Brocktree unshouldered his battle blade and began whetting its edge on a smooth rock, even though it looked as keen as a razor. ‘A vision I see in my mind’s eye, sometimes when I’m awake, or other times when I sleep. It must have been the same picture that other badgers have dreamed. A mountain that once shot forth flames and molten rock, older than time itself, its fires now gone. Waiting, always waiting for me on the shores of a great ocean. I could not describe the way to Salamandastron, for that is what I know the mountain is called, nor could I draw a map of the route. But something in my brain, my very heart, is guiding me there.’
Dotti interrupted perkily. ‘Oh, sooper dooper, sah! I’m glad you know the flippin’ way. I haven’t got a confounded clue, only that it’s someplace down on the western shores. Oh, beg pardon, sah. Didn’t mean to butt in on you. Bad form, wot?’
Brocktree smiled at his young companion and ruffled her ears indulgently. ‘We’ll find it together, young ’un. You’re right, ’tis on the western shores. In my dreams I’ve seen the sun setting in the seas beyond the mountain. But my feelings tell me that the place for which we are bound will have great need of a Badger Lord. One who will not shrink from evil and cruelty, a warrior ready to stand and fight!’
Dotti chuckled, cutting once more into Brocktree’s speech. ‘Well, your jolly old feelin’s have no further to look than yourself, sah. You look like the very badger t’do the job, an’ y’come ready equipped with that bloomin’ great monstrosity y’call a sword!’
Squinting one eye, Brocktree peered down the mighty blade, its deadly double edge keener than midwinter. ‘Aye, methinks it will have its work well cut out when the time comes. That face, the one which visits and disturbs my slumbers . . . I have seen nothing like it, the face that turns dreams to haunting nightmares!’
The tone of Brocktree’s voice caused Dotti to shudder. ‘Great seasons, what face is that, sah?’
‘Nothing I want to talk more about, young ’un. Now, no more questions, please. We’ll make camp here. There’s a brook beyond that tall elm yonder – you go and fill this bowl with water while I get a small fire going. Come on now, Dotti, stir your stumps. You’ll have to shape up if you want to travel with me!’
The haremaid sprang up, grabbing the bowl from Brocktree’s big paws and saluting smartly in a comical manner. ‘Brook beyond tall elm! Fill bowl with water! Yes sah! Three bags full sah! Goin’ right away sah! About turn, quick march! One two hup!’
Brocktree grinned as he watched her strut off, trip, send the bowl flying, and catch it clumsily. She grinned back at him sheepishly.
‘Good wheeze, sendin’ me for water, wot? If you’d told me to light a fire I’d have prob’ly sent the whole forest up in flames. Not too clever at fires, doncha know!’
Brocktree took out his tinderbox, murmuring to himself, ‘At least she can’t flood the forest with a single bowlful o’ water, but who knows? Ah well, at least she’s company for a lone traveller.’
Flickering shadows from the fire hovered about the woodland glade; somewhere close by a nightjar warbled in the branches of a sycamore. Dotti scraped a wooden ladle round the empty bowl and licked it. ‘Confounded good soup that was, sah. Can all Badger Lords cook as well as you do? Mebbe you’d best fire my aunt Blench an’ promote y’self to head cook when we get to Salamathingee, wot?’
Brocktree hooded his eyes in mock ferocity. ‘If I do become head cook I’ll make sure that you get lots of sticky greasy pots to wash, young miss!’
Dotti began rummaging in her bag. ‘If the scoff tastes as good as that I’ll lick ’em all shinin’ clean. Least I can do is to render you a little ditty to aid your digestion, sah.’
The badger folded his paws across his stomach. ‘Aye, that’d be nice. Carry on.’
Dotti peered into the bag as she rooted around in its interior. ‘Oh corks, half the beads have fallen off this blinkin’ shawl the mater gave me for Aunt Blench. It’s absolutely soaked with cider, too. Aha! Here’s me faithful old harecordion. A few of the keys’n’reeds are stickin’, but that cider may have loosened ’em up a touch. Right, here goes, pin y’ears back and get ready for a treat. Wot?’
To describe the haremaid’s voice as being akin to a frog trapped beneath a hot stone would have been a great injustice, to both frog and stone. Moreover, the instrument she was playing on sounded like ten chattering squirrels swinging on a rusty gate. However, Dotti played and sang on blithely.
