Halfchop smiled foolishly over his swollen muzzle. “Kachunk!”
Dawn crept in from the east, pale pink and lilac in a creamy haze. Dewdrops bedecked the flatlands beyond the ditch. Redwall Abbey’s twin bells tolled out the opening of a new summer day. Martha watched Toran, Abbot Carrul and several others mounting the gatehouse steps. Frustration tinged the haremaid’s plea to them.
“Let me come up on the ramparts, I want to see what’s happening. Oh please, I feel so helpless down here!”
Toran shook his head. “It might get a bit dangerous up here, me pretty. Best ye stop down there an’ look after the Dibbuns.”
Little Shilly the squirrelbabe made a scramble for the steps. “Cummon, we all go up onna wall. Then Miz Marth’ gotta be up dere wiv us’n’s!”
Sister Setiva ran down and blocked the Dibbuns’ way. “Och no ye don’t, mah wee babes. Ah’ll come o’er tae the orchard wi’ ye an’ Martha. We’ll see if any blackberries are ripe enough tae be picked yet. A guid idea, eh?”
Squeaking with delight, the Abbeybabes pushed Martha’s chair across the lawns so fast that the haremaid was forced to hold on tight to the arms.
Sister Setiva chased after them, shouting in her thin, reedy voice, “Slow down, ye naughty creatures, go easy wi’ Miss Martha!”
Junty and Brother Weld kept an eye on the ditch as they made their way along to the threshold over the main gate. Throwing a brief salute, the Cellarhog made his report to the Abbot. “Looks like they’re makin’ a move, Father. Comin’ this way!”
The wall party was armed with a variety of window poles, kitchen utensils and tools. Apart from one or two slings and bags of pebbles, there were no real weapons to be found within the bounds of the peaceable Abbey. Toran gave Junty a sling and some stones. He tossed a long ash stave to Brother Weld.
“These ain’t much, but they’re better’n nothin’, friends.”
Now the vermin crew had reached the spot directly below where the Redwallers stood. They halted, only the tops of their heads visible. Silence fell as they waited, standing in a muddy pool of ditchwater.
Toran whispered to Abbot Carrul. “Let them state their business first.”
The silence from below became rather protracted, then a voice spoke out. “Kachunk!”
This was followed by Badredd hissing, “Somebeast, shut that fool up!”
Curiosity overcame Old Phredd the Gatekeeper, who called out, “What do ye want? Speak up!”
Badredd had envisioned himself leaping boldly from the ditch to state his demands. However, he was far too short for such a thing, so several of the crew had to lift him up and boost him onto the path. It was a totally undignified procedure. The little fox landed, sprawling on the dust and gravel. He sprang up quickly, took a swaggering step forward and tripped over his cutlass.
Having heard a few stifled giggles from the walltop, Badredd glared up frostily at the assembled Redwallers, putting on his toughest snarl. “Ye’ll laugh the other side of yore faces afore this day’s done!” Puffing himself up to his full height, he continued. “I’m Badredd, Warlord of the Vermin Horde. Nobeast can stand against me. I come from the Northlands where we drink our enemies’ blood!”
The Abbot bowed his head politely. “I bid you a good morning, Sir Badredd. I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. Is there any way I can be of service to you? Mayhaps you might need food or supplies to continue your journey?”
At the mention of food, the rest of the vermin crew climbed out of the ditch eagerly, but the little fox forestalled them by answering the Abbot scornfully. “We don’t want yore food, mouse. Our journey’s end is here, at this Wallred place. You’ve got a magic sword here. I want it—bring it t’me now!”
The Abbot stared coolly down at him. “There is no such thing as a magic sword at Redwall Abbey.”
Badredd drew his cutlass with a swish, pointing it at Carrul. “You lie! Bring that sword out to me, old fool, or it will go badly with ye!”
Toran stepped up to the Abbot’s side, roaring down at the fox, “Don’t ye dare call the Abbot of Redwall a fool or a liar! If he says there’s no magic sword here, then you’d best get the mud out o’ yore ears an’ listen. Now shift yoreself, vermin. Get up the road with that raggedy-bottomed bunch. Quick, or I’ll come down there and kick yore tail back t’the Northlands!”
Shaking with rage, Badredd turned and nodded to his two archers, the weasel brothers. “Fire!”
Two arrows zipped from their bows. Toran flung himself upon the Abbot, knocking him down below the battlements. One arrow flew harmlessly overhead, the other grazed the ottercook’s shoulder.
Toran winced as he yelled, “Down, everybeast!”
The Redwallers immediately dropped below the parapet. Junty Cellarhog fitted a stone into his sling and whirled it. He popped up and let fly. Though it was a speedy shot, and not too accurate, it did hit Badredd on the footpaw. He screeched out in pain as Crinktail and the rest of the crew jumped back into the ditch, taking him with them.
There was an uneasy silence. Then Flinky called out in a wheedling voice. “Ah, look now, friends, why don’t ye just throw the ould magic sword to us an’ we’ll be on our way, I promise!”
This was followed by a tirade from Badredd. “Sword or no sword, I vow I’ll slay ye all an’ take yore Abbey from ye. This is war, d’ye hear me?”
Two broken halves of the arrow which had struck Toran were flung into the ditch. The ottercook sat watching Sister Portula bind his wound with her apron. He laughed and shouted back contemptuously to the fox, “War, eh? Go on then, let’s see ye take Redwall from us. A dirty liddle band o’ vermin scum, ye’d have no chance!”
Down in the ditch, Flinky gazed levelly at Badredd and nodded. “Sure an’ I believe the big riverdog’s right. How could a crew as small as ours take that fine big place? ’Tis all made o’ stone an’ locked up tight.”
Badredd nursed his footpaw, shooting a hateful glance at the stoat. “Whose side are ye on, theirs o’ ours?”
Flinky spread his paws expressively. “Ah now, Chief, I’m with you. But ye got to admit, things ain’t exac’ly goin’ our way, are they now?”
Badredd narrowed his eyes, well aware that Flinky could be a sly one at times. “So, what d’ye suggest?”
The stoat winked secretively. “Make ’em think we’ve gone away. I’ll wager we could catch ’em off guard after a day or two.”
Granmum Gurvel came panting up the wallsteps, carrying a big wooden pail of kitchen rubbish with the arrow that had missed the Abbot sticking out of it. The old mole blinked indignantly. “Yurr, see wot appinged? Oi wurr just crossin’ ee lawn to put ee rubbish on moi compost ’eap. That thurr h’arrer comed roight out’n ee sky an’ stucked in moi pail!”
Junty Cellarhog took it from her. “Don’t fret, marm, it missed ye!”
Back in the ditch, Badredd was mulling over Flinky’s idea. “How many days do we wait?”
Junty’s voice interrupted further conversation. The Cellarhog was whining piteously. “Sir, we’ve got somethin’ here for ye.”
Badredd leaped up. “Lend a paw ’ere, get me outta this ditch. We won’t be waitin’ any longer. Hah! They’ve seen sense at last, that’ll be my magic sword!”
They boosted him up out of the ditch. He was back a moment later—dripping with leftover oatmeal, potato peelings, onion skins and old cooking oil. Laughter and hoots of derision rang out from the walltops. Badredd was speechless with rage. The crew backed off from him, holding their noses at the odour from yesterday’s kitchen rubbish.
He clawed at the mess. “I don’t care how long I got to wait, they’re deadbeasts, all of ’em. They can’t treat Badredd like that!”
Halfchop smiled at him. “Kachunk!”