The ottercook took a look and returned grinning. “Twenty-three . . . and a molebabe. Muggum’s sleeping in there!” The little mole grumbled dozily as Sister Portula extricated him. “Oi got to stop urr. Lonn’ bee’s sleepin’ in moi bed!”
Abbot Carrul took charge of the molebabe. “Then you can sleep in my big armchair, you rascal. In fact, I think it’s time we all got a rest, there’s lots to do once the day breaks. Right, Lonna?”
Bloodred tinges suffused the badger’s eyes, his bowstring twanging aloud as he tested it. He gritted one word from between his clenched teeth. “Right!”
The Abbot hurriedly ushered his charges from the storeroom. “We’ll leave you to your sleep now, friend. Goodnight.”
There was no reply. Closing the door behind them, Toran the ottercook exchanged meaningful glances with the Abbot. “Did ye see that, Father? Lonna’s possessed of the Bloodwrath!”
Martha looked from one to the other, perplexed. “What’s the Bloodwrath, some sort of sickness?”
Toran grasped her paw so hard that she winced. “Lissen to me, young ’un. You stay out o’ that beast’s way until his eyes clear up again. Badgers ain’t responsible for wot they do when Bloodwrath comes upon ’em, d’ye hear?”
The haremaid managed a frightened little nod. “Lonna wouldn’t hurt us, would he?”
The Abbot signalled Toran and the others to their beds. He walked through Great Hall with Martha, who was carrying the sleeping molebabe.
Carrul talked quietly with her. “Do as Toran has told you, pretty one. Only be close to Lonna when you have to. Creatures such as us know little of Bloodwrath, but grown badgers of his size can be very dangerous to anybeast when it strikes them. Take your friends tomorrow, patrol the south windows on the first and second floor. The moment you sight Searats in the grounds, report straight to Lonna. Then get out of the way. Redwallers have no business hanging around a badger who is taken by Bloodwrath. Believe me, Martha, I tell you that Lonna needs to avenge himself and his dead friend upon Raga Bol and his crew. He is here for no other reason. Go to your bed now and remember what I have said.”
Carrul took the sleeping Muggum from Martha and went into his room. The haremaid looked up at the figure of Martin the Warrior on his tapestry. There was no need of visitations or dream speeches from the gallant protector of Redwall. His eyes seemed to say it all. She bowed respectfully to Martin, then went to her bed, still puzzled but obedient to her Abbot and the guiding spirit of her Abbey.
Death came to Redwall at dawn. A Searat came bursting into the gatehouse and raised Raga Bol from the bed where he had lain sprawled and twitching in broken dreams. “Cap’n, the stripedog’s just kilt Cullo an’ Baleclaw. They was fishin’ in the pond an’ ’e slayed ’em both wid one arrer!”
Bol came upright, his silver hook thrusting through the rat’s baggy shirt as he dragged him forward. “Killed ’em wid one arrer! Have ye been at the grog agin, Griml?”
The rat wailed. “I saw it meself, Cap’n. They was stannin’ in the water, one afront o’ the other, when a big arrer pins ’em both through their neckscruffs, like fishes on a reed!”
Bol thrust Griml roughly out the gatehouse. “Rally the crew, an’ fetch Wirga t’me. Move yourself!”
Griml’s mate, Deadtooth, was crouching beside the wallsteps. He, too, had witnessed the slaying of two Searats with one arrow. Deadtooth caught up with Griml. “Wot did Bol say?”
Griml shrugged unhappily. “Not much, just booted me out an’ tole me t’bring the crew an’ fetch Wirga.”
Deadtooth persisted. “Don’t the Cap’n know Wirga’s dead? They found ’er just as it went light. Somebeast ’ad knocked the daylights outer ’er agin the wall. But ye knew that, didn’t ye? Yew shoulda told Bol.”
Griml nervously looked this way and that. “Hah, yew go an’ tell ’im, if’n ye dare. I don’t want no silver ’ook guttin’ me. I wish we was afloat at sea, like last springtime. I tell ye, mate, we’ve ’ad nought but bad luck since we dropped anchor in this rotten place!”
Griml caught sight of several Searats emerging from behind a small ornamental hedge where they had been sleeping. “Ahoy, youse lot, Cap’n wants ter see ye, right now at the gate’ouse, ye best jump to it . . .”
There was a piercing scream from the orchard as a crewrat staggered out, transfixed by an arrow. Still holding a half-ripe pear in his claws, he took one more pace and crumpled in a still heap. Griml gestured at him wildly. “See, wot did I tell ye? There’s Rotpaw gone now, a good ole messmate like ’im, off to ’ellgates afore a bite o’ brekkist passed ’is pore lips. I said this place is bad luck, didn’t I?”
38
Having camped by the rocks and spent the night there, the travellers got their first clear view of them at sunrise next morn. Fenna found Horty, who had already risen, blowing on the embers of the previous night’s fire and adding twigs to rekindle the flames. In high spirits, the young hare waved his ears at her.
“Mornin’, fair Fenn’. Lots of twigs blown up against the rocks by the blinkin’ wind, wot. Jolly useful to a first-class rivercook. What ho, you lazy lot, rise’n’shine, eh! So, here we are at the old Badger an’ Bell. Thoughtful cove, whoever named ’em—they look just like an enormous bloomin’ bell an’ a blinkin’ huge badger’s bonce!”
Springald blinked sleep from her eyes and gave Horty a sidelong glance. “Really, have you just noticed that?”
Saro got between them. “Don’t start again, you two. Horty, ole scout, ole lad, ole boy, wot’s for breakfast?”
The garrulous hare giggled. “Heeheehee, would you believe fried fruit salad, marm?”
Springald came wide awake then. “Horty, you’re joking?”
Bragoon had sidled up. With the tip of his sword he speared a slice of plum from the flat rock that served as a frying pan. The otter chewed it pensively. “Our cook ain’t jokin’, marm. Hmm, it don’t taste too bad!”
As Saro tried a morsel, winks were exchanged all round, behind Horty’s back. The aging squirrel merely nodded. “I suppose y’can’t be too picky out in this country. I’ve ate worse an’ survived.”
Fenna prodded at the food with a twig. “Do we have to eat it?”
Closing her eyes, Springald gulped a piece down. “It’s either that or starve. Fried fruit salad? Only a hare could think up a breakfast like that!” Horty’s ears rose like flagstaffs and his cheeks bulged out. The outraged hare was about to give them a piece of his mind, when something out on the wasteland distracted his attention.
“Cads! Bounders! You rotten, ungrateful . . . I say, chaps, is that somebeast crouchin’ down out there?”
Bragoon leaped up, wiping his swordblade. “Come on, let’s find out!”
They spread out and made for the distant shape. Slowly and cautiously they approached the object. Then Fenna, who had the best eyesight, ran forward, calling to them. “That’s no crouching beast, it’s nothing but a big battered old tree stump!”
The fragmented piece of conifer stood almost as tall as Bragoon’s shoulder. He tapped it with his sword.
“Y’know wot this is? All that’s left o’ that big tree on the map—Lord o’ Mossflower. We crossed over the great gorge by walkin’ across its trunk!”
Saro circled the broad base. “A shame, really. ’Twas a mighty tree in its seasons. Right, mate, ’tis time we took a look at the stuff you brought from the Abbey.”
Bragoon drew out the tattered scraps of parchment he had carried since the day they left Redwall. “Let’s take a look then. Loamhedge can’t be too far now. Maybe we’ll find some clues that’ll help.”
Horty was never a beast who took kindly to studying. He watched them unfolding a scrap of parchment. “Borin’ old stuff, I’ll go back an’ break camp, wot!”