Brocktree squinched both eyes shut, fervently hoping that the song did not contain too many verses.
‘I am but a broken-hearted maid,
My tale I’ll tell to you,
As I sit alone in this woodland glade,
Yearnin’ for a pudden or two.
I hi hi hi, si hi hi hi hi hiiiiiing!
Whack folly doodle ho, whoops cum whang,
The greatest song my grandma sang,
Was to her fam’ly of twenty-three,
Ho dish up the pudden, save some for me!
‘Twas made from fruit an’ arrowroot,
Hard pears an’ apples too,
Some honey that the bees chucked out,
That set as hard as glue,
Some comfrey leaf an’ bulrush sheaf,
An’ damsons sour as ever,
She stirred the lot in a big old pot
While we sang “Fail me never”.
When all of a sudden Grandma’s pudden,
Burst right out the pot,
Round as a boulder, not much older,
Fifty times as hot!
It shot down the road, laid out a toad,
An’ knocked two hedgehogs flat,
Splashed in the lake an’ slew a snake,
An’ the frogs cried “Wot was that?”
Oh deary me calamity, oh woe an’ lack a day,
Without a pudden to my name
I’ll sit an’ pine away . . . awaaaaaay
Whack foholly doohoohoodelll daaaayeeeeeee!’
Dotti made her ears stand rigid on the last note to add effect. Fluttering her eyelids dramatically, she was squeezing the harecordion finally shut when its bellows shot forth a stream of old pale cider, right up her nose. She sneezed and curtsied awkwardly.
‘Whoo! That cleared my head. Shall I sing you another of my ditties, sah?’
The Badger Lord demurred, hoping she would not insist. ‘No, Dotti, please. You must save your voice for another evening. Now you should get some rest. Here, take my cloak.’
The haremaid settled down with the cloak swathed round her like a huge collapsed tent. She sighed. ‘Funny thing, y’know, my voice has that effect on many creatures. You should thank the stars that you were born just a plain old Badger Lord. That’s the trouble with bein’ a fatal beauty with a voice that’s too fine t’be heard more than once a night. Hmm, it affected my dad so much that he said once in a lifetime was sufficient for him. Good job you ain’t like him, sah. At least I can sing to you once every night, wot!’
Turning his back to her Brocktree winced. ‘Well, perhaps not every single night. Don’t want to strain a beautiful voice, do we?’
Dotti closed her eyes, snuggling down in the cloak. ‘Let’s just say I’ll sing to you whenever I feel up to it. Goodnight, Brocktree sah. I say, can I call you Brockers?’
The tone of the Badger Lord’s reply stifled any argument. ‘You certainly can not, miss. Huh, the very idea of it! Brockers! Good night!’
Morning sun broke cheerfully down upon the little camp, the twittering of birdsong causing Dotti to poke her head out of the cloak folds. Blue smoke rose in a thin column amid the dappled sunshadows cast by trees in full spring leaf. Brocktree was turning oatcakes over on a flat stone, which was laid upon the fire he had rekindled. His great striped head shook reprovingly. ‘Dawn has been up two hours, miss. Are you going to lie there all day?’
Yawning and stretching, the haremaid lolloped over to the fire, muttering as she helped herself to hot oatcakes and mint tea sweetened with honey. ‘It’s
the confounded beauty sleep, that’s what ’tis. My mater was always sayin’ to me when I came down late for breakfast, “Been takin’ your beauty sleep again, m’gel.” I say, these oatcakes are spiffin’ when they’re hot. Well, sah, which way do your voices say we go today, wot?’
Brocktree recovered his cloak and bundled it into his haversack. ‘I think we should follow the course of that brook, where you got the water from. Sooner or later it’ll bring us to a stream.’
Dotti rescued the oatcakes just in time as Brocktree doused the fire and broke camp. Stuffing items in her bag she hopskipped behind him, slopping mint tea about and bolting oatcakes as she breakfasted on the move.
‘Question, sah, why are we lookin’ for a stream?’
The Badger Lord replied without looking back. ‘Streams always run to rivers, rivers run to the sea. That way we find the shoreline and follow it south. Sooner or later we’ll come to the mountain on the west shore. Save your breath for marching, young ’un.’
