Stopping for a moment, he sniffed his surroundings, probed around, then muttered to himself, “Hurr, this’n bee’s whurr they’m was a-maken thurr excape.”
Straight down he dug, right into Flib’s partially excavated tunnel. The rest was pretty much easy going. Axtel widened the tunnel, leaving plenty of room for his departure. Encountering a large boulder blocking his path, he dug around it. Finding a thick section of oak root, he jammed it alongside the boulder to hold it still. Tying a length of cord to the root, he tossed it behind himself, where it could be recovered easily. That done, the Warrior mole pressed on.
Reaching the now-abandoned dungeon, he exercised extreme care. Moving slowly, Axtel inched out over the pile of rubble to the broken door, which lay on top of the heap. The passage running from left to right was illuminated with lanterns and torches. Pulling a torch from its holder, he snuffed it out against the floor. Huddling down, the big mole lay against the wall, hidden in the patch of darkness provided by the missing torch. To any vermin who happened by he would look like a heap of debris, without shape or form.
That was exactly what the weasel Ravager guard who was coming down the passage thought—nothing but a pile of rubble. As he passed it, Axtel sprang up, gagging the weasel’s mouth with one big paw whilst pinning him to the passage wall with the other.
The Warrior mole did not waste time. He growled straight into the guard’s petrified face, “Whurr you’m keepin’ ee young uns?”
The weasel managed a strangled grunt. Axtel bore forward, shutting his mouth even tighter. “Just point ee way!”
The Ravager pointed to the right. Axtel nodded. “ Thankee!”
He slew the vermin guard with a single blow to the neck.
Hurrying silently along the passage, he halted at the sound of voices in low conversation. The four guards at the narrow cave entrance were taken by surprise. Axtel swung his war hammer, braining the one called Fidra. Bulling the other three in front of him, he thrust them into the cavern, roaring, “Cumm ee with oi, quick loik!”
As he shouted, Axtel lashed out, felling another guard and knocking the rat Gilfis flat. With his outstretched paws, he grabbed little Borti and Tassy both.
Gilfis struck with his spear, almost pinning the mole’s footpaw to the ground.
The remaining guard slipped past the wounded rescuer. Dashing out into the passage, he screeched, his voice echoing off the walls, “Heeeelp! Attack! The prisoners are escapin’!”
Still holding the two Dibbuns, Axtel limped out after him with the spear stuck clean through his footpaw. He stumbled and the spearhaft struck the wall, breaking off but leaving him still transfixed by the point. Gritting his teeth, he hung on to Tassy and Borti, shuffling down the passage, calling to the captives, “Cumm ee naow, follow oi!”
Midda and Tura quickly urged the others out.
“Hurry up, please—oh, do be quick!”
The very young ones were frightened. Some of them sat where they were, setting up a wailing.
Vermin were charging in from all sides. Vilaya and Dirva could be heard screeching, “Stop them! Guards, block all exits off right now!”
Tura had the two baby hares with her, practically dragging them along, with Midda pushing the rest in her wake. They never even made it out into the passage, as the narrow entrance was blocked by guards wielding weapons.
“Get back or we’ll slay ye! Back! Back!”
Tura retreated, yelling at Midda, “Back in before they kill us all!”
Axtel made it to the deserted dungeon, where he threw the two little ones in onto the rubble. Turning, he wielded the fearsome war hammer, felling the first three Ravagers to reach him. Limping back, he charged them with a loud war cry.
“Yooohurrrr! Cumm an’ meet Sturnclaw! Yooooohurrrr!”
Nobeast wanted to be the next to die. They ran back from the berserk Warrior mole. Taking advantage of this, he scrambled back. Clambering over the fallen door, he gave a loud roar and lifted it up into its former position.
With several mighty shoves, Axtel managed to ram the door at an angle into its former frame. It made grating sounds as the splintered woodwork lodged itself into the rock. Holding it there with the strength of his broad back, he nodded at the two Dibbuns. “H’up ye go into yon tunnel. Oi’ll foller arter ee!”
Borti was not much use at climbing, being only a toddler, but Tassy helped him up into the hole.
“Cummon, likkle Borti, take my paws—good baby, good!”
A spearpoint came right through the shattered door timbers, narrowly missing Axtel’s neck. He could feel the door shuddering as the Ravagers threw themselves at it. Vilaya was yelling at them.
“Push, you spineless idiots! Knock it down!”
