Noggo spoke for them both. “A dose of the Kurdlys, Boss.”
Gruntan devoured the hard-boiled egg swiftly. “Haharr, right first time, me beauty!” He beckoned to Stringle, a tall, thin rat, who was his first officer. “Git down there, an’ see that the crews are well stowed out o’ sight on both banks. Keep yore eyes peeled up ’ere on me, I’ll give ye the signal when they’re comin’.”
Stringle saluted with his spear and loped off. Gruntan Kurdly lay back on the litter, with a sigh of satisfaction, chewing happily on another egg. “Noggo, tell me when ye see those sh’ew boats hovin’ into sight, will ye? Haharr, there ain’t nothin’ like some trim likkle vessels to ride the waters on!”
Sounds of the stream, gurgling softly over its pebbled bed, echoed up from below. Gruntan’s eyes began to flutter, a half-eaten egg slipped from his paw. He was just about to start a nice nap, when Noggo shook him.
“Ahoy, Boss, ’ere they comes!”
From the top of the tall rock, the logboats looked small as they negotiated a bend in the stream. They were placed with two close to each bank, the coracle was in midstream, flanked by the remaining two boats. Gruntan murmured, “Come on, me beauties, come to ole Gruntan Kurdly!”
BOOK TWO
A Thief Absolved
13
Evening shades were turning the ancient walls of the Abbey to a dusty rose pink, the soft air was still warm from the long summer day. Little Dimp heaved himself laboriously up the north wall steps, toward the outer walltop. Each stair was an effort for the tiny squirrel, but he was determined to succeed. Down below on the lawn, two more Dibbuns, a mousemaid named Flim and an infant molemaid, Jorty, stood wagging their paws at Dimp. Dibbuns were forbidden to climb the steps, or to be alone up on the ramparts. Both the tiny maids were shocked at the antics of Dimp, and told him so.
“Cumma down now, naughty squiggle, you not apposed t’be uppa there. Comma down, me say!”
“Hurr, you’m getten inna trubble, zurr Dimp, fall on ee skull’ead, or sumpin’. Coom ee daown, yurr!”
Dimp made it up onto the high walkway. He did a brief jig, calling scornfully to the pair below, “Ho, go an’ boil yore bottims!”
Squeaking with shock at Dimp’s turn of phrase, the little maids threw their pinafores over their faces and dashed off.
“Hi, hello there, is anyone on the wall?”
Dimp went to the battlements, he began scrambling up, to see who was hailing the walltops from outside. “H’I’m onna guard h’up ’ere, wot you want?” Levering his chin over the battlement, Dimp stared down. He had never seen anybeast the size of a badger in his life, and certainly not the huge, gaunt creature in a ragged smock, wielding a gigantic pitchfork. The Dibbun fell back onto the parapet, speechless with fright.
Orkwil was further along to the right of the main gate, when Gorath hailed him.
“There was somebeast up there a moment ago, a little squirrel, I think. I may have frightened him off.”
The young hedgehog came scurrying back to his friend’s side. He looked up to the walltop. “Listen, friend, you’d better make yourself scarce. Hide in the bushes, I’ll speak to whoever it is.” Whilst Gorath concealed himself at the north woodland edge, Orkwil began hailing the ramparts. “Hello up there, anybeast about? We need to get inside!”
Flim and Jorty were halfway across the lawn when they bumped into Fenn Bluepaw. The Abbey Recorder confronted the little ones sternly. “What’s all this squealing and shouting about, why aren’t you two inside, getting ready for bed?”
Jorty jumped up and down on the spot. “Marm, et bee’s Dimp, he’m bein’ gurtly naughty!”
Flim could not wait to inform on Dimp. “An’, an’, an’ guess wot he sayed, marm, Dimp sayed the bot word to us. Ho good my gracious, it was h’awful!”
Fenn Bluepaw looked from one to the other. “’Bot word,’ what’s that supposed to mean?”
Flim could hold back no longer. “Dimp telled us to boil h’our…bottims!”
Jorty nodded vigorous agreement. “Hurr aye, an’ he’m cloimbed oop on ee walltops, marm!”
The bottom remark went unheeded. No sooner was the walltop mentioned than Fenn stamped her footpaw wrathfully. “Off to the Abbey, you two, this very instant! I’ll deal with Master Dimp!”
