Saro prodded him. “Are ye alright, head achin’ is it?”
The young hare nodded. “A bit, but I’m more tired than anything.”
Saro indicated an overhang that was screened by bushes. “Tuck yoreself in there young ’un an’ take a snooze. I’ll call ye when we’re ready to move.”
The four travellers slithered and bumped down the steep hillside, grasping trees and bushes to slow their descent. They were about halfway down when Bragoon sighted the reptiles. He halted, pointing.
“Down yonder on the riverside below us. Those reptiles I dealt with last night are waitin’ for us. Trouble is, they’ve brought a pile o’ their gang with ’em!”
Saro counted the assorted lizards, newts, toads, smooth snakes and grass snakes awaiting them on the shore. There were about thirty in all, with another twoscore camped on the opposite bank of the river.
A thin reed lance zipped upward, narrowly missing Fenna’s cheek. She stumbled, almost overbalancing, but Bragoon managed to grab her. “Take cover quick, they’re throwin’ lances!”
To one side of the slope, a fallen pine had lodged flat between two standing trees. Crouching behind it, Saro fitted a stone to her sling and launched it off at the reptiles. Cautiously, she peered over the log, noting that a toad had hopped out of the way of her stone. “They ain’t movin’, just waitin’ for us down there. Let’s give ’em another couple o’ slingstones, mate!”
Both she and Bragoon slung more stones as Springald and Fenna threw lumps of shale. They were forced to duck fast as a half dozen of the sharp, thin lances came back at them.
The otter thumped his rudder down irritably. “Well, this ain’t goin’ t’get us to Loamhedge. Those cold-blooded scum ’ave got us pinned down ’ere!”
Springald picked up one of the lances and threw it back. “It’s a stand-off, what are we going to do?”
Sarobando passed her sling to the mousemaid. “Ye can use this, ’tis a good sling. But I’ll want it back later. This is wot we’ll do. While you three keep slingin’ stones, I’ll slide off through the trees an’ take a scout round downriver. I’ll find a good quiet spot where the river narrows for an easy crossin’. Then I’ll slip back ’ere an’ let ye know. Once ’tis dark, we can all sneak away an’ escape. Right?”
Fenna nodded. “Sounds like a good idea!”
Bragoon raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like? Let me tell ye, missy, when my ole mate gets an idea, ’tis always a good ’un!”
Saro gave him a quick grin. “Thankee, Brag. Now let’s give ’em a good rattlin’ volley to keep their ’eads down while I pop off unnoticed. One . . . Two . . . Three!”
Slingstones and lumps of shale peppered down at the foebeasts below. When Springald looked up, Saro had gone. Bragoon shoved the mousemaid’s head back down as more lances came.
“Always duck fast once ye’ve throwed, Spring. There’s more pore beasts been injured or slain in fights by lookin’ up to see where their stones went. Ready agin, come on, let’s give ’em a spot o’ blood’n’vinegar. Yahaaar! Try some o’ this, ye scum-backed, bottle-nosed crawlers!”
Horty slept on beneath the overhang, blissfully unaware of what was taking place.
31
Saro put some distance between herself and the skirmish. Ahead lay a sweeping bend in the river. Making her way down to the bank, she skirted the bend and began jogging steadily along the shore. It was peaceful and quiet, with only the crunch of pebbles beneath her footpaws mingling with the murmur of riverwater, echoing off the high, wooded slopes on either side. As she got round the bend, Saro caught the sound of deep, gruff voices singing a river shanty. She pressed on toward the singing. It was a song she knew, and she was fairly certain who the singers would be. The aging squirrel joined in with the melodious music.
“Wally wally dampum dearie,
I’ll sail back home next spring.
Kiss all the babies for me,
an’ teach the lot to sing.
Toodle aye toodle oo, me daddy’s a shrew,
whose face I can’t recall,
but I’ll stay home all season long,
until I hears him call.
