Rakkety Tam (23 page)

Log a Log Togey gestured the squirrel back to his seat. “I've lived a few seasons more'n you beasts. Runnin' off with half a scheme is a sure route to failure. Let's take time to figure things out properlike. I've got one or two ideas I'd like to put to ye.”

Tam sat down. “I'm always ready to listen an' heed a Chieftain of your experience, Togey. Carry on, mate.”

The Guosim leader explained his scheme. “If'n you could get through those birds in the pines, then Gulo could, though I don't know wot shape his number o' vermin'll be when he does. Rest assured, though, he'll be comin' after ye, so we can't afford to ignore him. Yore first plan was to draw the vermin away from Redwall an' pick 'em off until they were finished, but that plan won't hold water anymore, Tam. I think we should stay put by this river. When Gulo comes out o' the pines an' picks up the trail again, then we move. We'll wait 'til the last moment, then leave a clear trail for him t'follow. My Guosim can get ye back to Redwall, by one waterway an' another, until we're not far from the Abbey. I'll have scouts sent out to otherbeasts who'll help us. I know lots o' creatures who are friendly to the Redwallers. They'll help without question.”

Tam winked at the wise old shrew. “Right, Togey, a great plan! What d'you think, Butty?”

Corporal Wopscutt smiled his approval. “Capital tactic, wot! Right, what's the next move, chaps?”

Tam quaffed the last of his drink and rose once more. “Get out there on the riverbank, make lots o' noise an' keep
a good fire goin'. Then Gulo an' his vermin can see where we are an' come after us again, eh, Togey?”

The Guosim chieftain was in complete agreement. “Don't want to lose 'em, do we?”

 

It was dark by the time the troutbake was ready. By the light of three good fires, the Guosim cooks raked away the glowing embers on top of their pit. Uncovering a layer of earth and steaming damp foliage, they scooped out the apples, celery, onions and watercress lying on top of the baked trout. The fish, which had been placed on a bed of hot stones at the bottom of the pit, were cooked to perfection. Hares and shrews sat together on the riverbank, drinking old shrewbeer and doing justice to the delicious meal. Four young Long Patrol members entertained everybeast with a barrack room ditty which was an old favourite from the sergeants' mess at Salamandastron. Some of their harmonies were a bit off-key, but what they lacked in melodic content they made up for in volume. All the others knew the “walla walla” chorus and taught it to the shrews as they sang along raucously.

 

“A gallant young warrior lay weary,

on a battlefield far from his home.

He tried to sit up and sound cheery,

an' these were the words he did moan. Ooooooohhh

Walla walla wimbo, bing bang bimbo,

wullyah wullyah wullyah whoo!

Wot I wouldn't give for a basinful

of me grandma's hard-baked stew!

 

Give this pudden back to me dear mother,

an' tell her I slew ten vermin with it.

Say I don't wish to cause any bother,

but the Sergeant's a silly great twit!
Oooooooohhhhh

Walla walla wimbo, bing bang bimbo,

wullyah wullyah wullyah whoop!

I must complain I've got a pain,

an' the cook makes poison soup!

 

Tell my fat little sister I love her,

an' give her this flea-ridden coat.

Say it comes from her handsome young brother,

it was swiped off a greasy old stoat.
Oooooooohhhhh

Walla walla wimbo, bing bang bimbo,

wullyah wullyah wullyah whoo!

Me ears are green an' me bottom's red,

an' me nose is turnin' blue!

 

Now the foebeast are nearly upon me,

I'm eatin' a raw onion pie.

I'll remember me auntie quite fondly,

but it's so jolly hard not to cry. Ooooooohhhhhh

Walla walla wimbo, bing bang bimbo,

wullyah wullyah wullyah yaah!

I've finished me scoff so I'll be off,

I'll be home by teatime, Ma!”

 

Log a Log Togey, having learned the “walla walla” bit quickly, sat tapping both footpaws and singing rowdily throughout the proceedings. When the song was over, he smoothed his beard and sat up straight, remarking to Tam, “Silly pointless song, huh? The things these young hares sing! Y'wouldn't catch a Guosim warblin' rubbish like that!”

Just then Threeshrew, another one of the sisters, and Fourshrew, her brother, leapt up. They cavorted around the bank, holding paws and splashing in and out of the shallows as they performed a lively rendition of a Guosim favourite. Tam had trouble keeping a straight face in Togey's presence as he listened to the words.

 

“Splish splash bumpitty crash!

all in and out the water.

Amid the cascade, bow to the maid,

an' kiss the cook's young daughter!

 

How happy we'll be, just you'n me,

we'll have a good ole wash.

