Martin slowed the pace slightly, allowing Dinny to catch up.
"Always take a mole's advice, Gonff. Remember, Dinny didn't get to be Foremole by being hasty and foolish."
Their friend's homely face crinkled into a deep smile. "Oi thankee furr ee koind wurds, Marthen. Moi ole granfer used t'say oi was wise, even when oi was but a h'infant!"
Gonff could not suppress a giggle. "Hah! Yore ole granfer'd say anything for two pieces of pie, as I remember!"
Dinny nodded sagely at this remark. "Aye, an' loik as not ee'd say more furr three pieces o' pie, if'n you'm 'adn't stolen 'em furst, zurr Mouseythief!"
Gonff pulled a sad face at Martin. "Our Dinny can be very cruel at times!"
Martin tweaked his friend's ear playfully. "Oh, I wouldn't say cruel as much as truthful!"
By midday the Abbey was well lost to sight. The four travelers crossed the ditch, leaving behind the path and entering the cool green woodlands. Trimp scouted ahead a bit and found a beautiful site for their early noonday meal. Dabbling their footpaws in a small streamlet, they sat beneath a willow, lunching on apples, cheese and honeyscones, which they washed down with cold clear water. Trimp watched Martin unbuckle the great sword from his shoulderbelt and lay it down within easy paw-reach. Admiringly, the hedgehog maid watched reflections of water patterns playing along the blade.
"What a wondrous thing your sword is, Martin."
The Warrior picked it up and held it lightly, testing its flawless balance. "Wondrous indeed, Trimp, but you must always remember what a sword is really made for. It has only one purpose, to slay. In the paws of the wrong beast it could become an awful thing, if 'twere used for evil purposes. As the Warrior who is privileged to carry the sword, I am honor bound to uphold two things: the safety of Redwall, and the memory of my father. The blade was made for me, but the hilt was always his."
Trimp felt slightly sorry for Martin. "This is a long trip we're undertaking and we have only the words of an old ballad to go on. Maybe your father never really said that he would return, or then again, he may have returned long seasons ago and sailed off once more. What I'm tryin' to say, Martin, is this: don't be surprised or disappointed if there is no trace of him on the northland shores when we finally get there."
The Warrior patted his companion's paw fondly. "I've thought of all that, missie, don't worry about me. I've decided to treat the whole thing as a summer journey with three good friends along for the walk. Right at this moment I feel lighter of heart and happier than I've been for quite some time. So hush now and don't fret over me."
Babbling streamwater, combined with distant bird-song and insects' lazy droning, soon had the four creatures taking a short nap in the shade and serenity offered by surrounding trees. They had not been dozing long when Martin became alert. Sitting bolt upright, he readied for his blade.
Trimp opened one eye enquiringly. "What is it, Martin, what's the m"
The Warrior touched her lips lightly. "Quiet, miss, listen. Gonff, can you hear?"
The Mousethief had drawn his dagger and crawled forward. Crouching against the willow trunk, he strained to hear. "Gourds knockin' togethersounds like little drums. Chantin', too. Bit far off t'make it out proper, mate." He sniffed the air as if hoping for a breeze. "No smell, though, matey, mayhap just as well, too."
Martin crouched alongside him and said one word.
"Flitchaye?"
Gonff nodded, still keeping his ears alerted for more sounds. "That's what I was thinkin', but what are Flitchaye doin' this far south?"
Martin shrugged. "Raiding party, maybe?"
Trimp looked from one to the other anxiously. "What's a Flitchaye? Do we need to fear them?"
Martin explained.
"Flitchaye are a tribe of runty weasels. We don't fear them, but they're within a day's journey of Redwall, so we'd best go and see what they're up to."
As they tracked their way through silent woodlands toward the distant sound, Gonff whispered, "Flitchayes are a bad lot, missie. They use powerful herb smoke to stun their captives. You wouldn't see a Flitchaye 'til he's right on top of ye, 'cos they disguise themselves with weeds an' shrubs an' live underground mostly. Though if this lot are Flitchaye raiders, they'll stay above ground, not bein' on their own territory. Keep your head down an' stay back with Dinny, behind me'n'Martin."
