Brogalaw stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘Yore right, but we still got enough to make a fight of it. One thing, though, mate – what d’we do with these beasts we captured? They might prove troublesome.’
Stiffener saw the last vermin stumble down to the shore. ‘Well, we got no more use for ’em, an’ we certainly can’t feed the scum. I say we let ’em go, what d’ye think, Brog?’
‘Aye, let’s rid ourselves of the pests. Ahoy there, weasel, git yoreself over ’ere!’
The forage patrol leader practically crawled across. ‘Yore goin’ t’kill us, I know ye are, I kin feel it!’
Brog hauled him up sharply by the ears. ‘Good news, blubberchops, we’re lettin’ you go, all of you!’
‘Wha . . . er . . . y’mean yore lettin’ us go, sir?’
‘Aye, that’s wot I said, though if you ’ang around ’ere weepin’ an’ moanin’ all day we’ll slay ye just for the peace’n’quiet ’twould give us. So you’d better run fer it!’
As Ripfang was giving the orders to form a circle round the rocks, Doomeye, who was still a fair shot despite his swollen eye, unshouldered his bow and shot off an arrow.
‘Haharr, got one of ’em! ’E was tryin’ to escape. Look, there’s more of the Bark Crew!’ Ripfang’s cutlass chopped through his bowstring. ‘Wot did yer do that for? Leave me alone, will yer!’
Ripfang pointed angrily at the fallen weasel. ‘See wot you’ve done now, pan’ead, shot one of our own!’
Doomeye looked sheepish. ‘Well, wot if’n I did?’ he muttered sulkily. ‘You said ’twas all right, long as we got the Bark Crew.’
Ripfang ignored him. He called to the forage party, who were half in and half out of the rocks, not knowing which way to go. ‘Over ’ere, you lot. C’mon, we won’t shoot no more of yer!’
They hurried across, keeping nervous eyes on Doomeye, who was restringing his bow. Ripfang sneered at them. ‘Well well, wot’ve we got ’ere? A shower o’ cowards with no uniforms or weapons. You lot better make yerselves slings an’ gather some stones. Might look better on yer if you ’elp to capture the Bark Crew.’
Back at the rocks, Stiffener was assessing the situation. ‘Well, we’ve given the vermin some reinforcements now. Still, we’d never ’ave killed ’em in cold blood. They can’t wait us out, ’cos they ain’t got the supplies to do it, though neither’ve we. The bluebottoms still outnumber us by far too many, but we’re still dangerous an’ well armed. They’ll try to pick us off one by one, now that they’ve got us surrounded. Mebbe when dark falls they’ll try a charge. What d’you think, Brog?’
The sea otter was sharpening a javelin against the rock. He nodded grimly. ‘Aye, that’s when they’ll come. It’ll be the Bark Crew’s last stand. Haharr, but we’ll make it a good ’un, eh, mates?’
Hares and otters gripped their weapons tighter.
‘Aye, no surrender an’ no quarter given or asked!’
‘Take as many as we can with us!’
‘Remember Lord Stonepaw and the others, chaps!’
This time Ripfang kept Doomeye close by, where he could keep an eye on him. Both rats lay behind a mound of sand they had set up. Ripfang watched the noon shadows beginning to lengthen. A cry rang out from the rocks.
‘Eulaaaliiiiaaaa!’
The ferocity of the war cry caused the searat a momentary shudder. But he soon recovered himself. ‘Hah, we’ve got ye outnumbered by far. Shout all ye want, it won’t do youse any good when night comes an’ we charge. I’ll paint those rocks red with yore blood!’
No news had come back to the mountain of the trap that had been laid for the Bark Crew, but Ungatt Trunn felt in better humour than he had for some while. One of his captains had come across a hidden cupboard in the larders, containing three casks of aged rose and greengage wine. He donated two of the casks to be shared among his horde captains, and the remaining one he had broached himself. All afternoon he drank deeply from it. The wine induced a pleasant and languorous feeling, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep as noon sunlight poured through the chamber windows.
Stretched on Lord Stonepaw’s bed, the wildcat dreamed of nothing in particular. The North Mountains, where his old father reigned, his younger brother Verdauga Greeneye, waiting to inherit the throne. Or maybe he was not – he might be considering the life of a conqueror, like his elder brother Ungatt. The sleeper smiled. Nobeast living could claim to have won anything as spectacular as this mighty mountain. Salamandastron, the legendary home of Badger Lords. Ungatt Trunn sighed and turned in his sleep. Then the vision altered. A huge dark paw wrapped itself about his face, blinding and smothering him. The Badger Lord, he had come, he had come!
