The shrike dipped his beak towards the valley floor. ‘Down thirr, otters, Irriz say how they gonna help, whatcha want them to do?’
‘Hmph! Should’ve thought that was jolly obvious,’ said Meldrum, twitching his ears in annoyance. ‘A whacking great long rope’ll do the trick, wot!’
‘Kchakcha kcha! No rope that big, longirrs!’
The hare shot the Butcher Bird a murderous glance. ‘I’ve warned you once about calling me longears, you great puffed up windbag!’ But he was speaking to empty space, the shrike had flown down to the otters.
Greenbeck shook his head. ‘A long rope, mate? There’s never been a rope that long in the history of seasons. What d’you think, Iris?’
The female otter leader moved this way and that, viewing the Castle from different angles. ‘You’re right, there’s no such thing as a rope that long, but I think they could do it with a shorter rope. Greenbeck, what d’you think of this as an idea . . .’
All four prisoners were now ripping tiles from the roof and hurling them through the sizeable hole which hordebeast weapons had created in the attic floor. Their attack was so ferocious it had driven the rats from the tower room out on to the spiral staircase. Even Gael Squirrelking was throwing tiles with every ounce of strength he could muster. Dandin took his time, waiting until he could see a venturesome rat poke its head into view before he hurled a tile.
‘We’ll only keep them at bay for as long as these tiles last, then Nagru will send his archers in to pick us off,’ he said.
Mariel struggled to loosen a tile from a crossbeam. ‘That’s true, make each shot count. Glokkpod, what news?’
The Butcher Bird landed almost sideways, gripping the small flagpole at the apex of the tower.
‘Lissin t’thiz silly idea, it’s yirr only hope.’ He explained Iris’s scheme to them. Meldrum looked positively crestfallen at the wild notion.
‘Let me get this straight, you chaps. The otters can send us a rope up that’s not very long. Right, then we double it over a beam and one of us swarms down it and swings to and fro until he can reach the battlements at the end of the west wall. He lands on the battlements then one by one the rest of us shimmy down the blinkin’ rope an’ swing like bloomin’ pendulums until we’re all on the bally battlements.’
Dandin continued, ‘Then we loose the rope, hitch it round the battlement and swarm down into the moat, out of the moat and climb down the rest of the plateau. Sounds dangerous, but I’ll risk it! What about you Meldrum?’
‘Outbloominrageous! Fiddlesticks, totally impossible!’
Glokkpod sneered at the hare. ‘You frightinned, longirrs?’
The old hare flung a tile which took another rat out of commission. ‘Frightened, I’d be an idiot not t’be, you befeathered buffoon, but it’s the only way, so Meldrum Fallowthorn will do it, frightened or not, sir!’
Sourgall trotted down the stairs on Nagru’s orders, to where Graywort was waiting nervously.
‘Foxwolf says he’ll see yer now.’
Graywort followed Sourgall, probing nervously. ‘Did he say what he wants me for, mate?’
Sourgall shrugged. ‘Dunno, but you’ll soon find out.’
The Urgan Nagru smiled at Graywort cordially as he ushered him forward. ‘I’ve been hearing good reports about you, rat. Been out helping Queen Silvamord search for intruders, have you?’
Graywort was slightly bewildered but happy that he was receiving complimentary attention from the horde leader. ‘I was just about to, Sire, when Bluebane said you wanted to see me. Is there any service I can perform for you?’
Nagru stopped him two stairs short of the tower room. ‘On the contrary, Silvamord tells me that you are a good trustworthy beast capable of giving orders. Of course you heard what happened to poor Riveneye. He’s dead, unfortunately, my best Captain. So, there’s a small service I can perform for you, my friend. I’m promoting you to Captain in Riveneye’s place.’
Graywort’s chest swelled and he trembled with delight. ‘Thank you Sire, I am yours to command!’
Nagru’s smile widened. ‘Well, that is nice to know. May I give you your first command now . . . Captain Graywort?’
The newly promoted Captain threw an extra smart salute. ‘I’d be proud to carry out your orders, Sire!’
Nagru retreated one step, his smile practically extending to the wolf skull perched on top of his head. ‘Right, go and tell those escaped prisoners that it’s useless to resist, they must surrender immediately.’
The Foxwolf turned his back on Graywort, who strode smartly off into the very centre of the tower room. Standing amid the wreckage of fallen rats and broken tiles he glanced about nervously, then summoning up his courage he coughed and called out in officious tones, ‘I am Captain Graywort of Urgan Nagru’s horde and I order you to come down from there and surr . . .’