By mid-morning Dotti was hungry, pawsore and had nearly talked herself out, though to no effect. All she saw was the badger’s broad cloaked back with the great sword slung across it in front of her. All her observations and complaints were met with either silence or a deep grunt. Lord Brocktree was not one for lengthy conversations when he was on the march. Dotti stumbled, barking her footpaw upon a willow root as they followed the meandering brook.
‘Yowowch! Ohh, I’ve gone an’ broke a limb. The pain’s shootin’ right up to my bally eartips!’
There was no reply, either sympathetic or otherwise, from Brocktree, who merely trudged onward. Dotti continued her lament to a ladybird that had lighted on her shoulder.
‘Might have to borrow that big sword an’ chop off me blinkin’ footpaw. If I find the right piece o’ wood I should be able to carve another to hop along on. Breakfast was ages ago, ages an’ ages an’ ages! I’ll bet lots of poor beasts die of starvation, havin’ to walk along for days’n’days behind big rotten ole badgers who never say a flippin’ word!’
Brocktree bit his lip hard to keep from chuckling.
‘Now if I was a badger I’d talk all the time, in fact I’d make it me duty to talk to nice friendly haremaids. Oh dearie me, I’d say, hurt your footpaw, Dotti? Here, let me cut it off with my sword. You can ride up on my back until I find a log to chop up an’ make you a new one.’
Brocktree halted without warning, and Dotti walked straight into his back, still chunnering to herself. He turned. ‘There’s the stream up ahead, missie. You can sit on the bank an’ cool your paw in the water. That’ll make it feel a lot better, and whilst you do that I’ll get lunch ready for us.’
With a deft motion he produced his great battle blade. ‘But I can always oblige by doing as you wish. Here, hold out your footpaw an’ I’ll chop it off!’
Dotti shot past him for the streambank, yelling: ‘Yah, I’d chop both your bloomin’ great footpaws off if I could lift that sword. At least it’d slow you down a bit. Lord Paw-whacker they should’ve called you!’
The haremaid’s mood softened as she sat cooling her footpaws in the shade of a tree, letting the soothing stream work its magic as she ate lunch. Brocktree had gathered some early berries and mixed them with chopped apple and hazelnuts from his pack, which made a delicious fruit salad with a syrup of honey and streamwater poured over them. Then the badger gave her dock leaves and waterweed he had collected along the streambank.
‘If your paw’s still sore, bind it with these. That will fix it up.’
Taking the badger’s face in both paws, Dotti murmured, ‘Look straight at me, sah, pretend I’m thankin’ you. Now don’t look over, but there’s a willow overhangin’ the water the other side o’ the stream. Don’t look! There’s somebeast in there watchin’ us!’
Brocktree straightened up, winking swiftly at her. ‘Oh, right. I’ll look further down the bank, see if I can find you some bigger dock leaves. Sit an’ rest, I’ll not be long.’ He strode off down the bank, disappearing round a bend.
Dotti could feel the watcher’s eyes on her from the willow shade on the far bank. Taking care not to stare back she acted as though she were completely unaware of the presence of an eavesdropper. Taking the harecordion out of her bag, she placed it in the warm sunlight to dry out. Then, dangling her footpaws in the clear cool current, the haremaid hummed a little tune to herself, flicking the odd secret glance across the stream. She reflected that had she been completely alone, a tranquil setting such as this would have been the ideal place to while away the sunny spring midday. However, the peace was short-lived.
Amid sudden howls and roars the overhanging willow seemed to explode in a shower of leaves and twigs. Foliage scattered across the stream surface as two burly forms smashed through the tree cover and crashed heavily into the water. Dotti hurled herself into the stream, whirling her bag aloft.
‘Hang on, sah, I’m comin’! Eulaliiiiaaaa!’
5
OFF THE WESTERN shores a heavy fog persisted. The afternoon had not fulfilled the morning’s promise. Beneath a dirty white sky, layers of mist sat unmoved on a still sea, its oily waveless swell lapping tiredly against the hull of a large barnacle-crusted ship, whose single sail hung furled. A small boat hove alongside, and the Grand Fragorl climbed into a canvas sling which had been lowered from the ship. She nodded and was hoisted swiftly aboard. An aisle appeared amidst the blue-furred rats who crowded the deck, and silently she climbed out and made her way through to the stern cabin.