‘Mmmmffff! Uuuurgh! Help me! Gmphhhh!’
‘Sire, lie still whilst I get this blanket from your head.’
Writhing wildly, Ungatt Trunn lashed out, and caught his Grand Fragorl a blow which sent her spinning across the room. Ripping and shredding with lethal claws, the wildcat tore the homely blanket from about his head and sat up panting, his head aching abominably. All semblance of good humour had deserted him. ‘Who gave you permission to enter my chamber?’ he growled at Fragorl.
The ferret rose groggily. ‘Sire, you called for help. I came to assist you.’
The wildcat tossed the tattered blanket aside and made to rise. ‘Assist me? You whey-faced poltroon, you dared to think that you have the right to assist me? Begone before I throw your worthless hide from the window!’
The Grand Fragorl fled the chamber, followed by a wine goblet, which smashed on the door as it slammed.
‘I could have taken this mountain unaided! Ungatt Trunn the Earth Shaker needs help from nobeast. Go on, whine, starve, moan, blunder about, all of you! This is my mountain, I rule it alone, I can hold it alone! Every creature here depends on me, I don’t need any of you!’
Outside, the two guards moved further down the passage, away from the door.
‘Shift along there, mate. Don’t get too close when the chief’s in one of ’is dark moods.’
‘Aye, the cap’ns are all like that too. Wot d’you suppose started it all?’
‘Guzzlin’ wine on a midsummer noon, on empty stomachs too. I done it meself once. Doesn’t improve the temper, I can tell ye. Wish it’d get dark, so the night watch could come an’ relieve us. ’Tis dangerous stannin’ round ’ere.’
Ignoring the glories of a setting sun on the sea’s far horizon, the Bark Crew perched in the rocks, anxiously scanning the humps of sand surrounding them. Behind each one, several vermin lay, armed and ready, waiting for the shades of night to descend. Brogalaw spoke without turning to Stiffener, his eyes roving back and forth.
‘Wot grieves me about all this is no matter ’ow many we takes t’the Dark Forest with us, ’twon’t make much difference to the numbers Trunn ’as to serve ’im.’
The boxing hare checked the shaft on his bowstring. ‘Shame, ain’t it, but that’s the way o’ things, Brog. Willip, are you all right, mate?’
The old hare adjusted the makeshift bandage on her brow. ‘Fit enough t’fight, sah! But I’m jolly hungry, doncha know. Funny how a bod can think of food at a blinkin’ time like this, wot? Can’t help it, though – the old tum’s rumblin’ twenty t’the dozen!’
The sea otter chuckled and shook his head. ‘’Tis no wonder they call hares perilous beasts. Death facin’ us, an’ that ’un has dinner on ’er mind!’
Stiffener shrugged. ‘Wot’s on yore mind, Brog?’
Brogalaw glanced at the darkening sky. ‘My ole mum, the rest o’ my crew, Durvy, young Konul an’ the mateys I grew up with. I’d just like to clap eyes on ’em one last time. Any beast you’d like t’see, Stiff?’
‘Hmm, those twin grandsons o’ mine, Southpaw an’ Bobweave. You should’ve seen ’em, Brog. Two braver fighters you’d never come across in a season’s march. I reared ’em, y’know, until they grew restless an’ left the mountain. Mebbe ’twas just as well they did, the way things turned out.’
&n
bsp; As the night drew on, voices began chanting from behind the sand humps which the vermin had put up for protection.
‘Ungatt! Trunn Trunn Trunn!’
Brogalaw’s grip tightened round the javelin. ‘Haharr, ’twon’t be much longer now, mates. ’Ear ’em gettin’ their nerve up to charge.’
The speed and volume of the chant increased.
‘Ungatt! Trunn Trunn Trunn! Ungatt! Trunn Trunn Trunn!’
From the rock circle the otters and hares answered with their own defiant war cry.
‘Blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaaa!’
Stiffener centred his arrow on the dark forms breaking cover. ‘Stand fast, mates, ’ere they come!’
The vermin charged.
30
IN A WIDE valley formed by four grass-topped sand dunes, Lord Brocktree put aside his empty plate and beaker. He lay back upon the sand next to Fleetscut and sighed contentedly, gazing up at dizzying myriads of stars strewn about the soft night sky.
‘Tomorrow you say, around late noon?’
Fleetscut left off munching wild raspberries from the prone position and nodded. ‘Indeed, sah, we should reach Salamandastron about then, providin’ we’re up an’ about by dawn, wot.’
