Foremole smote the wall with a heavy digging claw. “Boi ’okey we’m cudd, they’m udd know wot to do abowt ee varmints. But thurr bee’s h’only us’n’s, yurr!”
Toran could sense that the Abbot was waiting for him to take charge. He waved down to Martha, waiting in her chair on the lawn, then spoke. “Father, maybe ye an’ Martha could get a few helpers an’ search around for anythin’ that would be useful as a weapon. I’ve got a feelin’ they won’t make a move ’til tomorrow. We should be ready for ’em by then, though it prob’ly won’t come to that. I’ll stay up here with Junty, Weld an’ Foremole on watch.”
The Abbot went down to the lawn and pushed Martha back to the Abbey, explaining what was happening and what he had seen. The young haremaid could tell by Abbot Carrul’s face that he was very worried.
Wirga was long past her best seasons, a wrinkled, toothless old Searat, yet Raga Bol kept her with his crew. She was useless as a fighter or a forager, but she possessed other skills. There was little that Wirga did not know about wounds and the treatment of injuries. Her powers as a healer and her knowledge of herbs, nostrums and remedies made the old vermin invaluable to the ignorant crewrats. But there was yet another art Wirga practiced—that of a Seer. Raga Bol, as captain, was the only one she allowed to consult her, and then only in times of crisis.
Wirga crouched by the fire, watching Bol. They were camped among some wooded hills where the red sandstone rocks of Mossflower jutted out in shelflike formation. It was twilight. The Searat crew had slain a small colony of woodmice, and were leisurely plundering their shattered dwellings. Raga Bol and Wirga sat on a hilltop, isolated from the noisy rabble below.
The old Searat knew that her captain wished to consult her. He had given her half a roasted dove and a goblet of his personal grog—this was always a sign that she was needed. Wirga took out her pouch of charms and selected half a large musselshell. It was edged with yellow on the inside, glistening grey at the centre, with three partially grown purple mussel’s pearls protruding from its broad end.
Filling the shell with water, she gazed into it. “Thy appetite is not good of late?”
Raga Bol licked the sharp tip of his silver pawhook in silence as Wirga continued.
“Sleep eludes thee, thou are weary. None can rest easy in thy presence. Even I fear to speak of certain things—aye, things that trouble thee.”
With a curt nod, the Searat captain dismissed the four guards who attended him from twilight to dawn. When they had gone off to join the others, he took a furtive glance over his shoulder.
Drawing close to the Seer, Raga Bol dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Fear not, speak openly to me, ye won’t be harmed.”
Keeping her eyes on the water-filled shell, the old Seer proceeded, her voice now a sibilant hiss. “If thine enemy lives, he must die. Only then can Raga Bol find peace of mind. Thy foe’s death will release thee.”
The Searat captain’s eyes shone feverishly. “Does the stripedog still live? Tell me!”
Wirga turned away from the shell, confronting him. “When did thou last see this stripedog?”
Bol’s red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. “This very noon, aye, in full sunlight. ’Twas when we stopped to rest. I was so tired that I dozed off awhile. The sun beat through my closed lids, makin’ everythin’ go red. That’s when I saw the stripedog. Gettin’ off a strange craft he was, where that broadstream from the nor’east bends away from the trees an’ woodlands. Ye recall the spot, ’twas where we slayed those two shrews. The stripedog pointed to the bodies an’ looked straight at me. ‘They will be avenged, I am coming for ye, Raga Bol!’ Those were his very words.”
Wirga went back to contemplating the water in the shell, then continued. “Thee told him to go away and join the deadbeasts at Hellgates, because he was already slain by thee. But the giant stripedog kept coming. He was frightening to look upon, with his face cleaved wide, but scarred an’ stitched together by somebeast. Do I not speak truly?”
Raga Bol gasped, in awe of the Seer and her powers. “Aye, true, but how did ye know? Did ye see the beast, too?”
She smiled. “Wirga sees many things unknown to others.”
What she did not say was that she had been observing her captain for days—listening, watching, taking all in. Every nightmare, every time Raga Bol called out, in the brief times he did sleep, were memorised by Wirga. She had a complete picture of it all—from the moment Raga Bol had struck the badger to every event since.