Graywort’s voice was cut off abruptly, as was his existence, by four well-aimed tiles.
Nagru sat upon the stairs, changing his smile to an expression of heartfelt pity. ‘Sourgall,’ he said, ‘is it still raining heavily?’
‘Yes Sire, it shows no sign of slacking.’
‘Hmm, I think we’ll leave the prisoners to soak until morning, I’m getting tired. Mount a guard on these stairs, will you? Oh, and when you’ve done that would you be so kind as to convey some sad news to Queen. Silvamord?’
‘Aye Sire, what shall I say?’
‘Tell her that our brave new Captain Graywort was cruelly slain by the escaped prisoners. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? I can’t stand being the bearer of sad tidings.’
Silvamord was at that moment regretting her decision to venture outside Castle Floret into the downpour of a rapidly darkening evening. The squad of horderats was diminished by four and some beast, or beasts, were stalking her and the patrol through the rising mists that curtaining rain was releasing from the warm ground. The vixen could not see her assailants, and she was rapidly of the opinion that she did not want to see them. Her one desire now was to get back inside the safety of Floret’s walls. To save losing face in front of her command she ranted at them, ‘Stop pushing from behind there, what’s the matter with you? Frightened of a bit of rain and mist?’
Beside her a rat gurgled and fell, transfixed by an arrow. She dodged behind a tree, calling out to the rat Fillch, ‘Where’s Graywort? Why isn’t he here?’
She jumped, startled as Fillch’s voice came close to her ear, ‘I dunno m’Lady, gone off to see the Urgan Nagru, I think.’
‘You think? Who said he could, I never did? Who’s second in command to Graywort?’
Fillch knew what was coming, but he answered truthfully. ‘I am y’Majesty, d’you want t’go back to the Castle now?’
‘Well of course I do, oaf!’ Silvamord’s voice was shrill with fear and frustration. ‘Didn’t you hear me give the order to return? I can’t see a thing with all this mist and rain, we’ll be picked off one by one if we don’t move.’
Fillch’s voice held a note of justifiable complaint in it. ‘But you was shoutin’ that order to Graywort, not me!’
The vixen kicked out savagely, relishing the squeal of pain that issued from Fillch. ‘I didn’t know Graywort was not here then, idiot. Why didn’t you tell me at the time, you’re useless!’
But Fillch was not answering. Silvamord turned on him, only to find the horderat pinned to the tree, slain by a barbed shaft from out of the misty deluge. Any vestige of boldness or courage deserted the vixen then, and she turned and ran headlong for the castle.
Her beaded skirt of tails swished wetly against her as, gasping for breath, she pounded on to the woodwork of the lowered drawbridge. Urging each other on, the horderats ploughed up the steps to the plateau after her.
‘Inside, come on, move yourselves, get inside!’ Fillch shouted.
The last rats hurried past Silvamord as Sourgall ran out, holding a scrap of sacking over his head to keep dry. ‘Majesty, I have a report from Urgan Nagru for you, he say
s that he regrets to tell you Captain Graywort . . .’
Silvamord did not hear the rest. She stood rigid, unable to tear her eyes away from the causeway steps up to the plateau. There, standing in a patch of pale watery moonlight, were two creatures returned from the dead.
Rab Streambattle and the badger Muta!
Moonlight glimmered whitely on the terrible scars and lacerations on the bare skin where new fur had not grown. She saw the otter’s paws rise as he stretched a shaft on his tautened bowstring, and acting instinctively Silvamord threw herself flat. Sourgall was still finishing his message as the arrow took his life.
Then Silvamord was dashing into Floret screaming, ‘Raise the drawbridge! Raise the drawbridge!’
As the heavy wooden drawbridge creaked upward the vixen peered around the side of it at the plateau steps. Rab Streambattle and Muta were gone, vanished into the mist and rain like two wraiths out of a nightmare.
19
FINNBARR GALEDEEP DREW his two swords as he watched the swarming masses approaching. Log a Log stood at his side, rapier at the ready, assessing the oncoming foe. ‘Giant marshtoads, big uns, there must be thousands of ’em!’ he yelled.
‘Everybeast to the Pearl Queen, use her as a fort, we’ll stand a better chance of fighting them off!’ shouted Joseph as he grabbed a long driftwood spar.
