Authors: Brian Jacques
The Sable Quean (27 page)
Buckler nodded. “Right, mate. Later on we can either meet back here or pick up each other ’s trail.”
After putting Jango and Bartij on the vermin trail, Sniffy set off with Skipper and Buckler on the track left by Thwip and Binta.
Axtel Sturnclaw, the Warrior mole, had regained his senses. He woke to the sound of Tassy and Borti weeping. The pain in Axtel’s footpaw was agonising; it had swollen with the spearhead still impaling it. However, his first thoughts were not for himself, but for the two babes.
Tassy was hugging little Borti, trying to comfort him, even though she herself was in tears. It was a pitiable sight.
Axtel beckoned to them. “Cumm yurr, likkle uns. ’Ush you’m weepin’—oi’ll take gudd care of ee.”
They sat close to him, leaning against his velvety fur. With an effort, Tassy got her sniffling under control. The Redwall squirrel Dibbun winced at the sight of the big mole’s wound.
“Yore paw is very hurted sir. ’Ow you goin’ t’fix it?”
Axtel sat up slowly, leaning forward to inspect the impaled limb. “Furst thing we’m got to do, likkle mizzy, is to be getten you spearpoint owt. Yurr, foind oi a gudd stone—that un o’er thurr.”
Tassy had to struggle a bit, but she fetched the chunk of limestone over to him.
Axtel smiled at her. “Gudd! Naow, put et unner moi futtpaw, so ’tis restin’ agin’ ee spearpoint.”
The squirrelbabe did as she was bidden. Axtel took a deep breath, readying himself. “You’m stan’ clear, naow, an’ moind ee babby sh’ew.”
Tassy obeyed without question. The mole took out his war hammer and set the haft between his teeth. He took hold of the stump of spear pole. Squinching his eyes tight shut, he shoved the spearpoint hard against the stone whilst at the same time giving the stump a swift, strong heave. Axtel roared. “Hoooouuuurrrr! Hooooaaaarggggh!”
He went backward, lying flat out, with the freed spearpoint grasped in his forepaws.
Carrying Borti, Tassy hurried to his side. “It’s out—you did it! But it’ bleedin’ blood!”
The big mole prised his jaws loose from the war hammer. “Hurr, so ’tis. Oi’ll needs to bandage et upp!”
Tassy placed Borti at her friend’s side. “You mind Borti. I know how t’make dressin’s—Sista Fumb’l teached me. Jus’ wait here, sir. I don’t be long.” She dashed off to find what she needed.
Seeing her go, Borti began wailing again. “Waaah, want my mamma!”
Axtel sat the little fellow on his chest, chuckling. “Hurr, an’ so do oi, zurr, but b’ain’t no use a-howlin’ fur hurr. Coom on, naow. Make ee gurt smile fur oi!” He tickled the shrewbabe with his snout.
Borti was very susceptible to tickles. He was soon wriggling and giggling through his tears.
Tassy returned with an apronful of stuff. She took over like a proper little Infirmary nurse. “Now, you lie still an’ I fix a paw up!”
Axtel adopted a look of serious obedience.
“Yuss, marm, oi’ll do azzakerly loike ee says!”
He watched in pleasurable wonder as the Redwall squirrelmaid worked on the injured footpaw. Wiping the wound clean with crushed sanicle flowers, poulticing the bleeding with soft moss, she dressed it with dockleaves and sainfoin, tying the whole thing off with chickweed stems, which she knotted neatly.
“There, now. ’Ow doo’s that feel?”
Axtel winked at Borti. “Yurr, she’m a vurry clever creetur, b’ain’t ’er?”
Tassy declared proudly, “I gonna work inna ’firmary wiv Sista Fumb’l when I growed h’up!”
The Warrior mole chuckled. “Oi’m shure ee will, miz!”
A sound of approaching creatures alerted Axtel. “You’m hoide in ee bushers, naow. ‘Urry—sumbeast bee’s a-comen!”
They ran for the bushes, practically bumping into Sniffy. He swept Borti up in his paws joyfully.
“Seasons o’ streams, lookit wot I found. ’Tis Jango an’ Furm’s babe. Borti, ain’t it?”
