’ give this crew a beaker apiece. Haharr, that’ll put the life back in ye!’
Stiffener could hear the rain outside battering the cliff face as he sat on the warm sand round the fire with his friends, listening to Brogalaw’s story.
‘’Tis like this, messmates. We’re sea otters
, see. Lived down the coast, south apiece. Quite ’appy we wos, ’til ole Ungatt arrived with ’is blue vermin. I tell ye, we just about got away with our lives that day. ‘Ad to run fer it an’ ’ide, we did. Those vermin commandeered our best two ships, stoled ’em y’might say. So there you ’ave it. We sneaked up the coast after ’em, tried to take our ships back. No luck, o’ course – far too many of the swabs fer us. Enny’ow, ’ere we be, sittin’ in this cave, waitin’ our chances, an’ ’opin’ fer better times t’sail along!’
Old Bramwil told the hares’ tale of woe to the sea otters. The goodwife Frutch, a soft-hearted creature, wept silently as she listened, dabbing her apron to the tears. ‘Oh, woe is you, pore beasts, least they never slayed nor imprisoned none of ours. Can’t we ’elp ’em, Brog?’
The sturdy sea otter Skipper raised sand with his rudder. ‘There there now, me liddle mum, don’t go floodin’ us all out wid yore tears. Y’ll ’ave me blubbin’ soon. Wot sort o’ creatures’d we be if’n we didn’t give aid to others worse off’n ourselves, I ask yer? Course we’ll ’elp!’
Stiffener thanked him on behalf of all the hares. Bramwil moved nervously away from the great heron. ‘Er, don’t mind me askin’, Brog, but what’s that big bird doin’ living with you, wot?’
Brogalaw stroked the heron’s snakelike neck fondly. ‘Oh, this feller. Nice ole cove, ain’t he? Name’s Rulango. Been with us since he was a chick, never speaks, fends an’ feeds for hisself an’ washes twice a day in the sea, don’t ye, mate?’
Brogalaw stopped stroking and the heron nudged his paw with its long pointed beak, wanting him to continue. He chuckled. ‘I forgot to tell ye, don’t ever start strokin’ his neck feathers. You could stroke all season an’ it still wouldn’t be enough for ’im. This bird likes t’be stroked plenty! Now, let’s get ye sorted. There’s pals o’ yours, you think, still on the mountain, but y’don’t rightly know where, eh?’
Blench toyed with the chowder ladle. It was a nice one. ‘Aye, that’s true, sir. I can’t stand the thought that those vermin villains might be doin’ nasty things to ’em!’ She began sobbing. Frutch sat down beside her and gave her a clean kerchief, and they sobbed together.