It was a sensible idea and the crew rushed to do his bidding. The shrew Fatch pulled Rufe Brush away from the memorial cairn, hurrying him along. ‘C’mon mate, said I’d look after you, didn’t I?’
Rufe found himself pushed aboard, and he took up his position with Fatch on the aft gallery of the crazily listed stern. ‘I dearly wish Rosie Woodsorrel was here, Fatch,’ he said, ‘she was as good as ten warriors!’
Long green banners streamed out above the hordes of giant marshtoads as they came on in their hundreds – huge, horrible wart-studded creatures, armed with what appeared to be big curved scythe blades mounted on poles. Rufe swallowed hard, his paws trembling. ‘I’ll wager they could inflict awful damage with those things, d’you think they’ll attack us, Fatch?’
The brave shrew tested the point of a boarding pike. ‘They ain’t here for a party, Rufe, you stick close t’me!’
Finnbarr grinned with anticipation. His lust for battle rising hotly, he spoke out of the side of his mouth to Joseph, ‘Well, it was nice knowin’ ye, Bellmaker. Let’s go out with a bang. D’you creatures ’ave a battle cry?’
The toads were almost upon them as Joseph shouted out, ‘Give ’em a good roar, come on crew – where’s our war shout?’
Wild cries ripped from the throats of everybeast aboard: ‘Redwall! Redwall! Logalogalog! Redwaaaaallll!!!’
The toads halted dead in their tracks.
An eerie silence fell over shore and cliff. Joseph looked quizzically at Finnbarr. ‘Great seasons of plenty! That seemed to do the trick – look at ’em, you’d think they were frozen!’
The sea otter was stupefied for a moment, then his love of battle took over. Clashing his twin sword blades in the face of the massed toad army, he bellowed defiantly, ‘What’re ye waitin’ for, ya blisterin’ mudsuckers? ’Ere’s the Galedeep, fightin’ fit an’ rarin’ t’go. I’ll take on any number of ye, pot-bellied marshspawn, web-brained cowards! Do ye use those weapons fer eatin’ yore vittles or diggin’ ’oles to ’ide in?’
Joseph restrained the impetuous sea otter. ‘Steady on there, Finnbarr, no use forcing a fight with this lot. There’s too many of ’em, we’d be slaughtered. Let’s wait and see what they do next.’
The marshtoads raised their weapons and began chanting: ‘Glogalog! Hoolya, hugg hugg! Glogalog!’
The massed ranks parted, leaving a long aisle. From the foot of the cliffs came a procession of toads, carrying a canopied hammock on a wooden frame. Laying in the hammock was a massive old toad, far bigger than all the others. Across his stupendous stomach rested a bulrush sceptre with a sun-bleached lizard skull fixed to its top.
Fatch nudged Rufe, whispering, ‘Looks like the big boss wants to visit us.’
The bearers let the framed hammock rest on the sand. The marshtoad ruler pointed to himself and uttered a guttural sound. ‘Glogalog, Bulgum Glogalog!’
‘What d’you think he’s saying?’ Joseph murmured to Finnbarr.
The shrew Chieftain came to stand with them. ‘I think he’s telling us his name, Glogalog. Sounds very like mine, Log a Log.’
The marshtoad pointed to himself again. ‘Glogalog, Bulgum! Bulgum!’
The vast army of marshtoads bowed low, their voices almost a moan as they chorused, ‘Bulgum! Bulguuuuummmmm!’
Finnbarr sheathed his swords. ‘What d’yer suppose a Bulgum is mates?’ he said.
A familiar ear-splitting laugh rent the air. ‘Whoohahahooh! I say, you chaps, d’you need a jolly old interpreter, wot?’
Fatch had to restrain Rufe from leaping over the stern. ‘It’s Rosie an’ Durry,’ he yelled. ‘They’re not dead! Oh look, Fatch! Rosie an’ Durry, they’re alive!’
The Hon Rosie Woodsorrel and Durry Quill stepped from behind the canopied frame and waved merrily to their friends aboard the Pearl Queen. Both looked none the worse for their ordeal of being lost at sea. A great gasp of delight and astonishment came from the animals massed on the deck. Rosie and Durry crossed the sand, while the toads stood watching silently. They reached the ship, and dozens of hands leant out to help them on board. Rufe threw himself happily on Durry.
‘What the . . .? How did . . .?’ spluttered the Bellmaker.