The Searat captain brought his face even closer to the Seer. His breath was hot on her jaw, his voice half threat and half plea. “I can’t fight a dream, so I’m waitin’ on yore word. Tell me wot t’do, I must be rid of the stripedog!”
Wirga replied. “Knowest thou my three sons?”
Bol knew the ones she spoke of, though not too well. They were a furtive trio, a bit undersized for Searats, always last to fight but first to grab the plunder. He was not impressed with them, and saw the three as background vermin who never put themselves forward or appeared bold, like proper Searats often do.
The captain shrugged. “Aye, I know ’em, they ain’t no great shakes as fighters. That big stripedog could eat the three of ’em!”
Wirga rocked back and forth on her haunches, chuckling. “Heehee, well said. But give ’em a skilled tracker, one who could lead ’em to the place of thy dream, an’ my sons will make an end of thy stripedog, believe me!”
Raga Bol drew his scimitar, allowing the firelight to gleam across its lethal blade. “If’n’ I never finished the bigbeast with a blow o’ this, how could three runts like that do the job?”
Wirga drew from her pouch a section of bamboo, cut off near the joint and sealed at one end with beeswax. Carefully, she broke away the wax and upended the cylinder. Six long thorns spilled out, each one tipped with crimson dye and plumed with the short feathers of some exotic bird. She stayed Raga Bol’s paw as he reached to pick one up.
“Keep away from such things. They can kill ten times more swiftly than the most venomous snake!”
The Searat captain pulled back his paw. “Poison?”
Using her long pawnails, the Seer divided the thorns into three groups of two. “Once one of these little beauties pricks the skin, even the greatest warrior cannot stand. Poison, from far isles across the southern seas. My three sons know how to use these darts. Warriors they may not be, but assassins they surely are. Give ’em a tracker to lead ’em to the streambend. They will seek out thy stripedog an’ slay ’im.”
Raga Bol stood abruptly, peering over the hilltop rocks at his crew below until he saw the one he required. “Ahoy, Jibsnout!”
A big, competent-looking Searat saluted. “Cap’n?”
Raga Bol called back to him. “Bring Wirga’s three sons up ’ere. I’ve got a task for the four of ye.”
Night had fallen as the sons of Wirga left the hilltop, following Jibsnout. The tracker had a blanket with some food rolled into it thrown over his shoulder, and a well-honed dagger dangling from a cord around his neck.
Once they were off the hill and bound back along the trail, Jibsnout halted and glared contemptuously at the three smaller rats. It was obvious he did not enjoy their company. He pointed the dagger at each of them in turn.
“Lissen t’me, slimesnouts. I don’t like yew three one liddle bit. But I gotta do the job wot Cap’n Bol gave me—to take ye back to where the broadstream bends at the edge o’ this forest. Wot ye do then is carry out the cap’n’s orders. ’Tis up to ye how y’do that, an’ nought t’do wid me. But get this straight: Ye do yore job an’ I’ll do mine. So stay outta my way an’ mind yore manners around me. Step on my paws or look the wrong way at me an’ I’ll gut all three o’ ye wid this blade o’ mine! Unnerstood?”
The sons of Wirga never answered; they merely looked at one another and exchanged sly leers. This did not improve Jibsnout’s opinion of them. Turning on his paw, he set off at a rapid pace into the dark woodlands, growling back to the od
d trio.
“Move yoreselves! We’ll be marchin’ night’n’day, an’ only stoppin’ for a bite or a nap when I says so. If’n ye don’t keep up, I’ll leave ye behind. Hah, try explainin’ yoreselves to Raga Bol when ye get back then, I dare ye!”
17
Three days earlier, Lonna had bid farewell to Garfo Trok at the broadstream bend. The last he saw of the otter was Garfo singing loud ballads about food, or the lack of it, paddling back upstream to the northeast country. Lonna had enjoyed his time with the garrulous otter aboard his boat Beetlebutt. The big badger felt lonely as he trudged off into Mossflower, but soon his loneliness was replaced by rage, as he remembered the pitiful bodies of the two dead shrews. Before they parted, he and Garfo had buried them on the bankside.
All that day the scar across Lonna’s face felt sore and tight. His head ached whenever he thought of Raga Bol and his murderous crew, and his back wound began bothering him, causing him to limp as he pressed doggedly onward. The woodlands were quiet and peaceful, with sundappled green light cascading through the overhead foliage. Distant birdsong sounded muted, bees droned lazily in the midday calm. Lonna ignored the beauties of nature, his eyes constantly darting from side to side, paws ever ready to seek bow and shafts.
