She wagged a stern paw at the young hare. “Listen good, Horty, this ain’t a game anymore, see. If you start yammerin’ on about food’n’drink, or causin’ any upset, ye’ll be riskin’ our lives. Just march, do as yore told an’ shut that great mouth o’ yours, d’ye hear?”
Horty placed a paw over his own mouth and drew the other paw across his throat in a slitting motion.
Springald nodded. “I think he’s gotten the idea. Quick march!”
Off they went into the day’s last crimson-tinged twilight—without food, drink or any hope of rest. The five small figures were dwarfed by the immensity of a dust-blown, trackless desert. Hidden eyes watched their departure, and sinister shapes rose from the earth to follow the questors.
27
The storm broke over Redwall at about the same time that Raga Bol killed Jibsnout. Foremole Dwurl gazed gloomily out of the dormitory window at the windswept deluge outside. He blinked as lightning illuminated the room and thunder barraged overhead.
“B’aint no use a throwen pepper at vurmints in ee gurt rainystorm. Bo urr, nay, zurr!”
Martha wheeled her chair to the window and peered out. “Hmm, I wonder how the vermin are coping with this downpour.”
Abbot Carrul sighed. “Who knows? Martha, please keep an eye on them. Right, let’s get on with this Council Meeting.”
Outside, fat raindrops beat a deafening tattoo on the walls of the Abbey, its lawns nearly underwater. Badredd and his gang had commandeered the gatehouse. They lay about, wrapped in sheets, blankets and window curtains, using the material to dab at their sorely inflamed nostrils. Sneezing had become pure agony, with the membranes of their nostrils and throats red-raw from the bombardment of hotroot pepper.
Plumnose was having the worst of it. Each time he sniffed, his pendulous nose wobbled and vibrated. Throwing off the bedspread he had been wearing, the suffering ferret made for the gatehouse door.
“Duh, I’b goin’ oudd inna rain tuh lay dowd an’ ledda rained water clear be node. Id mide wash idd out!”
Halfchop sneezed painfully as he volunteered to accompany him. “Kachuuub!”
The Abbey Council had decided on a desperate scheme. Twoscore of the most able-bodied Redwallers would storm the gatehouse and make an end of the vermin. They stood ready to go, each armed with some form of homemade weapon: kitchen knives tied to window poles formed spears, long-handled garden spades, forks and hoes, together with coopering mallets and stave hatchets from the cellars.
Toran, serving as commander of the group, leaned against the windowsill, going over the scheme for a second time. “Listen, friends, ’tis no use barricadin’ ’em in the gatehouse. We’ve got to make an end to it, invade the place, break in an’ slay every last one o’ them. No half-measures if we want a peaceful life for us an’ the little ’uns. I’ll go through the door first, the rest o’ you follow me. Show no quarter once yore inside! Sister Portula, Foremole Dwurl an’ yore two moles there, Burney’n’Yooler, you stay outside an’ get any who tries to break out an’ run off. Any questions?”
Muggum saluted with a copper ladle he had brought from the kitchen. “No, zurr, oi’ll do moi dooty, doan’t you’m wurry!”
Martha lifted him onto her lap and took the ladle. “Your duty is to stay here with the rest of us and guard the Abbey door. This storm has set in for a good while yet. Once it goes dark, Toran and his friends will have the advantage of night cover and rain. The vermin won’t be expecting them to attack. Meanwhile, we’ll guard the door and make sure only Redwallers get back inside. It’s a very important job, Muggum. Can you do it?”
The molebabe narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at Toran’s attack party. “Ho, oi can do et, Miz Marth’, doan’t ee fret. They’m b’aint a-getten back in yurr iffen they’m b’aint theyselves!”
Toran shook the molebabe’s paw. “Well said, matey!”
Abbot Carrul stood up on one of the truckle beds and delivered a homily to his beloved Abbey creatures. Everybeast fell silent, respectfully bowing their heads as he spoke out.
“Fortune and fates be with you all,
you who fight for the right,
some will stand, others fall,
never to return this night.
But fear ye not, my loving friends,
be strong of limb and heart,
knowing that peace depends on you,
let courage play its part.
Tranquillity and calm spread wide,
through this our dear homeland,
justice and truth go by your side,
which evil cannot withstand.”
Though Martha did not say it, she wished now more than ever that her two friends, Sarobando and Bragoon, had stayed.
Thunder exploded overhead; jagged forks of lightning tore through the fading light. Raga Bol and his Searats pounded on Redwall Abbey’s main gate. Hearing the noise, Halfchop and Plumnose padded soggily to the gate.
Plumnose placed an ear against it, calling out, “Who’d dat?”
A sabre was at Flinky’s neck as he answered. “Sure, ’tis only me’n me mate Crinktail. We’re gettin’ drowned out here. Open up an’ let us in, Plummy!”
The two crewbeasts lifted the wooden bar, allowing the door to swing inward. Flinky and Crinktail were flung in, landing face down in the mud as the Searats poured through. Raga Bol seized the ferret’s nose and twisted it, bringing Plumnose up on his pawtips, squealing in agony.
“Yeeee! Ledd go!”
The captain let go and kicked Plumnose flat in the mud. “So yore the big bad warrior wot put this place to siege, eh?”
He roared with laughter as the ferret held a paw tenderly around his bruised nose and pointed to the gatehouse. “Nodd me. Badredd’s in dere, he did idd!”
The little fox was half asleep as the gatehouse door crashed off its hinges. He was dumbstruck at the sight that greeted him. Raga Bol strode forcefully in, squinting one eye as he glared ferociously around.
“Which one of ye is Badredd?”
The crew, terrified out of their wits by half a hundred Searats leering through the doorway at them, pointed quickly at the fox. Raga’s polished pawhook latched into Badredd’s belt, jerking the fox face-to-face with him. The barbaric captain’s murderous eyes bored into the fox’s numbed gaze. “So then, liddle laddo, yore the mighty Badredd?”
Speech deserted him, Badredd could only stammer. “Y . . . Y . . . Yu . . . Ya . . . y-y-y-”
Raga Bol shook him like a rag doll, covering the little fox with spittle as he roared into his face. “Don’t stan’ there makin’ noises like an idjit! Are ye or aren’t ye Badredd, ye runty buffoon?”
The fox nodded furiously, as he heard his own voice squeak out, “Yis!”
The sea captain turned to his crew, gold fangs asparkle as he grinned at them. “Well now, ain’t that nice. Say ’ello to our new cap’n, buckoes!”
There was loud guffawing and shouts of ridicule from the Searats.
“Pleased t’meet yer, I’m shore!”
“Mercy me, ’e do look fierce, don’t ’e?”
“I’d watch ’ow ye talk to ole Badredd. Looks like an ’ard master t’me, a cold ’earted killer!”
“Hawhawhaw! Aye, lookit ’is sword. Hawhawhawhaw!”
The Searat captain wrenched the broken cutlass from his victim’s belt. He held it under Badredd’s nose. “Does your mamma know ye’ve been playin’ wid this? Dearie me, yew could cut yerself. Naughty fox!”
Raga Bol’s crew laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. When the fox’s own crew began smiling and chuckling, the big Searat turned on them savagely.
“Wot are you lot laughin’ about, eh? Stupid clods, lettin’ yoreselves be ordered about by a liddle oaf with a busted sword. Gerrout of ’ere, all of ye, clear out!”
The vermin scurried to obey, cringing and ducking as they had to pass Raga Bol, who was partially blocking the doorway. Still dragging Badredd along by his belt, Raga strode out into the sheeting rain, issuing orders to his Searats.