Quivering with anger, the smaller rat picked up his little spear—each of his brothers carried one, too. Jibsnout had seen them use the deadly weapons, but not as spears. Although they were actually hollow rods, the spearpoints could be removed, transforming them into blowpipes through which poisoned darts could be shot with lethal accuracy. The big Searat stroked his long dagger fondly and moved closer to the sons of Wirga. He fixed the angry one with a cold stare.
“Go on, mamma’s liddle rat, use it, I dare ye. Think yore brave enough t’slay me, eh?”
Lashing out swiftly, Jibsnout knocked the spear from the smaller rat’s paws. Whipping out his blade, he menaced the other two. “Just try raisin’ one o’ those things against me, an’ poison or not, I’ll rip yer throats out! Well, come on, ye gutless wonders, who’s ready fer a fight t’the death?”
The sons of Wirga stood silent, their eyes cast down. Jibsnout curled his lip scornfully, turning his back on them. “Hah, I thought so! There’s more backbone in an egg than in youse three put t’gether. Scringin’ cowards!”
Each of the three blowpipes was already charged with a poison dart. Silently slipping the head from his spear, the rat whom Jibsnout had insulted placed the hollow rod to his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he prepared to propel the dart.
Zzzzzzip!
A long arrow struck the little rat, driving him back a full four paces. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Diving to either side, the remaining two sons of Wirga sought cover. Lonna emerged from out of the trees, fitting another shaft to his bowstring. The badger’s eyes were red with the light of vengeance, the snarl on his scarred, stitched face transforming him into a terrifying apparition. Frightened though he was, Jibsnout, a seasoned fighter, acted swiftly. Wielding his dagger, he dashed forward, hoping to get so close to his adversary that the bow and arrow would be rendered useless.
Lonna was in a dilemma: he could see one of the Searats glancing around a treetrunk, ready to fire a blowpipe, and Jibsnout thundering toward him. With lightning speed the badger acted. Falling into a crouch, he fired his arrow, but only narrowly missed being shot himself as a poison dart whipped by overhead. Jibsnout roared in pain as the arrow transfixed his paw to the ground. As Lonna rose, taking another shaft from his quiver, the Searat who had fired the dart fled off into the woodlands.
The remaining son of Wirga came from behind a fir tree, certain that he could not fail to hit a target as big as the badger. As he placed the blowpipe to his mouth, Figalok the squirrel appeared directly in front of him, hanging by her tail from an overhead branch. She grabbed the opposite end of the vermin’s blowpipe and blew hard. Clutching his throat, the horrified rat fell writhing to the ground, choked on his own poison dart.
Figalok dropped out of the tree, nodding to Lonna. “Chahaah, gotta be plenny quick wirra Searatta!”
The big badger put up his bow, striving to master the Bloodwrath that was coursing through him. “You saved my life, friend, but I’ll have to thank you some other time. One of the Searats got away. I must hunt him down now while his trail is still fresh.”
The squirrel gestured at the wounded Jibsnout. “Warra ’bout dissa one, ya goin’ to slay ’im?”
Jibsnout crouched over, his face creased in agony. The arrow that had pierced his footpaw was buried half its length into the ground. He glanced up at Lonna, expecting no mercy from him.
“If’n yore gonna finish me off, make it quick, stripedog!”
The badger strode over and grasped the arrow. With a sharp tug he pulled the arrow out, growling at Jibsnout. “I’m no Searat, I don’t kill defenceless beasts!” Ripping the sleeve from the rat’s frayed tunic, Lonna grabbed a pawful of damp moss and dockleaves.
The puzzled rat watched his enemy binding the wound up tight. “Ye mean yore lettin’ me live?”
The badger hauled him upright, slamming him against a tree. “My name is Lonna Bowstripe. Take this message to Raga Bol. Tell him that he and all his crew of murderers are walking deadbeasts. I will find them and slay them, one by one. Even you. Now begone from my sight and deliver my message to your captain. Tell him I am coming, nothing will stop me!”
Lonna and Figalok watched Jibsnout limping painfully off until he was obscured by the trees, then together, the two friends took a brief meal. The squirrel wielded a blowpipe spear and poison darts taken from the slain Searats.
“Chahaah! Me betcha dis keep Ravin away from squirrel. Lonna Bigbeast, ya goin’ after dat Searatta who runned away? Me go witcha, we find ’im afore tomorra.”
But the badger would not hear of it. “No, my friend, you have your own home and kinbeasts to protect. This is something I must do by myself. I am sworn by my own oath to rid the earth of Raga Bol and all his vermin. But I thank you for saving my life, Figalok!”
The elderly squirrel took his paw. “Chahaaw, so be’t, Lonna, ya are d’true warrior. Ya saved us fromma Ravin, glad Figalok could save ya, too. Me no ferget ya alla me life, always think of ya!”
Averting his eyes, Lonna inspected the long dagger he had taken from Jibsnout, pleased that it was a good blade. When he looked up again, Figalok had gone, vanished into the treetops.
The Searat’s trail had gone off to the southeast. Lonna picked it up and followed the tracks. As he walked, the badger fashioned a holder for his dagger, fitting it to his upper left arm close to the shoulder. By late afternoon, the dense woodlands thinned out into pine groves and sandhills. In the distance, Lonna could make out a dark shape to his left on the horizon. The trail of Wirga’s remaining son was running parallel to the mysterious mass. Just before sunset, the badger crested a rise which afforded a clear view of the country he was travelling through. On the one side, the hills bordered a vast, dusty plain, almost like a desert wasteland. On the other side, the odd dark mass reared up into a towering line of forbidding cliffs. After awhile it grew too dark for tracking. Reaching the cliff face, Lonna sighted what he knew was a cave. He climbed up and made camp there for the night.
There was no need for a fire. The night was still and warm, with heat waves drifting in from the plain. Knowing he could pick up the Searat’s tracks at dawn, Lonna sat in the cave entrance, eating an apple and some dried fruit. He gazed up at the night sky, where a sliver of moon, resembling a slice of russet apple, was surrounded by myriads of stars twinkling in the firmament. The words of an old song rose unbidden to his mind.
“When weary day does shed its light,
I rest my head and dream,
I ride the great dark bird of night,
so tranquil and serene.
Then I can touch the moon afar,
which smiles up in the sky,
and steal a twinkle from each star,
as we go winging by.
We’ll fly the night to dawning light,
and wait ’til dark has ceased,
to marvel at the wondrous sight,
of sunrise in the east.
So slumber on, my little one,
float soft as thistledown,
and wake to see when night is done,
fair morning’s golden gown.”
Since Lonna had no recollection of his parents, he surmised that the lullaby had been taught to him by Grawn, the old badger who had reared him.
Lonna stayed that night in the cave on the cliffside. As day dawned he spotted a tiny puff of dust, on a hilltop off to his right. The big badger knew instantly that it was his quarry. The Searat must have spent the night amid the hills, not far from the cave. Pausing only to grab his bow and quiver, Lonna set off in pursuit.
He had travelled no further than the base of the first foothill when he was faced by a small patrol of ten Darrat rats. Their leader eyed him insolently up and down.
“Dis be Darrat land. You give me bow’n’arrers, stripedog. We take ye to Hemper Figlugg!” He grinned at the other rats, murmuring to them, “Much Burcha Glugg, eh?”