Axtel abandoned the door then. Trundling awkwardly over the pile of debris, he scrambled into the tunnel entrance. Pushing the two little ones in front of him, he went upward.
The door fell. With the Sable Quean behind them, the Ravagers held up lanterns and torches. Dirva pointed to the tunnel in the far wall.
“They’ve gone in there—after them! They can’t get far!”
The vermin had to enter single file, with Vilaya at the tunnel entrance, kicking and beating them with the flat of a sword.
“Move yourselves, they mustn’t escape. Move!”
Axtel shepherded Borti and Tassy around the boulder. He could hear the grunts of vermin behind him. Seizing the rope, he gave it a sharp tug, pulling the piece of oak root loose. The big rock made a dull thud as it fell into the shaft behind the escapers, completely blocking it and crushing one of the Ravagers in the process. The Warrior mole gritted his teeth, fighting against the pain of the spearhead embedded in his footpaw.
He inched his way upward, pushing the two Dibbuns in front of him, encouraging them to move forward. “You’m keep a-goin’, moi gudd likklebeasts. Oi’m roight ahind ee!”
Tassy kept tight hold of Borti, who was whimpering with fright, rubbing soil from his eyes. “Waaah, want my mamma!”
The young Redwall squirrelmaid pulled him along with her. “C’mon, it’s not far now. Soon see y’mamma.”
Axtel gave them both a final shove, heaving them out into the nightdark woodland. He crawled out after them, giving an anguished grunt as the spearhead struck a stone, gouging at his wounded footpaw. The Warrior mole lost consciousness then, falling senseless on the grass.
Tassy cleaned the soil from Borti’s face. “There now, likkle un, that much a-better, eh!” She turned to Axtel. “Thankee for gettin’ us out, sir.”
He lay inert. Tassy shook him, but he did not move.
“Wakey up, sir, wakey up, please. . . .”
The squirrelmaid patted Axtel’s forepaws, tweaked his snout and forced one of his eyes open. It fell back shut. She began shouting in his ear, “Don’t be asleep. Wakey up now, please, please!”
Little Borti had recovered from his ordeal. He giggled, imitating Tassy as he chafed the unconscious mole’s paw, calling out, “Wakey h’up, wakey h’up, zurr!”
The mole Warrior was still not moving, even though Borti clambered up onto him. Tassy pulled the little shrew off Axtel’s still form. She began to cry then, rocking the shrewbabe back and forth as she clutched him to her.
“Oh, Borti, wot we goin’ to do?”
16
Flib was obeying Axtel’s orders, watching over Guffy and Gurchen, guarding the little camp whilst the young ones slept. However, just sitting and doing nothing could become tiresome and at times a little disconcerting.
Constantly peering into the surrounding woodland, the Guosim maid started to imagine all manner of things. The trees seemed to close in on her, conjuring up fearsome visions. These turned out to be nothing but a light breeze, stirring the leafy foliage amidst moonshadows. Flib mentally reprimanded herself for being so foolish, remembering that Guosim shrews were made of sterner stuff.
To buoy up her spirits, she began to sing. It was a jolly old Guosim nonsense ditty, which always caused muc
h merriment when sung at a streamfeast or a watermeadow gathering. Flib sang, but not too loud, for fear of waking up the mole Dibbuns.“A Guosim maid sat by the fire,
a-reading a letter one day,
with a flea in her ear, and a tear in her eye,
at what the sad note had to say, ay aaaaay!
Yore granny is deeply drownded,
inna river so wild an’ rough, rough rough rough!
She should ’ave sailed off in a logboat,
but instead she left home in a huff, huff huff huff.
She might have gone off in a temper,
but she’d lost that long ago, long long agooooo!
If she’d left in a rush or an ’urry,
we’d have all been sure to know.
So I leave you with this lesson,
if you must leave home, my dear,
’twill break my heart if you take the cart,
an’ the wheels will fall off, I fear.”
There was another verse, and possibly a chorus, but Flib had forgotten it. She sat there trying to recall the silly little ditty, remembering some of the happy times she had spent with her tribe—the high-summer days, with good food and peaceful surroundings. It all seemed so long ago now, somehow. Her head slowly began to droop, then her eyelids closed. Sleep was finally getting the better of her.
It was a rude awakening when her ear was grabbed roughly and a voice snarled, “Well, lookit wot we got here, our liddle shrewmate!”
