A fat, powerful-looking shrew stood up, smirking, then launched into Riverbraggin, an art much admired among the longboat crews. Drinchy thumped the ground with his club and commenced roaring, “I wuz borned on a river in a thunnerstorm, an’ wot did I do? I ate the bottom outta the boat an’ fought six big pike who tried to eat me! Though I wuz on’y a babe, I scoffed three of ’em, an’ tossed the rest on the bank an’ fried ’em for me brekkist! Aye, mates, I’m Drinchy Wildgob, the roarin’ son of a roarin’ son who killed ’imself tryin’ to feed me. I can outeat, outchew an’ outswaller anybeast alive—includin’ long-pawed, flop-eared, fancy bunnies!”
Finished with his mighty brag, Drinchy bowed as the shrews cheered him raucously.
Saro nodded to Horty. “I think you’re bein’ challenged, young ’un. Think you can do better than Drinchy?”
Horty stood up, bowing elegantly to Saro. “Marm, my dander has risen since the remarks that chap made about me. We of the Braebucks are not backward in coming forward. I shall accept this curmudgeon’s braggin’ challenge, forthwith!”
Without further ado, Horty bounded up, spreading his paws dramatically and yelling like a madbeast. “I’m the son of the howlin’ hare! I was born on a winter’s night in a gale. My parents took one look at me, chewin’ on the chimney, an’ left home! There ain’t a cauldron big enough to hold my dinner, not one in all the land! I’ve ate every jolly old thing—fried frogs, toasted toads, boiled badgers, roasted reptiles, an’ shrews, too! Shrew stew, shaved an’ shrivelled shrews, shrew soup an’ simmered shrew! I’ve got a stomach of iron an’ a mouth like a steel trap! I’m the Horrible Hortwill Braebuck, an’ nobeast steps over my line! Even little fat wretches with bellies like balloons an’ spiky fur an’ names like Drinchy! D’ye know what the Horrible Horty likes for supper? Daintily diced Drinchy . . . with lots o’ gravy. Yaaaaaah!”
The Guoraf shrews battered the ground with their war clubs, a mark of the highest honour they could show anybeast. Then they hoisted Horty up on their shoulders, cheering him twice around the camp.
With a look of thorough humbleness, Drinchy shook the young hare’s paw fervently. “Well, I more’n met me match there, mate. Ye must be the best bragger ever born, ye made me look like a beginner.”
The triumphant Horty was gallant, even in victory. “No hard feelins, Drinch old lad, but mind your language in the future, wot!”
A magnificent supper was served, as befitted shrewcooks, who were renowned across the waterways for their culinary skills. Huge portions were served up to Horty. The shrews gathered round, gazing in awe as he downed one dish after another.
“Mmmm yum! This is top-hole tucker, wot wot. Pass some more o’ that skilly’n’duff, please. Oh, an’ lob more honey over it, I like it that way. I say, is that actually rhubarb’n’blackberry crumble? . . . Where’s me blinkin’ spoon? Drinch, old scout, would y’be kind enough to fetch more shrewbeer—not that little beaker, gimme the jug!”
Bragoon chuckled. “Look at young Horty, he’s in ’is element there. They’ll get tired o’ servin’ before he does of eatin’, mark my words, Briggy!”
The shrew chieftain watched Horty admiringly. “That ’un should’ve bin a shrew, mate. I saw ’im march straight inter that reptile crowd widout turnin’ a hair. They’d already throwed three javelins an’ spiked ’is hat. I tell ye, Bragoon, it takes a brave beast to do that!”
The otter poured himself another beaker of shrewbeer. “Or a ravin’ idiot! I’ll tell ye the truth of it all someday.”
Horty was on to a wild grape and almond pudding. “Never had this before. My word, it’s rather toothsome, wot. Send the old cook out, an’ I’ll give her a kiss!”
A small, toothless, grizzled male shrew stumped out from behind the cauldrons hanging over the fire. He grinned. “H’I’m the cook round ’ere. Wot was it ye wanted, sir?”