Yore mother'll say ‘O lack a day,'

Splish splash splosh!

 

Splish splash bumpitty crash!

The little maid she said sir,

‘Just look at the mess o' my fine dress,

I'll blame it on the weather!'

 

And as for you, I'll tell you true,

my daddy'll yell ‘Good gosh!'

He'll tan yore tail an' make you wail,

Splish splash splosh!”

 

Tam glanced sideways at Togey. “Splish splash splosh?”

The Guosim chieftain glared challengingly at him. “Aye, a fine old song, part of our shrew tradition. A bathtime ditty, as I recall. Mothers sing it to their babes whilst they scrub 'em in the tub. Anythin' wrong with that, Mister MacBurl?”

The border warrior hastily reassured the old patriarch, “Oh no, sir, a traditional Guosim song, just as y'say!”

One of the young shrews seated nearby called out to Threeshrew and Fourshrew, “Sing us another, mates! How about Wully Wolly Whoppo or Groggity Groo Mallog?”

Log a Log Togey tweaked the young one's ear, murmuring quietly to him, “Enough of that, 'tis past yore bedtime.”

He turned to Ferdimond, changing the subject quickly. “So then, wot did ye think o' Guosim vittles, eh?”

The hare was mopping his platter with a crust, watching the cooks eagerly for a third helping. “Oh, absolutely top-hole, sah! If this is the standard of Guosim grub, I might join up with your flippin' crew an' become a jolly old shrew, wot?”

One of the cooks was heard to groan. “Fates forbid the day. I'd sooner run off an' be a vermin than have t'feed that famish-faced glutton for a season!”

Night wore steadily on, the fires burning down to scarlet embers, tingeing the broad, calm river with their glow.

 

Gulo the Savage and his vermin had emerged from the pine thickets just before sundown. They had fought their way out to a point south of the hares' exit place. The wolverine's losses were severe, his followers now numbering only thirty—all due to Gulo's insane love of killing and fighting. He had revelled in the combat against the birds. Forgetting all else, he had stayed within the pines to inflict mighty slaughter upon the rooks and crows who had dared to attack him. The deep-carpeted pine needle floor was littered with winged carcases.

Unwittingly, Gulo had done the shrews a great service. Never again would the predatory birds roost in sufficient numbers to harass the Guosim in their water meadows. This, however, did not concern the wolverine as his mind settled back to more urgent matters—the capture of the Walking Stone and deadly revenge upon his brother. He ignored the raking scratches, wounds and dried blood upon his powerful frame, tearing feathers from a slain rook and sinking his fangs into it.

The surviving vermin had lit a fire out on the open hillside. Crouched about it, they licked scratches, tended injuries and roasted the bodies of their dead enemies. Gulo watched them closely, gauging their mood, which he knew to be less than willing. It did not matter to him how they felt: a beast such as Gulo the Savage was concerned only with his own desires.

A badly wounded ermine gave a whimper of pain. Tossing aside a half-eaten crow, he lay back, exhausted and dispirited. Unaware that his leader's keen senses were focussed on him, the ermine moaned softly to his comrades, “I lost an eye to those black birds. They tore such a rip in my guts that I can't hold vittles down. Ohhhhh! Methinks I need to rest for a long while.”

Gulo padded over to the wounded vermin. He leaned
over him, enquiring in an unusually gentle voice, “Thy injuries are bad. Do ye crave sleep, friend?”

The ermine was both pleased and relieved at his master's concern for his welfare. “Aye, Lord.”

A single brutal blow from the wolverine's paw broke the vermin's neck. Kicking the lifeless beast to one side, Gulo straightened up, the campfire flames reflecting in his insane eyes as he growled out a harsh warning. “Who wants to join this whining coward?”

The remaining ermine and foxes averted their eyes and held their breath as his wild stare swept over them. Gulo grabbed a charred crow from the fire, crunching his fangs into it. After devouring the bird, he sat down, gazing into the flames while snarling out his commands. “Two of ye, go and scout out where my brother and his band are at. The rest of ye, eat! Fill your mouths on the flesh of our foes. Mayhaps 'twill put some fire into your bellies, some iron into your spines!”

Nearly every vermin stood up—all wanted to go scouting, fearing to stay in their wild leader's company.

Gulo's voice stopped them in their tracks. He pointed with the dead crow's taloned leg. “I said two, you an' you. The rest of ye, stay with me. Let me hear a chant of war to show me ye are ready to serve Gulo the Savage.”

His creatures knew better than to refuse. They stood around the fire, stamping their footpaws and waving blades as they roared out one of their battle rousers from the lands of ice beyond the great sea.