Ruff joined them, Bucko too, both highly pleased.
‘Well, we did it, Brock, a half-season march!’
‘Och, an’ ye said et were nae mair than a wee patrol!’
Fleetscut wrinkled his nose mischievously. ‘Had t’say somethin’ t’keep you chaps goin’, wot? Bit of a fib, but we made it. Heehee, sorry ’bout that, my wee patrol turned out t’be somethin’ of a long patrol, wot wot!’
The Badger Lord closed his eyes and mused. ‘Long patrol, hmmmm. I’d say that was a — Whooooofh!’
Skittles had jumped from somewhere high up one of the dunes. He landed like a stone on Brocktree’s stomach, driving the wind from him completely. The hogbabe seized his friend’s whiskers and hauled on them.
‘Cummon, B’ock, we go an’ fish f’fishes inna big water!’
The badger gasped breathlessly as he tried to sit up. ‘Dotti, get this fiend off me! Throw him in the sea!’
Dotti had been trying to patch up the battered shawl she was taking as a gift for her aunt Blench. She stuffed it carelessly back into her bag and grabbed Skittles’s paw. ‘Come on, wretch, we’ll go down t’the water for a paddle.’
Skittles held out his other paw to Bucko, whom he was quite friendly with. ‘Buck go for paggles too?’
The mountain hare rose, dusting off sand. ‘Aye, ah like wettin’ mah paws in the sea. C’mon, laddie.’
‘Goin’ paddlin’, miss Dotti? Splendid! We’ll join you, wot?’
‘Rather! Nothin’ like a jolly old paddle ’neath the stars!’
Southpaw and Bobweave joined the ever-growing paddling party.
‘Burr, oi bain’t feared of ee gurt sea, oi’ll cumm too!’
Mirklewort chased after them, waving a towel. ‘Wait fer me. I’ll need to give my liddle babe a good dryin’ when he’s paddled. Seawater can cause cornfluggenza, y’know. That’s wot my ole grandma used ter say, an’ she knew!’
Southpaw winked at Bobweave. ‘Cornfluggenza, eh? Sounds pretty serious, wot?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. With a blinkin’ name like that you wouldn’t know whether to eat it or suffer from it, old lad.’
When they reached the tideline the sea looked enchanting. A half-moon cast a path of golden ripples out from the horizon, and small foam-crested waves ran ashore, spangled with starlight, hissing softly on the cool wet sand as they broke. Those who wore smocks tucked them up into their belts. Holding paws in a line they jumped over each wave as it arrived, splashing and laughing joyously.
‘Oh one two three, come to me,
From far o’er the briny sea,
Four five six, each wave flicks,
Past my paws, the sand it licks,
Sev’n eight nine, all in line,
This one rolling in is mine,
One to ten, rise and wane,
Swelling as they come again!’
Bucko Bigbones splashed water at Gurth. ‘Yeehoo! Ah’ve no done this since ah was a bairn!’
The smiling mole splashed back. ‘Hoo urr, oi bain’t never dunn ee pagglen afore, zurr. Gurt fun ’tis furr a choild loik oi!’
Skittles wriggled free of Dotti and Bucko. Throwing himself flat, he lay on his back in the sea, spouting water like a tiny whale. ‘Yeeuk! Dis water tasters salty t’me!’
Mirklewort, who had stayed dry on the shore, dashed into the shallows brandishing her towel frantically. ‘Spit it out, yew naughty ’og, or ye’ll get seahytiss an’ yore teeth’ll drop out! Owww! Why diddent I ’ave a liddle nice-mannered ’ogmaid, ’stead o’ this umthreekerr-fumchin!’
The instant Skittles saw his mother bearing down on him he took off. In a spray of giggles and splashes he romped away along the edge of the tideline. Dotti and the rest gave chase. Skittles, as they had noticed before, could move surprisingly fast for an infant hedgehog.
‘I say, come back, you little rip!’
‘Och, the wee pincushion’s awa’ like a fish!’
‘Get ee back yurr, maister Skikk!’
They pursued him until he could run no more. The hogbabe sat down in the shallows, twitching his headspikes resignedly. ‘Skikkles ’ad ’nuff now. Muvver can dry me!’
The paddling party sat down on the beach, whilst Mirklewort scrubbed at her son with the towel. ‘Wot’ve yew been told about runnin’ off, yew drefful liddle ’og? Wait’ll yer father ’ears about this, yew brigand!’