Logalog Logalog Logalog Oooohhhh!
Ringa linga ling me darlin’,
there’s ribbons for yore hair,
I’ll bring to ye a bonnet,
an’ a fine red rockin’ chair.
Toodle oo toodle ay, just wait’ll the day,
Daddy comes paddlin’ in.
I’ll grow up big’n’strong then,
an’ sail away with him.
Logalog Logalog Logalog Ooooooooohhhhhh!”
Cupping both paws to her mouth, Saro bellowed for all she was worth. “Logalogalogaloga looooooog!”
Six shrew logboats hove into view, sailing upriver. The lead craft was by far the largest, carved from a mighty oak trunk and fitted with a single square sail of scarlet with an ornate letter B emblazoned on it. All the logboats were packed with shrews, about a hundred of the small, fierce beasts. Each spiky-furred shrew wore a multicoloured headband and a kilt held up by a broad, copper-buckled belt into which was thrust a short rapier. Their leader, a solid old patriarch, with a thick, silver beard, stood in the prow of the front craft. He signalled for the rowers to pull into the shore.
No sooner had the vessel nosed in to land than the shrew chieftain leaped ashore and seized Saro in a viselike bear hug. He roared cheerily, “Sarobando, me ole squirrelcake, where’ve ye been a-hidin’ yoreself? Oh, it does me eyes a power o’ good to see ye agin! Belay, where’s that rip-ruddered rascal Bragoon? Is the ole villain still alive? Haharrharrr!”
Saro tugged the shrew’s big beard and kissed both of his cheeks. “Log a Log Briggy, ye barrel-bellied ole riverroarer, I knew ’twas you as soon as I ’eard yore song. Let go o’ me, mate, while me ribs are still in one piece. Lissen careful to wot I got to tell ye!”
After loosening Saro, Log a Log Briggy listened as she told him the facts. “There’s trouble upriver. Bragoon an’ some young mates of ours are pinned down on the ’illside by reptiles. There’s about thirty o’ the scum on this side o’ the water, an’ more on the other side. We need yore ’elp, Briggy!”
The shrew chieftain’s brows lowered menacingly as he gritted out the words. “Reptiles, eh? I can’t abide the creepy, cold-eyed scum. They think they rule the roost up that end o’ the river. Don’t fret, matey, I’ll put my oar in an’ show ’em who the real bigbeast is in these waters. No reptile’s goin’ to mess wid good mates o’ mine!”
He began issuing orders to the captains of the other five logboats. “Moor those vessels on the other bank, we’ll come back for ’em later. Jigger, take twenty goodbeasts an’ go wid Saro. Bring extra clubs along wid ye. Raffu, Fregg, Scordo, Fludge, you an’ the rest foller me along the far bank. Keep ’idden among the trees, an’ don’t make no noise. Bring me Aggie Frogslapper, look lively now!”
One of the shrews passed Log a Log Briggy a hefty carved sycamore war club, which he wielded lovingly. “Ole Aggie’s slapped a few frogs in ’er day. Hah, there’ll be a lot o’ reptiles won’t be comin’ back for a second kiss from ye, Aggie me old gel!”
Briggy introduced Saro to a young shrew who was the model of himself in bygone seasons. “This is me eldest, Jigger. ’Tis only his sixth season out as a Guoraf warrior, but he’s shapin’ up well. Jigg, me darlin’ son, go wid Saro. When ye get yore fighters set up, wait for yore dear ole dad’s call afore ye charge the scurvy foe.”
Jigger shook Saro’s paw. “Let’s make tracks. I hate bein’ late fer a fight, marm!”
Armed with clubs, rapiers and slings, the shrews set off with Saro and Jigger at a swift trot around the riverbend. Log a Log Briggy took his logboat with the other five craft across the river to the opposite bank. He was first ashore, stroking his club, Aggie Frogslapper, and murmuring fondly, “Aharr, ’tis a long time since ye had a good outin’, me dearie!”