The interior of Ungatt Trunn’s stateroom resembled the stuff of which nightmares are made. Dangling from thick chains, deep copper bowls contained fire that burned blue and gave off a heavy lilac-coloured smoke. Oppressive heat enveloped the cabin, heightening the nauseous stench of rotting flesh. Huge cobwebs festooned every corner, spreading up over the deckheads, set aquiver by fat hairy forms which scuttled back and forth after the flies that buzzed everywhere. Carefully avoiding the webs, the Grand Fragorl made her way to the cabin’s centre and prostrated herself, face down, with one paw raised in the air. Two other creatures sat in silence watching her, one a small silver-furred fox, its growth stunted by some terrible accident, giving it a shrivelled appearance. The fox, a quill pen held awkwardly in its crabbed paw, was seated at a table where it had been peering through thick crystal-lensed eyeglasses at various scrolls piled upon the tabletop. This was Groddil, High Magician to Ungatt Trunn. Now, turning his eyes from the Grand Fragorl, he sat watching his master for a sign.
Only the tail of the wildcat moved. Black-ringed and yellowish grey with a thick rounded tip, it seemed to possess a life of its own, swishing back and forth behind Ungatt’s chair. The fiercest of warriors, Ungatt Trunn had no time for personal fripperies, but dressed like any plain fighter: chain mail tunic, two iron bracelets and a mail-fringed steel helmet surmounted by a spike. Yet anybeast only had to look at him to see that here was a ruthless conqueror. Beneath the striped brow, permanently creased in a frown, the wildcat’s fearsome black and gold eyes remained hooded and unblinking, his stiff white whiskers overhanging two sharp amber fangs, which showed even when his mouth was shut.
He stared at the prone ferret stretched on his cabin floor, then, turning his gaze aside, he nodded briefly to his magician. Groddil spoke in a thin reedy voice, starting with his master’s praises.
‘Know ye that ye are in the presence of the mighty Ungatt Trunn, son of the Highland King Mortspear and brother to Verdauga Greeneye. Ungatt Trunn who makes the stars fall and the earth shake so that the lesser orders will fear him. Ungatt Trunn whose Blue Hordes are as many as leaves of the forest or sands of the shores. Ungatt Trunn who drinks wine from the skulls of his enemies. This is Ungatt Trunn the Fearsome Beast and these are his days!’
The Grand Fragorl, still face down on the floor, called aloud the ritual answer required of her. ‘Though I dare not look upon his face, I know that Ungatt Trunn is here and these are his days!’
Ungatt replied in his coarse raspin
g voice, ‘So be it! Did you see my mountain? What took place there? Tell me all and speak true, or flies will be born from your carcass to feed my Webmakers.’
The Fragorl allowed herself a fleeting glimpse of the dead rat, mouldering in the corner, knowing all too well what happened to anybeast foolish enough to displease Ungatt Trunn. Though the heat in the cabin was stifling, the ferret felt cold sweat break out beneath her long robes. She spoke, fighting to stop her voice trembling.
‘O Fearsome One, I saw your mountain, though not all of it, only what the mists would allow. I was not invited inside. It is called Salamandastron, just as you said. The place is defended by inferior species, rabbit things, who all appear to be well on in seasons. They are ruled by a stripedog called Lord Stonepaw who is even older than they. He said many insulting things, which I fear to repeat, but mainly he said it would be to your cost if you dared to land upon his shores. I followed your orders, O Ungatt Trunn, and not stopping to bandy words with the stripedog or his creatures I returned to you immediately.’
Only the flies could be heard as they buzzed around the Conqueror’s stateroom. Neither Fragorl nor Groddil moved. A fly swooped across Ungatt’s vision and his paw shot out like greased lightning and caught it. Holding it to his ear he listened to its anguished hum, then tossed it swiftly upward, where it lodged in a cobweb. In a flash two voracious Webmakers were upon the trapped insect. Ungatt never looked up, his hooded eyes fixed on the ferret sprawled near his footpaws.
‘You did well, my Fragorl, you may rise and go now.’
When the ferret had departed, Ungatt poured wine into a goblet fashioned from the bleached skull of a long-dead otter. ‘Read me the prophecy again, Groddil.’
Hastily sorting out a scroll the fox unrolled it.
‘No highland willed from kin deceased,
Or quest for castles, vague, unknown,
For Ungatt Trunn the Fearsome Beast
Will carve a fortune of his own!
Find the mountain, slay its lord,