Flim and Jorty watched the Recorder striding purposefully to the north wallsteps, where Dimp could be seen, cowering in the shade of the battlements. The little mousemaid scowled darkly. “Hah, I not like t’be Dimp, Sista Fenn prolibly chop his tail off for bein’ naughty!”
Jorty giggled. “Hurhur, or she’m moight boil his bottim!”
Flim clapped a paw to her little friend’s mouth. “Goodness me, you’ve sayed bottim now!”
They trundled off to the Abbey, giggling together.
Orkwil yelled up to the walltop, for the second time. “Anybeast about, we’ve got to get inside, it’s urgent! Hello up there, who’s that?”
Fenn Bluepaw appeared at the northwest gable, her face the picture of indignation. “So, ’tis you, Orkwil Prink? The thief who was banished for a season. I shouldn’t even be talking to you! Go on, be off, you scoundrel!”
The young hedgehog spread his paws, pleading. “But marm, ye don’t understand, I’ve got to speak with Abbot Daucus, or Skipper, it’s really important!”
Fenn picked little Dimp up, turning her face away from Orkwil, and remarking scornfully, “Huh, first a thief, and now a liar, you haven’t changed much. Well, you can stand there fibbing all night, but you’re not entering this Abbey!”
Gorath had watched the exchange from the cover of some bushes. He left his hiding spot and came to stand beside Orkwil. The badger, not knowing his young friend’s predicament, decided to reinforce Orkwil’s plea. Cupping both paws around his mouth, he bellowed out to anybeast that might have been within hearing range, “Listen to me, or you’ll be sorry when Redwall is attacked!”
Skipper Rorc emerged from the Abbey for his evening patrol of the grounds, which was more in the nature of a leisurely stroll to walk off a big supper. He heard Gorath’s resounding voice, and hurried toward the north wall. On the way, he passed Fenn Bluepaw, who was hauling along a reluctant Dimp. Skipper nodded. “Evenin’, marm, d’ye know who’s doin’ the shoutin’ out there?”
The Recorder squirrel sniffed. “Pay no attention, ’tis only Orkwil Prink trying to get back into our Abbey. Come on, Dimp, don’t drag your paws!”
The squirrelbabe pulled back. “Mista Skip, that not Ork’il, it’s a monister wiv a hooj fork, I saw ’im!”
Skipper was already running for the wallsteps, he called back, “It didn’t sound like Orkwil, I’d best take a look!”
A moment later the otter was on the walltop, staring down at the bedraggled, weary pair. “Wot’s all this about an attack, young Prink, an’ who’s that giant ye’ve got in tow?”
Gorath spoke for himself. “I’m Gorath. I don’t know who you are, sir, but there’s a whole crew of sea-raiding vermin who’ll be here before too long. Take it from me, that’s a fact!”
Skipper vanished from sight, shouting to Orkwil, “Take yore friend to the main gate an’ I’ll let ye in!”
Abbot Daucus was cutting a slice of yellow cheese to have with his pear as an after-supper dessert, when the door of the Great Hall burst open. Skipper Rorc strode in, flanked by Orkwil Prink and the biggest badger the Abbot had ever seen. Daucus rose hastily from the table, addressing the badger. “If you enter our Abbey as a friend, there is no need to carry a weapon, sir!”
Gorath looked at his pitchfork, Tung, as if just noticing that it was in his paw. He bowed slightly, placing it on the table. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to frighten anybeast. I came here with Orkwil, to warn you that your Abbey may soon be attacked by vermin, a large crew of them, headed by the fox they call Vizka Longtooth—” Gorath broke off, he seemed to wilt, clutching the support of the table. He staggered slightly, slumping down on one of the benches by the table side.
O
rkwil spoke. “Gorath’s my friend, he was captured on the Northern Isles by the vermin. They had him chained up to a ship’s mast. He’s been beaten and starved.”
The Cellarhog, Benjo Tipps, immediately started shoving food from the table in front of the big, gaunt badger. “Pore beast, ’ere, matey, you take yore fill o’ good Redwall vittles. Aye, an’ there’s plenty more where they came from. Orkwil, you can tell us the rest, eh?”
Abbot Daucus took charge then. “Everybeast out, please, I want this hall cleared. Friar Chondrus, bring more food, and some hot soup if you can manage it. Now you just sit still there, Gorath, we’ll take care of you, my friend.”
The badger tried to nod, but his head fell forward onto the table, and his eyes started to droop.