 

“What is fear, I know it not!

What is death, the foebeast's lot!

Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!

Blood is what my blade drinks,

slaughter what my mind thinks.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Lead us on, O Mighty One!

O'er the bodies of the slain.

Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!

Blood will swell into a lake,

smoking fires blaze in thy wake.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Eat the flesh of those who fall!

Let them tremble when we call.

Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!

 

In the pinetops, a bedraggled crow perched on its empty nest, awaiting a mate who would never return. It raised its head, squawking mournfully at the calm golden dawn which creamed the eastern cloudbanks to the hue of newly churned butter.

The white fox who had been sent scouting, in company with an ermine, made his report to Gulo. “Mighty One, they are camped by a broad river, beyond yonder wooded hill to the east. They have boats.”

The wolverine's hooded eyes bored into the fox searchingly. “Askor, my brother, what news of him? Did ye see him?”

The scout's limbs trembled, but he answered truthfully. “Nay, sire, neither of us saw him—only a treemouse, a riverdog, tall rabbits and otherbeasts, small ones who know the ways of rivercraft. They were all we saw, Mighty One.”

Gulo the Savage rose, shaking his huge barbaric head. “I know Askor is with them. Get in front of me, all of ye. We go to the river with all speed!”

Dawn had not yet broken over the west flatlands outside Redwall. Brigadier Crumshaw stood on the Abbey walltop above the main gates, accompanied by Sergeant Wonwill, Captain Fortindom, Abbot Humble and Burlop Cellarhog.

The brigadier jammed his monocle into position as he polished it. Peering out impatiently over the darkened plain, he muttered aloud, “Confound the rotters! Y'know, it wouldn't surprise me at all if their bally nerve failed 'em an' they didn't turn up—eh, Sergeant? Wot wot!”

Wonwill screwed his eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of the foe. “Might be as y'say, sah, h'I can't see a blinkin' sign of 'em. Huh, but me ole sight ain't wot it used t'be, sah.”

Tergen came hobbling up the wallsteps, still munching on a breakfast oatcake. “Haraaaark! This bird will see what you cannot!” With a hop and a skip, he leaped into a space between the battlements. His keen gaze swept the area, then he nodded knowingly. “Yahaaar! This bird has sighted vermin!”

Crumshaw glared at the goshawk. “Where away, friend?”

Tergen indicated with a talon. “Kaaaarrr! See, Wotwot, two arrow flights to the north. The vermin make fire over yonder, look!”

Burlop turned his attention to the pale flicker which showed to the northwest. “I can make 'em out, sure enough, all gathered round the fire in their cloaks. Well, it looks like we're going to get our battle today, Brigadier.”

Crumshaw stared askance at the solid young hedgehog. “We, sirrah! D'ye mean you'll be joinin' us out there?”

Burlop held up the stave axe and the coopering mallet he had brought along. “Never fear, I'll be right there! I live at Redwall, so I'm fit an' able to defend my Abbey.”

Derron Fortindom posed elegantly, paw on sabre hilt. He gave Burlop an admiring glance. “Well said that, chap, wot! Pity you won't be takin' the field t'day, Brigadier. But never fret, sah, I'll put a few vermin on the account under your name.”

The monocle fell from Crumshaw's eye in astonishment. “What the dickens d'ye mean, Captain? Who says I won't be joinin' the skirmish, eh?”

Abbot Humble summoned up his courage and faced the angry old hare. “Er, begging your pardon, friend, but I for one must say it. You can hardly fight with one paw in a sling and a hole through your shoulder that isn't healed.”

The brigadier's moustache bristled with indignation. “Pish tush, Father! 'Tis me duty, I've got to go, wot wot!”

Tergen attempted to flap his bandaged and splinted wing. “Akkaawww! Wotwot, you like this bird, hurted. You, me, we cannot go. Be inna way of fightin' beasts. We stay!”

The brigadier raised his swagger stick as if he were about to strike somebeast. He vented his fury on them. “Never! I say never, d'ye hear? My orders are orders around here. I say I go, an' by the cringe I shall go!”

Wonwill attempted to placate him. “Beggin' y'pardon, sah, but you'll be far better off up 'ere with the Father
H'Abbot. You ain't in no fit state to fight, sah, if'n ye'll forgive me sayin'.”

Crumshaw rounded on him. “No, I will not forgive ye sayin', Sergeant. One more word from ye an' I'll slap ye on a flamin' charge!”

Wonwill turned away, shrugging his shoulders. “Is that yore last word, Brigadier sah?”