Rosie gave Joseph a huge wink. ‘Toodle pip, old sport – listen carefully an’ don’t ask silly questions. Young Durry an m’self have got to keep up our image as Bulgums, sort of greatbeasts who come flyin’ out of the sky an’ all that. Have you got any of that absolutely foul seaweed grog that those searats left aboard?’
Log a Log scratched his head in bewilderment. ‘There’s jugs an’ jugs of it in the galley, why?’
‘Never mind why, old thing, just go and get a jug, please.’
While Log a Log went to the galley Durry and Rufe carried on hugging each other. The young squirrel seemed lost for words, all he could do was weep. Durry hugged him tighter. ‘There, there now Rufey, don’t you cry no more, I’m back!’
Fatch could not help chuckling. ‘He’d prob’ly weep a lot less if you didn’t ’ug so tight, matey, the pore beast gets spiked worse every time y’do!’
Durry immediately let go and Rufe giggled helplessly as he pulled hedgehog spines from his paws. ‘Oh hahaheehee, I’ll never let you out of my sight hahaheehee again, Durry Quill. Hahaheehee!’
Fatch and Durry joined in the laughter, three friends together. Log a Log had returned with a jug of seaweed grog and Rosie took it from him.
‘Come on, young Quill, stop that laffin’ an’ conduct y’self like a proper Bulgum. Leave those two a moment, they’ll still be here when y’get back. We’ve got a bit of magic to do for old Glogalog.’
Log a Log gave Rosie a sceptical look. ‘Can you really understand the marshtoad language?’
Hon Rosie jumped down to the sand, carefully catching the jug of grog as Durry lowered it to her. ‘I s’pose so, though not all of it, just the main bits,’ she said. ‘A Bulgum is a high-up sort of chap, chief or magician, that kind of rot, and Glogalog is the podgy feller in the hammock. He’s the King of marshtoads, we saved his life – but I’ll tell y’more about that later. Oh by the way, I’d change my name if I were you, just for the time we’re here. The mighty King wouldn’t like havin’ somebeast around with a name that sounded too much like his. Well cheerio, see you later, Glug a Bag!’
The shrew Chieftain looked at her indignantly. ‘Glug a Bag?’
The breakfast fire was reduced to a few smouldering twigs and ashes. Glogalog and the marshtoads formed a circle around it. Rosie instructed Durry as to what they should do, and the performance began. As the hare and the hedgehog went into a wild dance, jigging and prancing madly, the toad circle moved
back to give them more space. At intervals Rosie and Durry would point to each other and shout out in deep impressive voices, ‘Bulgum hoolya hugg hugg Bulgum!’
Still cavorting crazily, they passed the jug of seaweed grog, each taking a quantity and holding it in their mouths. Rosie’s ears stood up stiff – that was the signal.
Ppphhhssssstt!
Durry and Rosie squirted the grog from their mouths over the smouldering ashes of the breakfast fire.
Whoof! Red and blue flames shot up high, as the embers ignited by the grog took fresh light. All the marshtoads, even Glogalog, fell flat on their faces in the sand, moaning, ‘Bulgum, Bulguuummmm!’
Pulling a wry face, Durry spat out, again. ‘Pthooey! ’orrible stuff, my ole nuncle Gabe would’ve had it all buried in a hole far out in the woodlands!’
Rosie pointed to the prostrate toad masses. ‘Whoohahahooh! ’twas worth it though, Durry, we’re a right old pair of Bulgums now and no mistake!’
With the threat of a marshtoad invasion now gone, the crew set about making a ceremonial lunch aboard the Pearl Queen, with Glogalog and several of his lieutenants as guests. Food was prepared and spread on the hatch covers. The Guosim cooks did it up proud: October Ale, heavy fruit cake, hot plum scones, mint tea and a superb apple and blackberry flan. Whilst Rosie held disjointed conversations with the marshtoad King, Durry related their strange story to the crew.
‘When the mast broke off in the storm, me and Rosie hung on to it like limpets, and we were swept off by the winds, high up in the sky. I was never more frightened in me life, but Rosie there, she laughed an’ laughed fit to bust. Up an’ up we went, whirlin’ an’ twirlin’, drenched through by the rain an’ clingin’ on for dear life. Next thing I knew the wind dropped an’ so did we, straight out the sky like an arrow, down! We landed on the far side of yonder cliffs in a great swamp, an’ guess what? That mast came down smack on the skull of a fearful great hissin’ adder, a serpent! It was just about to make supper of King Glogalog when me’n Mrs Rosie an’ the mast landed on its ’ead, whacko!’