Dwink gradually recovered his senses, only to find that the world was upside down. He was being jostled roughly, from side to side. He struggled to release his limbs as Jeg’s face confronted him, grinning wickedly.
“Yeehee, awaked now, have ye?”
As he swung closer, Dwink acted instinctively, biting at his enemy. Jeg leapt back, avoiding the squirrel’s snapping teeth. “Yaharr, missed me!” He spun Dwink around, jumping on his back and leaning down heavily, jerking him about painfully. “Wanna try agin, do ya? Heeheehee, Jeg’s gonna have have fun wid this un!”
The added weight caused the young squirrel to gasp. “Ummff! Ye painted little coward, just wait’ll I get loose!”
Jeg jumped down and faced, his prisoner. “But ya can’t get loosened, can ya! Likkle treemouse, yore all mine, I kin do anythin’ I want wid ya.” Jeg broke off a twig; he began tickling Dwink’s nose none too gently with it. The distant sounds of battle had ceased now. Jeg noticed it, too. He began taunting, “Ya friends are all slayed now.”
Dwink snarled a reply. “Hah, that’s what you think!”
Jeg’s tone became almost reasonable. “Chah! My dadda’s Chigid, big Chief, he got lotsa warriors, lotsa, lotsa dem. More’n yore friends got.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “All ya pore mates be dead now, all slayed!”
Dwink came back stoutly, “Oh, no they won’t, it’ll be your scummy lot who’ll be slain!”
Jeg struck him with the twig he was holding. He did not like being contradicted; a malicious gleam entered his eyes. “I say yore lot be slayed, not mine. One more word outta yore shoopid mouth an’ I’ll slay ya, treemouse!”
Aware of the peril he was in, Dwink wisely refrained from replying. But this only served to madden Jeg. He strode around his captive, lashing out with the twig, working himself into a dangerous rage.
“If I say they all be dead, then they all be dead, see! Heehee, no, yore right, they not all dead, you be still alive…. So?” Dwink smelled the tree rat’s rancid breath as he leant close, speaking slowly and deliberately. “So you gotta get slayed, an’ Jeg’ll slay ya!”
Dwink felt himself go cold with fright. It must have showed on his face, because Jeg sniggered, and began enlarging upon his evil plan. “Now, wot’s the best way to slay a silly treemouse, eh? Mebbee stick a blade in ya. Or loose der rope, an’ let ya drop right down to the floor on yore ’ead, would ya like dat?”
Dwink dangled upside down. His ears were starting to ring with pressure; he felt dizzy and breathing was becoming an effort. Owing to the recent blow he had taken, the young squirrel began slipping back into a stupor. Jeg’s voice receded into a distant drone. Jeg was in his element, describing in lurid detail various cruel methods of execution for his victim, each more sadistic than the last.
Wholly unconscious, Dwink found himself in the midst of a nightmare. His vision was clouded blood red, inhabited by purple and dark crimson foebeasts. He was still suspended by both footpaws. Painted Ones leant close, leering and grinning evilly as they whispered of the horrible fate that awaited him. Dwink felt close to death, alone amongst enemies, with no friendly face to reassure him.
Then he spied the light, a warm, golden radiance approaching him. The hideous images of the vermin faded, scurrying off into dark shadows. Suddenly, like a bright summer dawn, Martin the Warrior was with him. The legendary Redwall hero spoke soothingly through Dwink’s fevered dreams.
“Your time is not yet come, be brave, young one. Friends are near, you must live. The Painted One is cursed to suffer a fate worse than anything he can devise for you. Live long, friend…. Live!”
Defeated and dejected, the Painted Ones were forced to descend into the clearing. They were disarmed, searched and ordered to be split into groups, each lot to be secured for safe conveyance to the five-topped oak. Samolus took charge of the operation efficiently.
“Nokko, form your prisoners in one tier. Rope ’em together by their necks, an’ post guards round the villains. Skipper, Tugga, do the same with your groups. I’ll take this last bunch myself!”
Tugga Bruster put in his objection immediately. “Who put you in command, eh? I ain’t takin’ orders off no ould mouse!”
Bosie placed a heavy paw, none too gently, on the Guosim Log a Log’s shoulder. “Ye’ll do as yore bid, bonnie lad. Ah’ve taken aboot all Ah’m goin’ tae take from you. Samolus is takin’ his orders from me, an’ Ah’m commandin’ this expedition. So, one more word against mah authority, an’ Ah’ll drop ye in yore tracks. Do ye get mah drift, bucko?”
Tugga Bruster saw that the Highland hare was not joking, so he swaggered off, bawling orders at his shrews. “Straighten the scum up, make sure those ropes are properly knotted! Dubble, where are ye off to, git back here, now!”
However, the young shrew had also taken enough from his bullying father. He joined Bisky and Spingo. “I’ll go with you two, if’n ye don’t mind.” He trooped off with them both, as Spingo tipped him a mischievous wink.
“I know where the five-topped oak is, cummon, mate, we’ll get there ahead o’ the others, an’ get first crack at the loot!”
Grinning, Bisky shrugged as he remarked to Dubble, “This maid’s got loot on the brain, we’d best go along, just to see she doesn’t land herself in any trouble.”
Spingo shot him a comical scowl. “Lissen, Redwaller, you’ll be in trouble if’n ye don’t stir yore paws, now shift yerself!” They set off at a lively trot, which soon had Bisky and Dubble panting to catch up. The Gonfelin maid skipped ahead of them, singing a mocking little ditty.
“’Tis my belief if yore a thief,
you gotta get in quick,
don’t hang about for others,
be nimble that’s the trick.
’Tis no good of ye weepin’
when the loot’s in other paws,
as any Gonf’lin’ll tell ye,
it’s better off in yores!
So don’t be thick, just whip it quick,
an’ take this tip from me,
with shifty paws, the treasure’s yores,
’cos loot, ye know, is free!
So, don’t be shy be sly,
an’ don’t be slow, but go,
grab all that ye can carry,
don’t ever say yore sorry,
just steal the lot, don’t worry,
be furtive, swift an’ cute.
Grab! Catch! Swipe! Snatch!
All that lovverleee looooooooot!”
Puffing and blowing, Bisky put on an extra turn of speed, muttering to Dubble, “I wonder what Abbot Glisam and Brother Torilis would say to that?”
Dubble stumbled into a bush; he emerged spitting out leaves and berries. “Who are they?”
The young Redwaller replied between gasps, “You’ll find out when we get to the Abbey, mate!”
Spingo waved a paw ahead. “There’s the oak, see!”
Bisky had always reckoned himself to be a good runner, but this Gonfelin maiden was something else. Spingo broke into an all-out sprint, careering off through the shrubbery and round the trunks of tall, ancient trees.
Jeg was crouching at the base of the massive oak, coaxing a small fire into life. He blew on it, adding dead pine twigs and dried moss until the flames spread. Looking up at the unconscious form of Dwink, hanging head down, the young tree rat gave an evil snigger.
“Yeeheehee! Wait’ll ya see wot I’ve thought up, treemouse. I calls it Jeg’s Warm Welcome. Heeheee!” He got no further, because something hit him from behind. Jeg went belly down onto the flames, due to Spingo leaping on his back. Using him as a springboard, the Gonfelin maid leapt up and caught a low branch. She was yelling happily.