Crumshaw stuck his chin out defiantly. “Indeed it is! The very idea, not leadin' me own hares out t'fight the enemy. Unthinkable, Sergeant, unheard of . . . !”

He got no further because Wonwill spun on his paws and shot a neat, powerful left hook to his brigadier's chin. Before Crumshaw's unconscious body collapsed to the walkway, Wonwill had him tightly, supporting him.

“Mister Derron, take the h'officer's footpaws an' 'elp me get the ole boy downstairs. Father, is there any place we can make 'im comf'table?”

Burlop stepped in and relieved Wonwill of his burden. Lifting Crumshaw easily, the strong young Cellarhog strode down the wallsteps with no apparent effort. “Brother Gordale will be in the kitchens for breakfast. I'll put the Brigadier in the gatehouse bed. 'Tis a big, soft 'un.”

The Long Patrol were forming up on the front lawn by the gatehouse. The young hares broke ranks to gape at the curious sight.

“I say, has the old chap dozed off?”

“Haw haw, now there's a cool head on the mornin' of a blinkin' battle, eh wot?”

Wonwill came marching down the wallsteps. “Nah then, wot's all this then? Back in y'ranks, eyes front, stan' to attention. That means you, too, Miss Folderon!”

The hares fell into formation as Derron Fortindom came onto parade with an announcement to make. “Right, listen up, you chaps. My goodself an' the Sergeant will be leading the attack today. Make sure blades an' lances are at the ready. Don't want t'see anybeast trippin' up or stumblin' over a weapon. Slingers, check your stone pouches.
Archers, I hope those bowstrings are unfrayed an' quivers are full. Any questions?”

Flummerty piped up. “Is the Brigadier ill, sah?”

The captain thought up an answer quickly. “Er, no. Actually his wound was botherin' him. He had a bad night, so he's gone off to catch a little sleep.”

The haremaid fluttered her long, dark eyelashes. “I had a bad night, too, Captain. That Folderon, she was snoring like a bucket o' frogs, kept me jolly well awake. Can I nip back to the dormitory an' catch a little sleep, too?”

Captain Fortindom, often tongue-tied in the presence of pretty young maids, was temporarily lost for an answer. Wonwill, however, was made of sterner stuff when it came to fluttering lashes and coy glances.

He tweaked Flummerty's ear. “Nah then, me blushin' beauty, ye can sleep when you've battered a few o' those vermin flat with those eyelashes, but if ye pout anymore you'll 'ave 'em dancin' on that rosy red bottom lip o' yores. Straighten yore face, miss!”

 

Daybreak was soon upon them. With the rising sun warming their backs, the warriors came out of the front gates, marching in double file.

Burlop halted out on the path. Turning, he waved to Humble up on the ramparts. “See the gates are shut tight, Father, an' keep everybeast indoors until this is over. We don't want 'em straying out onto the wall an' riskin' any harm.”

The Abbot smiled down at his young protégé. “I will, Brother Burlop. You watch yourself out there. Pay heed to the officers' orders. Go safely, my son!”

The young Cellarhog waved his mallet and hurried off to join the rear. Humble's emotions were mixed as he watched him go: though very proud of Burlop, he was also very sad to see a normally peaceful young Redwaller going out to battle. The old hedgehog wiped away a tear, murmuring aloud to himself, “If I'd had a son, he could not be dearer to me than you are, young Burlop.”

 

Fortindom strung his hares out on the flatlands in skirmish order after they had entered the plain to the south. The Patrol stood facing the vermin, both sides just out of arrowshot of each other.

The sergeant squinted forward at the enemy. “Cap'n, they've got about twoscore comin' at us. The rest look t'be layin' in reserve around that fire. Wot do ye think, sah, a pincer movement may'aps?”

Fortindom drew his sabre as he weighed the situation up. “Hmm . . . I think not, Sergeant. When the points of our pincer meet, that'd leave the vermin reserves to strike at our centre. I think we'll take a straight runnin' fight to 'em. Not just a charge, mind—leave lots of halts for arrows an' slingstones but keep pressin' forward, eh?”

Wonwill liked the idea. “Aye, then if'n those scum find the guts, they might try to charge us. Hah, 'twill be bad luck to the vermin, Cap'n. Our Long Patrol's never been beaten in a charge, 'tis wot we do best.”

Fortindom clipped a buttercup with an artful cut of his blade. He pinned the flower in his buttonhole. “Have 'em advance five paces behind me, Sergeant. Right, let's open the ball, eh wot!”

The gallant captain strode forward a certain number of paces, then halted. A deadly hush lay over the ground from both sides. He raised his sabre elegantly, kissing the blade as he did. “A fine mornin' for filthy flesh eaters t'die, wot?”