Daucus gave more orders. “Sister Atrata, kindly fetch your medicines from the sickbay, and any assistants you may need. Skipper, will you and your daughters clear the table off? See if you can lay our friend on it, with a pillow for his head. Orkwil, come to my room, you can enlighten me on the situation. Benjo, you’d better come, too, and Skipper, please join us when you’re done here.”
The vessel Bludgullet took longer than expected to reach the ford. Overhanging trees, narrow banks and outcrops of rock had to be negotiated to ply the ship upriver. Vizka was forced to admit that whilst a ship at sea could be fleet and nimble, forcing it upland, through a woodland river, was no easy task. The golden fox took command of the operation. He did not spare the rope’s end with tardy paddle pushers, driving them to their limit with lashes, blows and curses.
The crew sweated and toiled throughout the night, scratched by foliage, lashed by their captain and plagued by midges and stinging insects. It was backbreaking work. Whenever a rest was called, the vessel would drift backward with the current, and the anchor would have to be dropped.
The sun had been up for some considerable time, and there was still no sign of the path or the ford. Vizka kicked the watervole, who had slumped to the deck with fatigue. “Gerrup on ya hunkers, ’airymouse, are ye shore dis is de right way to der fordplace?”
The watervole was hungry, sick to his stomach and resentful. He curled a lip at the Bludgullet’s captain. “Huh, which way can this river go, except t’the ford, eh?”
Vizka hauled the unfortunate beast up by the rope, which was tethered about his neck. He bit the watervole’s ear until his victim squealed with pain. “I never ast ya fer smart remarks, just a straight answer. So, are we bound der right way fer dat ford?”
The watervole whimpered as he nursed his torn ear. “Yes, yes, this is the right way, sir, I swear it!”
Even as he spoke, one of the vermin, who was in the water, hauling on a headrope, sang out. “Dere’s some sort o’ path crossin’ der water up ahead, Cap’n, dis river’s gettin’ shallower!”
Vizka Longtooth released the rope, letting the watervole slump to the deck. He patted the wretched beast’s head. “Well done, bucko, you was right, dat’ll be der ford.” The golden fox glanced about at his crew as he called out a halt. “Drop anchor, an’ moor ’er t’der bank.”
There was an audible groan of relief from the vermin crew, they flopped down, panting and gasping from their night-long efforts. Vizka knew they were totally exhausted, but he was artful at dealing with his creatures, to get his own way.
“Youse two, Baul an’ Widge, stop ’ere ter guard der ship. All d’rest of ya, git ready ter march by mid-mornin’.” Vizka put on his dangerous smile, watching the crew for signs of protest, or rebellion. They hung their heads in sullen silence, not even daring to sniff or mutter. Vizka strode up and down, nodding. “Good, good! I gives ya my word dat by tonight ye’ll be feastin’ like kings, an’ sleepin’ in Redwall Abbey. So, wot d’ya says ter dat, me buckoes?” He strode off to his cabin, not waiting for a reply, knowing that they would do as he ordered. Or die. Pausing at the cabin door, he turned, pointing at the watervole. “Jungo, yore in charge of dat ’un, make sure ’e don’t try ter escape.”
Jungo hauled the vole over by his neck tether. “Huhuh, I’ll watch ’im like a mudder duck wid an egg, Cap’n. Ahoy, hairymouse, you knows ’ow mudder ducks watches their eggs, don’t ya?”
The watervole shook his head. “No sir.”
Jungo knocked him flat with a swift kick. “Huhuhu, dey sits on ’em, like dis!”
Abbot Daucus, Benjo Tipps and Skipper Rorc had been joined by Granspike Niblo. They listened intently as Orkwil related his story, telling of the coming danger from Longtooth and his vermin Sea Raiders. Granspike hugged Orkwil fondly.
“You see, Father Abbot, I allus knew there was good in this young feller. Even though he were banished for the season, Orkwil came back to warn us!”
Daucus smiled at the young hedgehog. “Indeed he did, you are a credit to your Abbey, young Prink!”
Orkwil immediately perked up. “Does this mean I’m not banished anymore, Father?”
Skipper gave Orkwil’s snout a playful tweak. “I should ’ope not, matey, we’ll be needin’ beasts like you to defend the walls. How many vermin d’ye reckon Longtooth has with him?”
Orkwil scratched his headspikes. “I never had time to count ’em, but there must be more than eight score at least. What are we going to do if they attack Redwall? We don’t have many trained warriors, and it may be some time before Gorath is well enough to fight.”