At midnoon the big stripedog halted by a rippling brook in a mossy sward. Resting awhile, he ate sparingly from the sea otter’s food pack—a crust of nutbread, some fine ripe cheese and a few scallions he found growing nearby—and drank deeply from the brook. Still sitting with his footpaws in the water, Lonna washed his head and face, then, leaning forward, immersed his face and head for several long intervals. The cold, clear brookwater refreshed him greatly. He stood up to leave, rubbing the small of his back and swaying from side to side, testing the limp in his footpaw, to judge how it was feeling.
A sense that he was being watched came over Lonna. Continuing his exercises, he spoke out in a voice loud enough for any eavesdropper to hear.
“ ’Tis not good manners to spy on a beast. Come out and show yourself. Don’t be afraid, you can see I’m no Searat!”
An elderly female squirrel, clad in a russet and yellow tunic, dropped out of the trees, landing right in front of him. She was a perky, cheerful-looking creature, but he could see by the way she toted a small javelin she was ready for anything.
Looking him up and down, she chattered boldly away. “Chahah! Me could tell ya wasn’t Searatta. Warramarrer bigbeast, ya back be hurted?”
Completely disarmed, Lonna smiled ruefully. “Just a bit, marm, but ’tis getting better by the day, thank ye. My name is Lonna Bowstripe.”
The squirrel bobbed him a neat curtsy. “Me’s Figalok Twigbenda, pleasin’ t’meetcha. I fix ya back, Lonna, folla me!”
Lonna took an immediate liking to Figalok, following her without question. She was so very swift that he had to hurry to keep up. Figalok halted alongside a big, ancient hornbeam tree and began giving rapid orders.
“See da branch stickin’ out up above? Me wancha t’jump up an’ grab it tight. Chakahoo! Berra take offa dat bigbow an’ arrers. Cheeh! Howcha make dat—cut a yewtree down an’ purra string on it? Dat a big bow, sure ’nuff!”
Lonna smiled at her observation. When he took off his bow, it stood near three times the height of Figalok. Placing his quiver of arrows to one side, he leaped up, grabbed the hornbeam limb and hung there, dangling. The branch was quite stout enough to hold his weight.
“Is this alright, marm? What do I do now?”
Figalok walked around him. “Ya jus’ hang there like a h’apple. Are ya plenny strong, Lonna?”
He stared down at her. “Aye, strong enough.”
Figalok jumped up and sat on Lonna’s footpaws, facing him. She grabbed his legs to steady herself. “Keep ya paws still now, bigbeast, don’t ya kick me off!”
Figalok began jerking Lonna back and forth, using him like a swing. “Chahah, dis do ya good, keep tight hold!”
For what seemed like an eternity she continued the swinging motion, back and forth, forward and back. Lonna’s own bodyweight, with the added burden of the squirrel, began to tell after awhile. She stared up at his clenched jaws.
“Ya wanna leggo now? Dat was a good ride.”
Lonna gasped. “Aye, I’d best come down before I drop!”
Figalok leapt to the ground, skipping to one side. “Rightee, ya can leggo, Lonna!”
He dropped gingerly, expecting the fall to jolt his back. Surprisingly, it did not.
The squirrel gave his back a thump. “Wassamarra witcha? Walk round, jump ’bout! Chahah, ya back be good as new now. Me fixed lotsa backs!”
Lonna’s back felt easy and relaxed, he was not getting a single twinge from the footpaw, which had been bothering him. He walked, then trotted, jumping up and down forcefully, putting all his weight on back and footpaw. Revelling in the newfound freedom of movement, Lonna dashed at Figalok, meaning to embrace her.
“I’m better, there’s no more pain! Figalok, you marvellous creature, how can I thank you?”
She shot up the trunk of the hornbeam, protesting, “Keep ya big paws offa me, or I be crushed flat! Betcha hungry, eh? Bigbeasts must get plenty hungry. Folla me!”
Figalok scuttled through the woodlands, with Lonna hard on her tail. She halted at the base of a three-topped oak, which grew in close proximity to a beech, an elm and a sycamore. The upper limbs of all three trees intertwined with the oak, forming a wide platform.
