Bisky felt less alone in the creature’s company. “I’m called Bisky, from Redwall Abbey. I expect you’ve heard of Redwall?”
The newcomer winked almost cheerily at him. “Aye, expect I have. They call me Dubble, I’m a Guosim shrew, an’ proud of it. Ye know wot Guosim means, don’t ye, Brisky?”
Bisky winked back at him. “Name’s not Brisky, it’s Bisky. Pleased to meet ye, Drubble. I know wot Guosim means, first letter of each word. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. Right?”
The shrew grinned broadly. “Right, an’ me name’s Dubble, not Drubble. Tell me, ’ow did these blaggards catch ye?”
Bisky tried making light of his predicament. “Oh, I was explorin’ some underground tunnels when they cracked me over the head, an’ knocked me out cold. When I woke up, here I was. Wot about you, mate?”
Dubble stated flatly, “Arguin’ with Tugga, that did it.”
The young mouse was curious. “Who’s Tugga?”
His shrew friend replied, almost in disbelief, “Y’mean you’ve never ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster, big Log a Log of all the Guosim?”
Bisky could only shake his head. “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. Tell me about him.”
Dubble snorted. “Huh, tell ye about Tugga? You lot at Redwall must lead a sheltered life if’n y’aint ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster. Don’t ye even know the famous song, Bisky?”
The young mouse admitted he did not, causing Dubble to break out into song.
“No shrew in the territory’s as tough
as Log a Log Tugga Bruster,
’cos when he swings that big iron club,
he’s a dangerous ole skull buster.
Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,
he’d face any gang o’ vermin they could muster,
he’s full o’ muscles hard an’ wide,
one day I saw a fox decide,
to slay hisself by suicide, rather
than face ole Tugga Bruster!
Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,
he won’t put up with brag or bluster,
he can kick a stoat clear outta his skin,
or use a ferret as a duster,
good ole Tugga Bruster!
Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,
he can fight all day, without the slightest fuss, sir,
so if yore a rat I’ll tell ye that
one blast of his breath’d knock ye flat,
’midst shrews he’s an aristocrat,
he’s the Log a Log Tugga Bruster!”
Bisky chuckled. “He sounds like a real terror to me.”
Dubble stared bitterly ahead as he answered. “Aye, an’ he’s my dad, too!” Bisky remained silent, waiting until the young shrew continued. “That’s how I got meself tied to a branch alongside you, mate. Huh, that Tugga, always on at me, naggin’ an’ lecturin’, an’ clippin’ me over the lugs. I can’t do anythin’ right accordin’ to him. Can’t use a logboat paddle, can’t steer a craft, can’t wield a Guosim rapier. Hah, you’d think to ’ear him I can’t do a single thing to his likin’. Anyhow, I put up with it fer long enough, then I spoke back to me dad. One word led to another, an’ next thing we were in the middle of right ole barney, me’n’ Tugga. So I told him wot he c’d do with his Log a Log title, an’ his logboats, an’ his whole blinkin’ tribe!”
Bisky’s voice was no more than a murmur. “So you left home an’ walked off, Dubble?”
The young shrew nodded. “Aye, off I went in a ragin’ temper. Got meself lost, the first night out. I was wanderin’ round the woodlands, like a bruised beetle in the dark. Then I sees a couple o’ pretty liddle lights, twinklin’ round, just ahead o’ me. So I followed ’em, fool that I was, I let the bloomin’ things lead me straight into a swamp. I was about to shout out for ’elp, when this crowd o’ painted ragbags came swingin’ outta the trees. They dragged me out o’ the mud, an’ tied me up like a parcel o’ vittles.
“I tell ye, Bisky, I don’t know wot they were usin’ as weapons, some sort o’ poisoned darts, an’ blowpipes. They shot at one of the twinklin’ lights an’ downed him. Straight into the swamp he went. I could tell by the cries it was a bird, a raven, I think. Huh, that’s one bird wot won’t lead no more pore, lost beasts astray!”
Bisky tried moving his paws, to get the circulation going. “We’ve had trouble with those twinklin’ lights at our Abbey, they’re called Wytes, and I think their leader is called a Doomwyte. Dubble, d’ye think that yore dad an’ the rest o’ the tribe will come lookin’ for you?”
Dubble turned his eyes skyward. “Yore guess is good as mine, Bisky. Though if’n they do, I can just imagine wot Log a Log Tugga would say.” Dubble impersonated his father’s deep, gruff voice. “Runnin’ away from the tribe, gettin’ lost, then lettin’ yoreself get nabbed by tree rats. Yer not fit t’be rescued, young un, a disgrace t’the Guosim, that’s wot ye are. Oaks’n’apples ’elp this tribe if’n you ever get t’be Log a Log one day!”
Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Jeg and some of his cohorts. Jeg was carrying a willow switch, which he immediately slashed across Bisky’s shoulders.
As the young mouse arched his back with pain, Dubble yelled at Jeg, “Ahoy, snotnose, enjoyin’ yoreself are ye? You shouldn’t be painted black’n’green. No, yellow’d be the right colour for you, stinkin’ coward that y’are!”
Squealing with rage, Jeg began flogging Dubble. “I killya for that, killya! Yeeeeh!”
Bisky roared at the top of his lungs, “You rotten worm, if’n I was loose I’d slay ye with my bare paws, ye spineless scum!”
The noisy cacophony roused Chigid, who had been having a lie in, to heal his injuries. He came limping along the bough, accompanied by his mate, Tala, and several guards. Seizing the switch from his son, he tossed it down onto the cooking fires below, chattering at him. “Yikkiirrr! Stoppit, they’re my pris’ners!”
Jeg glared at both captives. “Yaaarrr! I wanna kill ’em, they callin’ me bad names!”
Chigid glared at Jeg, baring his pointed teeth. “I say when we kill ’em, not you. Much work t’be done round ’ere, vikkles t’be got, that’s pris’ners’ job!”
Tala interceded on her son’s behalf, calming Chigid. “Hayaaah, Chief injured, go now an’ rest. Let Jeg take these beasts to gather vikkles!” She indicated three of her female companions. “Yew go with Jeg, keep a good watch on the mouses.”
Chigid touched his scorched tail gingerly as he limped off, cautioning Jeg. “Yew lose ’em an’ I skin ye good!”
Shortly thereafter, Bisky and Dubble were unbound and lowered to the woodland floor. There they were roped together by their necks, each being fitted with a hobble on their footpaws that had a boulder tied to it. Both were still as yet unable to get their forepaws working.
Jeg ordered the three guards to wait, whilst he vanished into the trees. He was back shortly, carrying fresh switches, which he issued to the minders. Making whippy noises with his own switch, the young Painted One smirked wickedly at his captives. “Yeeheee! You find plenty berries, fruits, eggs an’ fishes. Lots o’ vikkles, or ye get punished bad!”
Dragging the rocks to which they were hobbled, the pair lumbered awkwardly off. Dubble managed to murmur to Bisky, as they fell behind slightly, “Keep yore eyes an’ wits peeled for a chance, any chance. Don’t be afeared of slayin’ ’em if’n ye have to.”
The young mouse replied out of the side of his mouth, “Don’t worry, mate, I won’t be scared of finishin’ the job, if’n it comes down to them or us!”