The Abbot gathered both paws into his wide sleeves. “Redwall was never a military stronghold, we’ll do what we’ve always done in times of attack. Our walls are strong enough to face any onslaught of vermin, we’ll defend, right, Skipper?”
The burly otter nodded. “Right, Father. Meself an’ ole Benjo here, we’ve both had a bit of past experience with rovin’ vermin. Seems t’me this lot don’t sound a lot different, we’ll deal with ’em atween us, one way or another. How would ye like t’be an officer o’ the guard, young Prink? I think he’d suit the job well, eh, Benjo?”
The Cellarhog winked at Skipper. “Aye, why not, all young ’uns got to grow up sooner or later. I wish that the badger was fit to fight, though. My spikes! Have ye seen the size of him? I’ll wager he could do some damage wid that pitchfork o’ his!”
Orkwil was bursting with pride at his unexpected promotion. Feeling very important, he ventured an opinion. “My friend Gorath is a real warrior, I’ve already seen him slay one creature, when we were on the vermin ship. He told me that he suffers from Bloodwrath.”
The Abbot sat up straight in his chair. “Great seasons of slaughter! D’you mean to tell me the badger lying on Great Hall table is a beast of Bloodwrath?”
Orkwil hastened to assure his Abbot. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Father. Gorath told me that he was saved from the Bloodwrath by a vision of a mouse who carried a great sword.”
Pushing his chair to one side, the Abbot rose. “It must have been Martin the Warrior! Come with me, friends, let’s take a closer look at this badger.”
Down in Great Hall, Gorath was sitting up on the edge of the large banqueting table. Friar Chondrus was refilling a bowl from a cauldron of leek and mushroom soup, whilst Foremole Burff held forth a plate of carrot and turnip pasties. The huge young badger accepted the soup and a pastie, grunting. “My thanks, friends, this is wonderful food!” As he ate, Sister Atrata, who was standing up on the table behind her patient, worked on some of his other wounds. Orkwil approached him boldly.
“How are you doing, mate, feeling better?” As Gorath raised his face from the soup bowl, Orkwil gasped and took a backward pace.
The thickly crusted scab, which had formed over the large wound that Vizka had inflicted with his mace and chain, was gone. Centred in the middle of his white forehead stripe was a deep scarlet shape, resembling a large flame. Gorath looked oddly at his friend. “I’m feeling a bit better, what are you staring at?”
Before Orkwil could reply, Sister Atrata explained. “I was bathing that dreadful injury on his head, with some special herbs and hot water, when the scab came loose. It was the size of
a small plate. Well, I didn’t know how severe the wound was, so just kept on bathing until the scab fell off. I’m afraid no more flesh or fur will ever grow in that spot again. However, the wound beneath was protected, and kept clean by the dried blood which had formed the scab. It isn’t raw, or moist, and Gorath says it doesn’t pain him anymore.”
The badger touched his wide, flame-shaped wound. “It feels fine, thank you, Sister. Could I see it?”
Abbot Daucus extended his paw to Gorath. “If you feel well enough to walk, there’s a polished shield on the wall, in an alcove over there. I’ve seen many a pretty young Redwall maid using it as a mirror. Come on, take a peek at yourself, friend, it’s not so bad.”
On reaching the alcove which contained the shield, Gorath staggered right past it. He pointed at the Redwall Abbey tapestry, his voice sending booming echoes around Great Hall. “It’s him, it’s the warrior with the sword. There!”
Orkwil grasped his big friend’s paw. “Hah, see, told you there was somebeast you might want to meet—that’s Martin the Warrior!”
Gorath sat down on the floor, gazing at the woven figure. “He saved my life!”
It was impossible not to be impressed by the likeness of Martin. His eyes seemed to follow every creature, they were kindly eyes, but brave and resolute. Orkwil had always thought there was something very comforting in looking at Martin, he felt reassured by the sight of the warrior, as did every Redwaller. The Abbot placed something in Gorath’s paws, it was the warrior’s sword. Though it looked no bigger than a long dagger in the badger’s massive grasp, he admired it greatly.
“This is a marvellous blade, whoever forged it must have been a master of the armorer’s craft.” The badger leaned toward the tapestry as if listening to something. He beckoned to Orkwil. “Would you please bring me my weapon?” Orkwil did as he was requested.