Tassy gave a delighted squeal. She ran right up Skipper, as if scaling a tree. “Yeeeheee! Skippa, it me, Tassy!”
The Otter Chieftain hugged her happily. “Well, burn me rudder if it ain’t. Where’s the other little uns, Tass?”
Axtel saw that the newcomers were friendly. He tried to stand upright. “They’m mostly apprisoned, zurr, tho’ oi manarged t’get they two owt. Hurr aye, an’ three more who bee’s at moi camp!”
Buckler strode up to the mole and shook his paw warmly. “We’re grateful to ye, sir. Are you badly hurt?”
Favouring the wounded paw, Axtel leaned against the hare. “Oi was, zurr, but oi’m gurtly attended to boi likkle Mizzy Tass, thankee.”
Buckler drew his sword, tossing it to Sniffy. “See if’n ye can cut this bravebeast a crutch, mate.”
Skipper fed them from his pack. The big mole was enjoying October Ale with cheese and onion pasty so much that Buckler had to wait before asking him, “Have you noticed two foxes hereabouts of late?”
Axtel held out his beaker to be refilled. “Two foxers? Nay, zurr, nary a sightin’ of ’em.”
Sniffy, who was hacking at a forked hazel limb, snorted with displeasure. “We’ve lost the rascals. Told ye foxes were slybeasts, didn’t I? We’ll ’ave to backtrack, sorry.”
Buckler broke a pasty, sharing it between the young ones. “I only asked about the foxes out of curiosity—they’re not important now. The main thing is that we’ve found the little uns or, should I say, our molefriend has.”
The Warrior mole tugged his snout politely. “Axtel Sturnclaw at you’m survice, zurrs!”
Whilst Buckler introduced himself and his companions, Sniffy passed Axtel the crutch he had hewed from the hazel.
“There y’are. That should serve ye well enough.” He went chasing off after little Borti, who was toddling away on his own into the trees. “Gotcha, ye liddle rogue. You stick close by ole Uncle Sniffy, now, d’ye hear . . . ahah, wot’s this?”
Dropping on all fours, the Tracker inspected the ground. “Ahoy, mates, I never lost the foxes—here’s their trail, I’ve picked it up agin. Aye, this is it, one dogfox an’ one vixen, headed over that way.”
Axtel followed the direction Sniffy’s paw was pointing. “Yurr, moi camp’s o’er thurr, with ee uther three likkle uns. They’m foxers bee’s sure t’foind et!”
Buckler issued swift orders. “Skip, you follow with Axtel and the young uns. Sniffy, lead the way, mate. We’ll have t’move fast if the other three babes are alone in that camp!”
Shortly thereafter, the Guosim Tracker and the hare arrived at Axtel’s camp. They found it deserted, except for the presence of Thwip’s grisly carcass. Sniffy wrenched the spear from the dead fox’s midriff, passing it to Buckler.
“I dunno wot went on round ’ere, but it looks like we’re only trackin’ one fox now, the vixen. You stand still there, Buck. Let me cast around for more tracks.”
Whilst Sniffy was engaged in his task, Skipper and the others arrived.
Buckler held up the homemade spear. “Stay back. Sniffy’s lookin’ for fresh tracks. There was nobeast here—just this fox, he was slain with this.”
Axtel took the spear. “Hurr, that’ll be ee likkle sh’ewmaid, Flib. She’m a boldbeast, oi kin tell ee!”
Buckler relaxed slightly. “Aye, she is that. Flib can take care of herself, but what about the other two?”
Axtel shook his large velvety head. “H’only babbies, two likkle molers, cuddn’t ’arm anybeast.”
Skipper, who was carrying Borti on his shoulders, enquired, “Any trace of ’em, Sniff?”
The Tracker scratched his head. “There’s trails goin’ everyplace, mate. Here’s the foxes, two arrivin’ an’ only one leavin’, alone. The vixen didn’t take the molebabes—some otherbeast did. Whether ’twas friend or foebeast, I dunno. Thick tail, long fuzzy prints, big ’airy paws, prob’ly.”
