“But, General, I told you yesterday, the visions said that—”
“Silence. Kraggah! I have heard enough. Go and bring my magpies to me and all my fighting rooks. I
have a plan to put paid to all the nonsense that surrounds this redstone house. A good plan,
straightforward, with no trickery or sneaking about like thrushes in a hedgerow. From now on we will
fight as we did in the northlands; no creeping around the back, good direct attacking, straight wing-to-beak
fighting with no prisoners taken. Now go!”
Mangiz was beset by a dreadful feeling of foreboding, though he knew there was no talking to Ironbeak
when he was in conquering mood. The crow withdrew, bowing respectfully.
“General, your wish is my command, I will bring all our birds to you.”
Little Sister May looked a simple soul, but that was because deep down she was a very wise schemer.
During the night she had laced Stryk Redkite’s drinking water with a huge dose of the drug she had
concocted for the magpies in the orchard. Stryk was a thirsty bird, and she had drunk deep. Now the great
red kite lay soundly under the influence of Sister May’s sleeping potion.
Abbot Mordalfus, John Churchmouse, Brother Rufus and Sister May gathered round the unconscious
bird, each of them versed in the art of healing as passed down through generations of Redwall Brothers
and Sisters.
John Churchmouse donned his spectacles and dusted off a slim volume. “Hmm. Old Methuselah’s Index
of Bird Ailments and Remedies. What d’you think, Father Abbot?”
The Abbot looked up from a tome he was studying.
“Aye, that’s a good one, John, though there’s much to recommend this fine book, Sister Heartwood’s
Compleat Category. It contains nearly five chapters on birds.”
Brother Rufus helped Sister May as she raised Stryk’s broken wing. Then she wiped her paws busily
upon a clean white apron.
“Oh dear, that is a nasty-looking break. Mr. Spike, would you roll one of those small firkins over here
so we can keep this wing in the right position?”
Ambrose grumpily complied with the request. “It don’t do much for the clearness of beetroot portwine
to be messin’ an’ rollin’ it about. Here, I ’ope you’re not goin’ to feed that great feathered lump on my best
beetroot portwine.”
“I should say not, Ambrose,” John Churchmouse chuckled. “Though we may need a drop or two of it
ourselves before we’re finished here.”
“Then I may’s well stay here an’ help you,” the hedgehog cellar-keeper grunted.
The broken wing was propped up on the barrel top and weighted securely with books. Abbot
Mordalfus inspected the wingtip.
“Look, there’s a pinion feather missing. Sister May, will you check the bird’s tailfeathers and see if
there’s one the same size as the final outward pinion on the other wing? Ambrose, would you have a look
in the kitchen for any good strong fishbones. Oh, and we’ll need fine greased twine and some dried
onionskins, and have a scout round for that jar of rivermud compound we use on burns. I have great faith
in the healing powers of that stuff.”
They called their requests after Ambrose as he trundled off:
“Fetch the finest sewing needle that Cornflower has got.”
“And don’t forget the witch hazel.”
“Some almond oil, too.”
“Then nip into Cavern Hole and pick up my herbal bag, please.”
Ambrose shrugged his spikes moodily. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to fetch your lunch, dinner,
tea’n’supper too. Huh!”
“Oh, and Ambrose, would you ask Winifred to fetch our lunch, dinner, tea and supper out here? This is
going to be a long job!”
Ironbeak left off tugging a worm from the lawn as Mangiz approached. He saw the crow was alone and
glared severely at him.
“Yakk! Well?”
“My General, what has happened is none of my doing. If you peck me and claw me you will be doing
me a great wrong.”
Ironbeak’s bright eyes shifted back and forth between the Abbey and the crow.
“I will peck the tongue from your foolish beak if you do not stop babbling and tell me what is
happening.”
“Kaah! It is the rooks and the magpie brothers, my General. They have barred themselves within the
dormitory room and will not come out.”
“Now what has got into those duckbrained idiots?” Ironbeak snorted.
“They say that the head of the ghost mouse appeared to them last night, and it warned them to stay in
the dormitory room.”
The raven leader struck his powerful beak sideways against a stone. The noise it made surprised
Mangiz.
“Kaahagga! Then I must go and talk to them!”
Mangiz followed the General at a respectable distance. He did not like the way Ironbeak had said the
word “talk.”
The raven perched in the broken window space of the dormitory room; his seer crow sat upon the
grass, listening intently.
“Kaah! So, my fighters, you have been listening to the ghost mouse again. What did it have to say this
time?”
Apart from a few muffled caws, there was no clear reply. Ironbeak dug his claws into the woodwork of
the window frame.
“Kraa! You do not choose to speak to your leader. Then I will come in and speak to you.”
He hopped down and vanished inside the dormitory. Mangiz hunched up, closing his eyes as he
listened to the awful sounds of birds screeching and beds being upset. He couldn’t see the feathers which
flew out of the dormitory window.
“Yaggah! Who gives the orders, a mouse’s head or Ironbeak? I am in command here. Get out! Out, you
worthless rabble!”
Rooks and magpies poured out of the window, struggling against each other to get through the
enclosed space. Mangiz winced at the savage sounds of his General dealing out fierce punishment. Not for
nothing was he known as the most feared fighter in the northlands.
Chapter 49
The great sword of Redwall disappeared into the green mists of the abyss. Matthias scrabbled furiously as
he rolled over the brink of the ledge, his paws grabbing automatically for anything that would check his
headlong plunge. It was the rope which the basket had been lowered down on that saved him. He seized it
wildly but was unable to grasp it firmly and he began sliding downwards, the rock face of the chasm
passing him in a blur. The Wearet leapt up and began immediately hacking at the rope.
Bellowing aloud, Orlando charged at the head of the woodlanders. Rats went down before the great
battleaxe like corn to the scythe. With Basil and the others facing outwards, guarding his sides and the rear,
the Warrior of the Western Plain fought his way through. Too late. The last strands of the rope twisted and
shredded, to snap under the blade of the spear. Matthias was gone.
The Wearet turned to look up. The last thing his eyes beheld was the huge male badger swinging a
double-headed axe in his direction. Orlando gave a great howl of rage. Rage against himself for letting
Matthias accept such a challenge. Rage at everything in this evil place that had taken his young one from
him, and rage fuelling his great fighting spirit so that he wanted to do battle against anybeast that stood in
his way.
“I am Orlando of the Axe. Eeeeeulaliaaaaa!”
The woodlanders’ war cries rang about the underground Kingdom of Malkariss as Basil, Cheek, Jess