Trimp's heart beat faster. She was very excited, but not afraid with Martin and Gonff leading the way. Skirting a fern bed, they crept up behind a fallen sycamore, and as they stooped in its shelter, the sounds grew more distinct. Voices were chanting in unison with the thokking noise of gourds being struck rhythmically together.
"We d'Flitchaye Flitchaye Flitchaye,
Worraworra gonnawinna lorralorra wars!"
Thockthockathockthock, thockathockathockthock!
Bushes rustled and a few twigs snapped. Peeping over the fungus-ridden trunk, Trimp blinked in surprise when she distinguished the shapes moving against the leafy terrain.
Close to twoscore Flitchaye came marching past, brandishing stoneheaded axes and carrying bundles of slender throwing spears. Smeared with plant dye and clad in a disguise of trailing weeds, the vermin were almost as one with their surroundings. It was a barbaric scene, heightened by the sight of a very young squirrel, paws bound and hobbled, being dragged along on a rope of vine thongs attached to his neck. Trimp's eyes began watering as four rearguard passed close to the sycamore trunk, for they carried big earthenware pots on hangers between them, averting their heads from the smoke which wreathed from the vessels. The hedgehog maid rubbed at her eyes, swaying as the smoke fogged her senses. Dinny slapped a glob of mud in her paws, murmuring low, "Yurr, missie, stick this on ee nose an' breathe through ee mouth!"
Trimp did as the mole advised and immediately felt better. She noticed that Martin and Gonff were doing the same thing to counteract the effect of the drugged smoke. When the column of Flitchayes had passed, the four friends sat down in the lee of the fallen trunk, and after a safe wait Gonff indicated that they clean off their noses.
Martin nodded grimly at Trimp. "Well, now you know what Flitchaye are like, the filthy villains. Did you see the little squirrel they'd taken?"
Trimp shuddered. "Poor little fellow. Whatll they do to him?"
Martin clasped his swordhilt resolutely. "Nothing if we can help it, miss. Dinny, see if you can gather some ramsons."
The industrious mole was no sooner gone than he was back, carrying two of the broad-leafed plants, still with their tiny starlike flowers in bloom. Trimp took a step back from the pungent garlic-smelling things.
"Whew! Keep away from me with that lot, Din. I can't abide the smell of ramsons!"
Dinny chuckled as he stripped the leaves and rolled them into small solid plugs. "You'm bain't goin' to loik thiz, marm, but et could save ee loif. Yurr, take these."
Trimp's face was a mask of disgust as she accepted a pawful of the reeking wild garlic pellets from Dinny.
"Gurgh! We'll defeat the Flitchaye easily by throwing these at them. What a dreadful stink!"
Dinny passed the pellets around. Gonff chuckled gleefully.
"We don't chuck them at the foebeast, missie, we stuff two up our noses an' chew the rest."
The hedgehog maid looked horrified at the idea. "Stuff them up our noses and chew them? You're joking!"
Martin was already plugging his nose with ramsons. "No joke, Trimp. The garlic odor will overpower the smell of any drugged herb that the Flitchaye have. Come on, miss, get on with it, we're losing time!"
With Martin in the lead, they set off trailing the Flitchayes. Both Dinny and Gonff were unaffected by the malodorous aroma of ramsonsin fact, they seemed to be enjoying it. Martin endured his in stoic silence, but Trimp felt close to vomiting at the overpowering smell. Traveling silent and fast, they soon heard the foebeast up ahead. Dropping flat amid some bushes, Martin, Dinny and Trimp waited while Gonff scouted ahead. Trimp sat miserably in the deep loam, her entire being swamped by ramsons. Gonff rejoined them, quiet as a shadow drifting over grass. The Mousethief made his report swiftly.