Horty choked on a mouthful of pudding. “Wot, er, oh nothin’, granddad. Excellent scoff, wot. Top marks, well done an’ all that. Back to the old fire an’ keep on cookin’. Eh, wot!”
Log a Log Briggy called to his shrews. “Ye can let those reptiles free now, I reckon they’ve learned their lesson. If any of the slimy-skinned lot give ye any bother, give ’em another drubbin’ an tell ’em you’ll sling ’em in the river. That should scare ’em!”
He sat down with Bragoon and Saro, winking fondly at them. “Now then, mateys, wot brings you two t’these parts, eh?”
They explained the mission for Martha’s cure and their quest for Loamhedge.
Briggy stroked his beard. “Hmm, Loamhedge eh? I’ve ’eard tell o’ the place. But ye’d ’ave to cross the great gorge to git anywheres near where the stories say the lost Abbey o’ Loamhedge lies. Did ye bring some kind o’ chart along to ’elp ye find it, or are ye just trustin’ to fortune?”
Bragoon produced the chart from Matthias’s journal. “It’s been mostly luck to date, but we do ’ave this.”
Briggy rummaged a battered single eyeglass from his belt pouch and held it to his eye. “My ole peepers ain’t wot they used t’be, I got to use this monocle t’see. Right, wot’ve we got ’ere?”
He perused the dilapidated parchment thoroughly. “Hah, I know this country, ’tis sou’east o’ where we are now. I’ve seen these two rocks an’ all. They’re called the Bell an’ the Badger’s ’ead, great big lumps o’ stone they are. Wot’s this, a large tree called the Lord o’ Mossflower? Huh, that was long gone in the seasons afore my father’s grandfathers. Blowed down, or collapsed more likely, when the earth trembled.”
Saro looked anxiously at the shrew chieftain. “But ye do know where the two big rocks are?”
Briggy stowed his monocle away. “Ho, I knows that place sure enough. East along this river for a day or so, then cut south when ye leave the bank. Wicked country, ’tis.”
Bragoon patted his swordhilt. “That don’t worry us, we’ve travelled wicked country afore. So will ye take us upriver to the Bell an’ the Badgers ’ead, me ole mate?”
Briggy held out his paw. “Course I will, ’ere’s me paw an’ ’ere’s me heart on it. But afore ye gets to the big rocks, ye’ve gotta cross the great gorge. I never knew of anybeast who’s done that yet.”
Saro winked at him. “You leave that to us. We’ve done lots o’ things nobeast ’as ever done, me’n my mate.”
Jigger joined them, taking a great interest in Bragoon’s sword. “That’s a fine-lookin’ blade ye carry, mate.”
The otter drew the sword, holding it out to let the firelight play along its blade in the gathering twilight. It shimmered and glinted like a live thing. “Aye, a fine blade it is, young ’un. My friend, the Abbot o’ Redwall, loaned it t’me for the journey. ’Tis the sword of Martin the Warrior!”
The shrews had evidently heard of Martin. As word ran through the camp, they crowded around Bragoon, straining to catch a glimpse of the legendary weapon.
“So that’s the sword o’ Martin. ’Tis a sight to be’old!”
“They say ’twas made at the badger mountain from a piece of a star wot fell out the sky!”
“Blood’n’fur, fancy ownin’ a blade like that!”
Jokingly, Jigger drew his own short rapier and waved it. “Would ye like to challenge me to a spot o’ swordplay?”
There was a twinkle in Briggy’s eye as he nudged the otter. “Go on, mate, show ’im wot a real swordbeast kin do.”
Bragoon rose casually, then moved like lightning. Jigger stood aghast, rooted to the spot as the sword encircled him in a streaking pattern of light. It clipped one of his whiskers and tipped the bandanna from off his forehead. The young shrew closed his eyes tightly.
Bragoon whirled the blade as he roared. “Yahaarrr, ssssss’death!”