Gurth silenced her with a wave of his digging claws. ‘Yurr, ’ush ee, marm. Miz Dott, can ee ’ear ought?’
Dotti’s finely tuned ears quivered this way and that. ‘Matter o’ fact I can, Gurth. South of here, it seems t’be comin’ from. Sounds like some sort of a ding-dong goin’ on!’
Southpaw and Bobweave were up and running south along the shoreline, calling back to the others.
‘Sit tight, chaps, we’ll be back in a tick, wot!’
‘Aye, you stay an’ rest y’self, miss Dotti. We’ll investigate!’
Bucko sat the well-dried Skittles on his lap. ‘Hoots, laddie, bide here they say. Look at yon pair go!’
Dotti borrowed the damp towel to wipe her footpaws. ‘Indeed, sah, I think the bloomin’ wind would have trouble tryin’ to keep up with those twins!’
Gurth found some flat pebbles, and they passed the time by skimming them across the shallows.
Neck and neck, sand spurting from their paws, the hare twins raced back, looking as fresh as when they left. Both were excited and disturbed at the same time.
‘Vermin, those blue vermin old Fleetscut mentioned!’
‘About a hundred an’ fifty o’ the blighters!’
‘Got a small bunch o’ hares’n’otters surrounded, the cads!’
‘That’s right, an’ they’re attackin’ the poor creatures!’
‘Jolly unfair, I’d say. Those otters’n’hares are takin’ a terrible hammerin’!’
Bucko Bigbones grabbed a chunk of driftwood. ‘Dorothea, awa’ wi’ ye, bring Brocktree an’ the tribes! Mirklewort, bide here wi’ Gurth an’ the bairn, point the way for ’em! Ye twins, find yersel’ a weapon apiece an’ take me tae the battle. We’ll lend a paw ’til oor clans arrive!’
Willip lay dead on the rocks. Stiffener stood over her body, a whirling sling in one paw, a sword in the other, slashing and whacking at the vermin as they hurled themselves at him. A spear had chopped a chunk out of one of Trobee’s ears, and he and Sailears had been driven from their position. They stood out on the sand, backs against the rocks, thrusting hard with their spears. Brogalaw shouldered an otter who had been struck twice by arrows. The sea otter Skipper was using his broken javelin as a club. He roared out to Stiffener, his voice ringing over the mêlée.
‘Stiff, there’s two outside the circle. Get ’em back, mate!’
Stiffener bounded down on
to the sand. Cracking the skull of one rat and slashing ferociously at two others, he drove them away from Sailears and Trobee, giving them space. ‘Git back up on those rocks, you two, quick!’ Turning, he ran a weasel through and flattened a stoat with a swift hefty punch.
Ripfang had done what all careful vermin officers usually do; he had stayed out of the battle, directing it from the rear and laying about the half-hearted ones who tried to hang back. He had kept Doomeye with him, but his brother had bloodlust in his eyes now that he could see victory in sight. The searat licked his cutlass blade and danced on the spot with frustration.
‘Lemme at ’em, Rip. I wanna kill a few!’
Ripfang nudged him sharply. ‘Nah, yew don’t wanna do that, Doom. Look, they’ve retreated fer their last stand. There ain’t many left, but they got nothin’ t’lose now, so they’ll be real dangerous. Stay out!’
But Doomeye dashed forward, waving his blade. ‘I ain’t scared! C’mon, Rip, let’s see the colour o’ their guts! Yahaaarrrr, char—’
Doomeye got no further. Bucko laid him senseless with the chunk of driftwood he was swinging. Ripfang turned and dodged just in time to avoid his second blow. ‘Wha . . . you ain’t one o’ them, are yer? I ain’t seen you before.’
Southpaw and Bobweave needed no weapons. Both their long hind legs crashed into Ripfang’s head, knocking him out cold.
Only ten hares and otters were left, forming a tight circle in the sand at the centre of the rock circle. The vermin stormed over the rocks and leapt at them, but were repulsed by the ferocity of the reception they received from the gallant defenders. However, the vermin knew they had won the battle and they pressed home their assault once more. Stiffener had lost his weapon, and was using only his knotted paws now. Brog pounded away at the wave of foebeasts with all he had left, a shattered javelin and a lump of rock.
Over the clash of battle the Skipper of Sea Otters called out to his remaining friends: ‘Give it one last go, mateys. We’ll meet by the banks o’ the sunny streams, along with those who’ve already gone!’
Suddenly a cry arose from outside the circle.
‘Eulaliiiiiaaaaa!’