A whip cracked in front of Flib’s face. She looked up and found herself staring into the cruel eyes of Thwip, her former fox jailer.
His mate, Binta, was nearby. She prodded at the two sleeping mole Dibbuns, snarling nastily, “Aye, an’ here’s ’er two liddle pals. Chubby young things, ain’t they?”
Instead of fear, the Guosim maid was instantly filled with a red rage against herself, for napping whilst on guard, and deep hatred for her former tormentors.
Throwing herself forward, she twisted her ear from the fox’s grasp, falling flat in the carpet of dead leaves. Swift as lightning, Flib seized the makeshift spear. Thwip was halfway through swinging the lash at her when Flib lunged with the spear. The whip fell unheeded on the ground. Thwip looked puzzled as he stared down at the spear protruding from his midriff. He turned his gaze to Binta. There was a note of complaint in his last words.
“She’s killed me!”
He fell backward, his paws grasping the spear pole, as if he was holding it there. Binta gave an angry sobbing wail. She ran at Flib, swinging her long willow cane. The shrewmaid tried to pull the spear from Thwip, but it was locked in the fox’s death grip.
A stinging rain of strokes hit her—the vixen swung her cane madly, shouting aloud, “You’ve slain my Thwip! I’ll flog ye to death for that!”
The willow slashed down mercilessly at Flib. She huddled on the grass in a futile attempt to protect herself. Then, quite by accident, her paw fell upon the dead fox’s whip.
Roaring with pain, Flib leapt up, wielding the lash. It cracked and snaked viciously as the tables turned and the beater became the beaten. The shrewmaid became an avenging fury, belabouring her enemy ruthlessly.
Dropping the cane, Binta ran off into the night, wailing.
The din had wakened the two mole Dibbuns. Gurchen trundled across to Flib, exclaiming, “Boi ’okey, marm, ee surrpintly gived ee foxers ole billyoh! Yurr, bee’s you’m ’urted?”
Flib shook her head. “Not so much as ’urted—more ’urt ing than anythin’. I never used a blinkin’ whip afore. I hit meself a few times by mistake. It stings more’n that cane. No serious damage though, just welts an’ bruises.”
Guffy had found Thwip’s body. He tried unsuccessfully to pull the spear loose. The little mole shook his head admiringly. “Hurr, miz, you’m gurtly slayed this yurr vermint. Ee’m b’aint a-cummen back furr more!”
The pain from her beating, plus the realisation that she had killed another creature, sent Flib into shock. She sat down abruptly, her whole body shivering as she rocked back and forth, whimpering and moaning.
Guffy stared solemnly at her. “Burr, wot bee’s ailin’ ee, Miz F’ib?”
Gurchen went rummaging through Axtel’s pack. “Oi thinks she’m bee’d a-sickened with summat. Yurr!” Opening a small flask, the molemaid sniffed it. “Smells loike summ blacker-bee woine, gurtly strong!”
Wrapping Flib in the cloak they had used as a blanket, the sensible little molemaid forced the flask between her patient’s lips, administering the blackberry wine. “Yurr, Guff, see if’n ee can make sum foire t’keep this un warm.”
This was an absolute joy to Guffy, who as a Dibbun, had been prohibited by Redwall elders from ever playing with fire. He found flint and an old knifeblade in the pack. Chuckling to himself, he set about his task, piling up dried leaves and grass.
“Hurrhurr, oi’ll make Miz F’ib a gudd ole blaze!”
True to his word, Guffy soon had a big fire burning.
Gurchen stopped him from piling on more fuel. “Yurr, you’m rarscal. Oi never asked ee to set all ee wuddlands ablaze. Oi only wants a likkle foire, enuff to keep Flib warmed.”
When they had a respectably sized campfire, all three sat by it, the moles either side of Flib. The Guosim maid still seemed very distant, rocking slightly as she stared fixedly into the flames. Gurchen tried to elicit some response by chatting to her.
“You’m gudd’n warm noaw, marm. Hurr, oi ’spec ee gurt Wurrier mole bee’s a-comen back soonly.”
Guffy began thrusting a twig into the fire. He liked playing with the flames. Gurchen warned him, “Play with foire an’ ee’ll burn yoreself!”
Almost as she said it, the burning twig broke, dropping a glowing red fragment onto the little mole’s paw. He yelped, hopping about and beating at himself.