The squirrel twitched her tail at Lonna. “Ya wait der, me send ya rope down!” She shot lightly up the oak trunk, vanishing into the foliage.
A moment later Figalok reappeared, surrounded by a crowd of tiny squirrelbabes. They squeaked and squealed at the size of Lonna, pointing and giggling.
“Cheehow, nanny, wherecha find dat ’un?”
“Weehoo, must be da biggest beast in alla lands!”
“Choowhee, never see’d not’ink like ’im in me life!”
Shoving them out of her way, Figalok pushed a thick rope down. It was knotted at close intervals to make climbing easy. Shouldering his bow and quiver, Lonna began scaling the rope. Figalok was hard put to keep back the press of little squirrels.
“Chahah, gerra ya back an’ make way for me friend. Take no notice a dese likka pesters, Lonna, up ya come!”
Lonna found the climb quite easy. The squirrelbabes shrieked and scurried off as he joined Figalok on the bough. She nodded approvingly.
“Not’ink wrong wirra dat back now. Me make a squirrel outta ya, bigbeast. Berra get vikkles quick, afore they alla gone!”
The squirrels’ dray was an amazing sight. Branches were cunningly woven twixt the network of bows and limbs between the four trees. Lonna found it safe to walk upon, though he trod carefully. At the oak’s centre was a wide platform with a charcoal oven set on slabs of slate. Upward of a dozen older squirrels were preparing a meal there. Literally scores of babes and young ones festooned the place, hanging by their tails or balancing nimbly on the slenderest of twigs.
Figalok proudly introduced her newfound friend to the assemblage. “Ya see this ’un, he be Lonna bigbeast. Figalok finded ’im. Lonna be hungry, berra give ’im lotsa vikkles!”
Four older squirrels hurried to serve the big badger, plying him with huge portions of a thick, sweet porridge. It was a mixture of wild oats, fruit and nuts boiled in honey and rhubarb juice. Lonna was given a full flagon of elderflower and pennycress cordial. Both the food and drink tasted delicious. Figalok sat beside him, watching in awe as he satisfied his considerable appetite.
“Cheehoo! Betcha mamma was glad when ya leaved home!”
Lonna chuckled. “Who knows, maybe she might have been, but I don’t ever remember having a mother.”
Gradually the squirrelbabes had been inching closer to the big badger. When he mentioned that he had never known a mother, their sympathy was instantly aroused. They surrounded Lonna, sitting on his lap and shoulders, climbing on his back and paws. He was totally engulfed by the babes, one
of them even perched upon his head.
Their tiny paws patted him as they squeaked sorrowfully. “Aaaaah, never haved no mamma, pore bigbeast!”
“Must bee’d tebbirle, not ’avin’ no mamma!”
“Didya cried an’ weeped alla time for ya mamma?”
Figalok waved her paws at them. “Chachafah! Shooshoo! Gerroffa ’im, leave Lonna alone!”
But the badger defended them. “Let them be, marm. I like the little ’uns, they’re so small and friendly. Besides, they’re not at all afraid of my face, the scars and stitching.”
Figalok shrugged. “Chaaaah, why be they ’fraid? Likkle ’uns never see’d a bigbeast afore. They know ya be a goodbeast, me see dat, too. Not matter what ya lookin’ like.”
Before he could express his gratitude for the kind words, a tubby squirrel mother, with a fine bush of tail, took the empty bowl from Lonna and called to the little ones. “Hachowa! Sing for a bigbeast, sing ’im Twing Twing.”
The elders stood by, smiling fondly as the squirrelbabes sang their simple song for Lonna. What they lacked in melody, they made up in raucous enthusiasm, some of them performing dancing leaps and hops in time to the tune.
“Twing twing up inna trees,
twirlin’ me tail around,
lighter’n fevvers onna breeze,
never not fall to a ground!”
These were the only words they seemed to know, but they carried on singing the verse again and again, with the renewed gusto of babes enjoying themselves. Lonna held both paws wide, his face wreathed in a happy grin. The little ones swung on him, squeaking away lustily.
They were well into the seventh repetition of their song when one of the elders gave forth a piercing whistle. Like lightning, both infants and elders vanished into the foliage. A massive black shadow flew low overhead.