Buckler grasped his long rapier hilt. “Which way has it gone—can ye make out the little moleprints?”
Sniffy had his nose practically stuck to the ground. “Little uns that size don’t leave much trail t’follow. They don’t weigh much, y’see. Now, as for this otherbeast, a female, I think, an’ she really knows ’er way round this neck o’ the woods, I can tell ye. Nah, this is a creature wot won’t be found by any if’n she don’t want ’em to. Still, let’s see if’n I can’t pick up the track.”
The going was slow and hard, with many a false trail. Mumzy had spent a lifetime avoiding pursuers in Mossflower. Sniffy commented on this as they crawled on their stomachs beneath widespread thick bush and shrubbery. “Like tryin’ to track a fish unnerwater, this is!”
They pressed on laboriously, unaware that they were being watched by evil eyes.
BOOK THREE
Escape from Althier!
17
Back at Redwall Abbey, there was some slight disagreement about who was responsible for guarding the walls. Diggs and Oakheart Witherspyk were not seeing eye-to-eye on the business of guard duties. Moreover, an officious shrew named Divvery had decided that the Guosim were not going to take orders from anybeast who was not of their tribe.
Diggs had selected all the able-bodied creatures he could find, regardless of who they were. The tubby young hare split his command into two shifts, one for daytime, the other for night. It was a good and fair system: Moles, Abbeybeasts, Guosim and Witherspyks found themselves standing together on the ramparts.
Those not on guard were employed at making weapons. Bows, arrows, slings and spears were being constructed down in Cellarmole Gurjee’s cellars. The whole scheme worked fine for a day. Then things started to go awry.
Friar Soogum forgot to send lunch up to the walltops, so Divvery took the shrews off to the kitchens. Instead of taking their food back up to the walltops, they went into the orchard to eat. Oakheart was not too pleased at being left lunchless on sentry duty. The large, florid hedgehog was halfway down the wallsteps when he ran into Diggs, who blocked his path.
“Tut, tut, Oakie, wot’s this? Desertin’ your bloomin’ post? Back up t’the jolly old walltops, this instant!”
Oakheart pushed past him indignantly. “Back up y’self, sirrah. There’s only my goodself and a mere scattering of guards up there. Those shrew chappies have taken themselves off to lunch, if y’please!”
Diggs was taken aback. “Gone off to lunch? Deserted, just to feed their blinkin’ faces! Right, leave this t’me. One thing I will not tolerate is rank disobedience. An’ as for you, laddie me hog, back up on duty, before I put you on a bloomin’ fizzer. On the double!”
Oakheart’s stomach began rumbling. This made him take umbrage against Diggs. “Pish tush, laddie. I’m senior to you, both in season an’ rank, and I intend to take lunch forthwith. You stop me at your peril, I warn ye!”
Trajidia came hurrying down the wallsteps. “Oh, Father, pray, do not strike him down!”
Foremole Darbee came trundling along the ramparts. “Yurr, thur’ll be no strikin’ h’inside ee Abbey!”
Oakheart held up his paws. “Who said I was goin’ to strike him?”
Drull Hogwife pointed a paw at Trajidia. “She did!”
Young Rambuculus Witherspyk sniggered. “Can I come to lunch with ye, Pa? I’ll help ye to strike him!”
Oakheart was incensed at his son’s insolence. “One more word out of you an’ I’ll tan your hide!”
“What’s all this about beasts being struck within my walls? The very idea of it!”
Everybeast fell silent at the sudden appearance of Abbess Marjoram. Oakheart faltered lamely. “But we’ve had no lunch. . . .”
Marjoram faced him squarely, her voice stern. “Is that any reason for argument and talk of striking?”
Trajidia uttered a dramatic sob. “My dear father is the gentlest of creatures. He would never strike another beast!”
Drull Hogwife spoke out. “Then why did ye say he would?”
Rambuculus chortled. “She’s always sayin’ things like that.”
Marjoram had heard Rambuculus volunteering to help his father strike Diggs. She fixed both young hogs with a severe stare. “You two are relieved of wall duty. Go and see Gurjee. Tell him that you’re on cellar-sweeping duty for the next two days.”
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