Foremole licked his lips. “Oi’m a-feared.”
Toran raised his eyebrows at this remark. “You, afeared?”
A huge grin creased the mole leader’s homely face. “Aye, zurr, afeared oi’ll fall asleep an’ miss ee brekkist. Oi’m a-thinken oi’ll go to ee kitchens an’ get a h’early wun!”
Martha laughed at the mole’s comical logic. “What a great idea, sir, I think we’ll join you!”
The kitchen was crowded with Redwallers of a like mind, even Dibbuns. Nobeast could sleep with the excitement of the night. Granmum Gurvel and three young moles were busy filling baked apples with honey and chopped hazelnuts.
Gurvel curtsied to the Abbot as she bustled by. “Coom in an’ sit ee daown, zurr, an’ you’m h’others, too. Et bee’s a gudd job moi ole bones can’t be a sleepen, so oi’m a keepen moiself bizzied.”
They found seats around the kitchen table and began pouring a sauce of meadowcream and rosehip over their baked apples. Everybeast was watching the Abbot as he paused before eating to address them.
“What we need are some good contingency plans, my friends. Seeing as most of us are here, I’ll take any suggestions.”
Muggum was sitting up on a shelf, among the spice jars, with his cohort of Dibbuns. The molebabe raised his spoon. “Oi says chop ee vermints tails offen wi’ a gurt rusty knoife, an’ barth ’em in ’ot soapy watter. Hurr, they’m soon bee’s glad to run away arter that. Ho urr aye!”
This met with hearty applause and much sneezing from the Dibbuns, two of whom had opened a hotroot pepper jar. Amused by this, Abbot Carrul tried to keep a straight face as he spoke to Sister Portula, who was recording the meeting. “Not a bad idea! Write it down, Sister, and don’t forget the bit about hot soapy water. We’ll keep it in mind.”
Sister Setiva, after wiping several noses and glaring the Dibbuns into silence, held up a paw. “As soon as ah’ve finished eating, ah hope some o’ ye will join me tae search around for more things tae use as weapons.”
Martha was among those who volunteered. But Toran had other plans for her. “You’d never be able to search the attics upstairs, me beauty. I think ye should be in charge of the Dibbuns’ safety. Seasons forbid that anythin’ should happen to the liddle ’uns with vermin camped next to our gates. Will ye do it, Martha?”
Immediately the haremaid agreed. “I’d be glad to. Right, come on you villains, off that shelf and up to bed. Last one up washes all the pots and dishes, eh, Granmum Gurvel?”
Gurvel picked up her big ladle. “You’m said the vurry thing oi wuz abowt t’say, Miz Marth!”
An almighty scramble followed as Dibbuns climbed down from the shelves and fled upstairs squealing.
Abbot Carrul waited until the noise subsided. “Next suggestion please!”
Badredd lay awake down in the ditch, trying to ignore the stentorian snores of those around him. He longed for the dawn, when he could take possession of his magic sword. What did it look like? He imagined it as a solid gold blade with a crosshilt and grip crusted with rubies, pearls and emeralds. Of course, he would not mind too much if it were made from silver with jetstones and sapphires for adornment.
Mentally he went through a speech he had prepared for the woodland bumpkins who lived behind the wall. Badredd silently practised it, making sweeping paw movements to emphasise its drama. “Throw wide your gates! Tremble at my name, for I am Badredd, commander of a vermin horde.”
He paused here, wondering if his scruffy little band could constitute a horde. No matter, those woodland oafs had probably never seen a horde, much less taken a head count of one. He continued his oratory. “You are looking at death, all of ye! Unless you deliver unto Badredd the magic sword that is rightfully his.”
He questioned the last phrase—it needed something, a word or two to prove that the sword’s ownership was never in doubt. Hah, that was it! He embellished his flowery recitation thus: “For did not my father, Reddblade, Warlord of the Northern Mountains, proclaim it so? ‘Give unto my son Badredd his sword. It lies within Wallred, I mean, Redwall. To the mighty warrior goes the magic sword!’ ” He flung out his paw and caught Halfchop a smack on the chin.
The rat awoke, holding his chin in his good paw. “Mmmph, wot did ye do that for, Chief?”
But Badredd was too fired up to waste time with arguments. “Get further along that ditch an’ see if’n ye can make it so that yore level with the big gate!”
Halfchop peered at him in the predawn darkness. “Wot for?”
Badredd shoved him forward. “If’n ye make it safely, give me a signal. I’ll follow up with the rest o’ the crew. That way we’ll be in place when it gets light. They’ll get the shock o’ their lives when they see me climb out o’ the ditch an’ demand the magic sword. Go on, don’t hang about!”
Blundering forward, Halfchop stepped on a thistle and banged into the ditch’s sidewall. “ ’Tis no good, I can’t see a thing. Why don’t ye wait ’til dawn?”
Badredd drew his cutlass. “Because I want it done now. There’ll be one less in the crew if’n ye stand there rubbin’ yore chin an’ makin’ excuses. Now get goin’!”
Halfchop picked up a red-ended branch from the embers of a fire. He went off, blowing it back to burning light and muttering, “Alright, then, but I ain’t goin’ without a light!”
Up on the northwest rampart corner, Brother Weld nudged Junty Cellarhog. “Is that somebeast coming along the ditch carrying a light?”
The burly hedgehog watched as a small burning beacon grew closer. “Aye, so ’tis, Brother. I wager that’s a vermin, up to no good, I’ll be bound. Better stop the rascal afore he sets fire to our front gate.”
There was always a variety of things in Junty’s big apron pocket. He dug a paw in and rummaged about. A slow smile lit up his heavy features as he produced a big barrel bung made from a knot he had gouged out of an oak log. “This should do!”
Though ponderous and not given to quick flings, Junty was accurate and very powerful.
Halfchop was never very sure of what fractured his muzzle and wrecked his nose. But he never forgot the sound as it hit him. Kachunk!
Badredd saw the rat’s light snuffed out with a gentle hiss as it fell into some stagnant water. He went and shook the weasel brothers, Floggo and Rogg, awake. “Rouse yore bones there. Go an’ fetch ole Halfchop back ’ere. He went wanderin’ off up the ditch. It looks like the idiot’s fallen over. Go on, move! It’ll soon be dawn.”
When they returned, hauling the senseless rat, Badredd blew on the embers and stirred the fire. He winced as he saw the damage to Halfchop’s face. Awakened by the commotion, Flinky dug some dried herbs out of his pouch and lit them so that they smouldered. The weasels held the rat’s head steady as Flinky pushed the smoking herbs under his nose. Halfchop’s eyes opened immediately when the pungent fumes got to him.
Badredd squatted beside him. “What happened?” Halfchop looked at the fox quizzically as he repeated the question. “Who did that to ye, what happened?”
Halfchop spoke . . . just one word—“Kachunk!”
Flinky put aside the smouldering herbs. “Wot did ye say, mate?”
Halfchop looked at Flinky as if seeing him for the first time. He looked at Badredd the same way and spoke the word again. “Kachunk!”
Losing his patience, Badredd pawed the cutlass edge menacingly. “Talk sense! I asked ye wot happened. Keep sayin’ that stupid word an’ I’ll kachunk ye, good an’ proper!”
Halfchop leaned close and whispered in the fox’s ear. “Kachunk!”
As Flinky saw the cutlass beginning to rise, he stepped in and stayed his crew leader’s paw. “Ah now, leave him alone, Chief. The pore ould rat’s not in his right mind at all. How d’ye feel, matey, better now?”