“Ah, sure, the young uns never listen, do they? I was the same at his age, thought I knew it all, so I did!”
None of the trio had noticed the water vole. She had appeared from nowhere and was seated by the fire, warming her paws. Grabbing Guffy, she dabbed his paw with some damp moss, nattering away conversationally. “There now, ye liddle scallywag. That’ll teach ye t’play with fire. Wot’s wrong wid yer friend the shrew, there? Is she in some kind of an ould trance?”
Gurchen answered the question by asking one of her own. “Burr, marm, who moight you’m be, an’ whurr did ee cummed frum?”
The water vole was an amiable-looking beast with thick, glossy fur, a chubby face and a blunt snout. She wore an old tattered shawl pulled about her ears like a hood. Leaning forward on a knobbly hawthorn stick, she introduced herself.
“Ah, sure, I’m nobeast of any importance at all, at all. Mumzillia O’Chubbacutch is me given title, though I wouldn’t consider meself offended if’n ye called me Mumzy. Now, me darlin’, wot do they call you?”
Gurchen rose, performing a small curtsy. “Oi bee’s Gurchen. Ee’m likkle rarscal bee’s Guffy, an’ hurr’s Flib. We’m waiten furr our gudd friend to cumm back yurr. He’m ee mole Wurrier, marm.”
Mumzy waved her stick at the carcass of Thwip. “An’ which one of you bold creatures slayed that un?”
Guffy pointed a grimy paw at Flib. “Et wurr Miz F’ib, marm. She’m vurry brave.”
Mumzy rose with a groan. “Sure, me ould back isn’t wot it used t’be. Gettin’ old is a tribulation, as me fat uncle Shaym used t’say.”
She began extinguishing the fire by kicking soil on it. “C’mon now, up off yore tails, me darlin’s—let’s go!”
Gurchen protested. “But us’ns must wait fur ee h’Axtel!”
Mumzy got Flib standing upright. The shrewmaid did not resist. The water vole beckoned Guffy. “Lend a paw here, me liddle sir. Ye can’t wait here, not with vermin roamin’ the woods. Ye’d end up as dead meat if’n they claps eyes on the likes of ye. I’d be correct in sayin’ that yore on the run from them?”
Gurchen just nodded, willing to fall in line with their new friend’s advice.
&n
bsp; Mumzy prodded Axtel’s pack with her stick. “Right, then, bring that along with ye. Me’n’ the liddle feller’ll help Flib. ’Tis best ye stay out o’ sight at my place. ’Tisn’t far, only a hop’n’skip over yonder.”
They followed her on a zigzag route under bushes, through a fern bed and across some rocks to a streambank. There was a rocky outcrop with an entrance beneath it—this was hidden behind a curtain of knotweed, sundew and watercress. Pushing it to one side, the water vole led them in.
“This is Mumzy’s Mansions, such as it is. Nothin’ fancy, but ’tis good’n’safe, t’be sure. Sit ye down now, an’ take a beaker of me own special brew whilst I tell ye of wot I’ve seen.”
The brew was delicious, a hot cordial of coltsfoot, dandelion and pennycress. They sat in the little cave, which was lighted by a small fire. It was very cosy, with moss-and-dried-grass-padded ledges, which could serve as seats or beds.
Mumzy bustled about, tidying up as she informed them, “Those ravagin’ villains are about in Mossflower tonight. Earlier on, I spotted five o’ the dreadful scum, four weasels led by the big boyo, the one they calls Zwilt, tall sable beast, wears a long cloak and carries a big sword. As if that wasn’t enough, they’d no sooner got out o’ sight, when I see tracks, two rats an’ two foxes. The tracks split—rats went one way, foxes t’other. So I follows the foxes’ tracks. That’s when I found you three. There’s no sense in sittin’ on yore tails out in the woodlands with that lot roamin’ abroad. You bide ’ere with ould Mumzy ’til the coast clears, eh?”
Gurchen looked worried. “But wot abowt Axtel, marm?”
The water vole set about pulling hot food from a clay oven at the back of her fire. “If’n Axtel’s a warrior, as ye say he is, well, he should be well able o’ takin’ care of hisself. I’ll find him for ye when things quietens down out there. Here, now, have ye ever tasted whortleberry an’ chestnut flan? ’Tis a fine ould recipe I got from me good uncle Shaym, an’ he was after bein’ a top champeen cook, so he was!”