The hares held their breath as a dozen arrows whipped through the air from the vermin ranks toward the lone hare standing out front. But Fortindom, an excellent judge of distance, did not back down. As the arrows thudded into the earth, a mere pace short of his footpaws, he rapped out sharply, “Longbows . . . fire! Slingers . . . stand ready!”

The Long Patrol used much larger bows than the vermin archers. Ten hares had been waiting with long ashwood shafts fitted to their tall yew bows. They let fly, angling the bows slightly upward. The arrows buzzed through the sunlit morn like angry bees as the air played through their grey
gull feather flights. The vermin archers fell back fast, but four of their number were not fast enough, and the shafts found them.

Then the battle began in earnest. Whirling their slings, the hare throwers ran out beyond the archers. They cast off their stones as the war cries thundered forth. “Eulaliiiiiiaaaaaa! Give 'em blood'n'vinegaaaaaar!”

The vermin archers regrouped and fired. Two hares went down. “Gulo! Gulo! Kill kill kiiiiiillll!”

The vermin slingers came forward slowly, with the spear, sword, and axe carriers following as the slingers cast their stones. The hare archers began firing on the run, the slingers advancing, too.

Still out front, Fortindom leveled his fearsome sabre blade straight at the foe, shouting, “Forward the Patrol! Chaaaaaarge!”

Burlop Cellarhog found himself plunging forward with the Long Patrol warriors. Brandishing both axe and mallet, he roared out bloodcurdling war cries with the best of his comrades. Filled with an exultation he had never known, the young Cellarhog covered the ground just as swiftly as the fleet-pawed hares.

But there was no crash of conflict as both sides met. Splitting into two groups, the vermin veered off in two directions. Burlop was level with Captain Fortindom as they sped forward, heading straight for the smaller group of reserve fighters around the fire. Two unsuspecting ermine were facing the frontrunners. Fortindom's sabre flashed like summer lightning, decapitating one. The other dithered for a brief moment, his eyes searching out any avenue of escape before meeting those of Burlop in a fleeting glance. Then the Cellarhog's heavy coopering mallet cracked down on the ermine's skull, slaying him instantly. Fortindom whirled, slashing with his lethal blade at the cloaked figures around the fire. He ground to a halt as the vermin crumpled and collapsed around him. The captain's sabre sliced through another spearhaft, which was propped upright beneath a cloak.

He howled furiously, “Decoys! They were only decoys, set up to fool us, with a couple o' real ones to bait the trap!”

Hurtling across to where Burlop was sitting next to the ermine he had despatched, Fortindom cursed, “Hell's teeth of blood'n'fire! Decoys!” Then he shouted to the hares who were pursuing the fleeing vermin, “Run 'em down, me buckoes! No surrender an' no quarter! Run the scum into the ground. Take no prisoners!”

With dust spurting from his footpaws and bloodlight shining in his eyes, Fortindom thundered off in search of prey.

Burlop was in no state to heed the fray. He sat, motionless at first, staring at the creature he had slain. Then he began to rock back and forth, tears streaming down his homely face as the awful realisation hit him. He sobbed brokenly. “I'm sorry, I never meant to kill you. I'm only the Cellarhog from the Abbey. Please, please forgive me. I've never done this before, I'm not a warrior!”

But the sightless eyes of the dead ermine were turned up to the high bright sun, as if ignoring his killer's pleas. Axe and mallet fell unheeded from Burlop's paws. He rose slowly, staggering back toward Redwall like a creature in a walking dream, his tears watering the small flowers of the flatlands as he stumbled back home to the Abbey.

 

Throughout all the commotion, a pair of grappling hooks clanged over the battlements at the east wall. They grated upon the red sandstone, taking the strain as eight white foxes scaled the rope ladder which was attached to the grapnels.

Freeta the vixen was first over the walltop. She helped the others up, reminding them of their mission. “Rogel, Farn, get down below and open that little wallgate. Ye know what ye must do?”

Rogel drew his curved sword. “Aye, we hold it until Captain Zerig and the others get here. After we let them in, we lock the gate an' check all other entrances are tight shut. Then the tall rabbit warriors will be locked outside the Abbey.”

Gazing from the walltop at the deserted grounds inside the outer wall, Freeta squirmed with delight. “Who but a vixen could think of such a plan? Look ye at this place—'tis a paradise!”

Farn strung an arrow to his bow, grinning wolfishly. “Aye, an' peaceful, too. All the creatures who are not warriors must be hiding inside the big house.”