Zwilt toyed with the medal about his neck. "Good. I knew I could, so I want you to be in charge of all my Ravagers from now on."
Fallug looked fit to burst as he puffed in more air. "Me, Lord?"
Zwilt nodded. "You'll need a bit of help, so why not pick out a few trusty comrades and make them captains?"
A worried look furrowed the weasel's brow, but Zwilt reassured him, "Of course, you won't need to be a captain any longer. I'll promote you to chief, or general. Which title d'you think suits you best?"
Fallug replied without hesitation, "Chief, Sire! Sounds good, don't it? Fallug, Chief of all the Ravagers. Aye, chief suits me fine, Lord!"
Zwilt watched the ram point shaping up. "Right, Chief Fallug, these are your orders. You'll be in charge of this whole attack--archers, slingers, ram carriers, everything!"
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The new chief looked slightly perplexed. "But where'll you be, Sire? Wot'll you be doin'?"
Zwilt stared at the distant Abbey walls. "I'll be doing what I do best--being Zwilt the Shade. You just carry on obeying orders. Don't look for me. I have a plan of my own. If it goes the right way, I may be inside Redwall whilst you're still knocking on the doors. Leave me now. I'll put the word about that you are in command here."
Back on the ramparts, Bartij, who had no experience of warfare, shielded his eyes against the sun, peering at the distant vermin encampment. "There's smoke a-risin'. See, they've lit a fire. Looks like they're burnin' one end of the big log. Why d'ye suppose they'd do a thing like that, eh?"
Jango dipped a crust of toasted nutbread into his hot mint tea and sucked it with relish. "I'd say they're makin' a batterin' ram, eh, Buck?"
Buckler put aside a bowl of oatmeal. "Yore right, mate. Skipper, fetch Foremole, please. I need to speak with him."
Foremole Darbee did not like high walltops. He sat down with his back to the battlements, concentrating his gaze on the walkway. "Hurr, 'ow can oi 'elp ee, zurr?"
Buckler sat down next to him. "This stone-throwin' catapult thing your crew are making in the cellars, can we get it up here?"
Darbee shook his velvety head glumly. " 'Tis all in bits, zurr. Oi knows nuthin' abowt cattypults, but if'n us gets it up yurr, 'twill need t'be resembled."
Skipper quaffed off what was left of his hotroot soup. "Granvy's the beast who'd know about assemblin' it. Come on, we'll lend a paw to carry it up here."
It turned out to be a far harder task than they had expected. Some of the timber donated by Cellarmole Gurjee was huge and weighty. Long-seasoned lengths of elm, beech and oak, devoid of bark or branch, were hauled laboriously up to the walltop.
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Old Granvy the Recorder inspected the material doubtfully. "Hmm, wish I'd bothered to look at this lot earlier. I'm afraid most of it is far too ancient and dried out t'be of any use. It'd snap under pressure."
Bartij flicked a woodlouse off a chunk of beech. "Can't we make any use of it, Granvy?"
The old hog sighed wistfully. "I wish I knew. I dug out an ancient parchment which had the plans for a ballista-- that's what they're called, you see. But I've never seen a real one, and I'm not sure how it works. What we need is a creature who knows all about such weapons."
Oakheart Witherspyk mounted the battlements, dramatically gesturing toward the vermin foe. "Hearken, comrades, our present dilemma is how to counter a battering-ram attack. What to do, eh? If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, what about fire?"
Skipper assisted the portly hog down onto the walkway. "I knows wot yore thinkin' of, mate, hurlin' fire down on it, to set the ram ablaze. Well, it won't work, Oakie. Once that batterin' ram was on fire, they'd lean it up agin' our gateway. Then they'd just sit back an' watch the whole thing burn down. No, sir, we'll have to come up with somethin' better'n that!"
Foremole Darbee had a typically molelike solution. "Zurrs, 'ow abowt soil'n'urth. Hurr hurr, they'm villyuns wuddent git far a-tryen to shuv ee rammerer through a gurt 'eap o' soil'n'urth!"
Buckler's ears stood up in admiration of the mole's scheme. "Now, that's what I call a great plan! We'll tip loads of everything over the wall, right here over the main gate. Aye, an' we'll shore it up from the inside, too. Hah, it'd take an army of vermin a couple o' seasons to ram their way through that lot!"
Skipper slammed his rudder down on the walkway. "Ahoy, mates, we'll have t'get started real sharpish, afore the vermin git their ram up an' rurvnin'!"
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Redwall Abbey immediately became a hive of activity. Foremole and his trusty crew began digging up the lawn and some flower beds. Oakheart got an earth-moving chain in motion. Improvised stretchers were loaded up with soil, gravel, clay, stones and turf. The biggest and sturdiest creatures carried these to the walltop. Meanwhile, Flib and Trajidia Witherspyk rigged a rope and pulley up on the walkway. A line of the young, helped by some old ones, bore an assortment of vessels. Bowls, pails, ewers, cauldrons, anything that could be filled with soil and debris, was passed from paw to paw. Sniffy hooked them to the pulley, whilst Flib and Trajidia hauled away energetically. Jango got a work song going, something of a shanty. Everybeast soon caught onto the chorus, roaring it out lustily, even the Dibbuns. Anybeast who was not sure of the verse just kept chanting the "haul up" bits. It all worked rather well.
"Haul up! Haul up!
Haul up, d'ye hear me call, the strong of heart must play their part, for the sake of ole Redwall... haul up!
"Dig up that earth for all yore worth, fill all those pails again, an' just let me catch one of ye, complainin' of a pain!
"Haul up! Haul up!
Haul up, d'ye hear me call, the strong of heart must play their part, for the sake of ole Redwall... haul up!
"Come on now, mateys, bend those backs, there's loads o' work to do, if you don't toil an' tote that soil, you'll let down all this crew!
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"Haul up! Haul up!
Haul up, d'ye hear me call, the strong of heart must play their part, for the sake of ole Redwall... haul up!
"So haul 'em up an' lower 'em down, no time to moan or weep,
'til every mother's whelp o' ye, can roar out in yore sleep ... haul up!"
Oakheart laboured alongside Buckler, heaving rubble over the wall. Together they tipped the contents of an old wheelbarrow onto the growing heap in the gateway below.
The florid hedgehog spat on his paws, reaching for a heaped cauldron. "Y'know, the higher that hill gets, the more I worry!"
Buckler emptied a pail over the edge. "What's worryin' you, Oakie?"
His friend pointed at the growing heap. "If it gets much higher, the vermin will be able to climb up here on it. Have y'thought of that?"
The Salamandastron Blademaster smiled wolfishly. "Aye, the thought had crossed my mind. I hope Zwilt the Shade is the first to try it. I wager he'll be dying to meet me!"
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28
At the same time the vermin party were cutting boughs in the woodland, two beasts were watching them from a hiding place nearby. It was Vilaya and Gliv. The Sable Quean's wound was healing nicely. It had scabbed over and was not causing her any great discomfort. She was being disguised by the female stoat, whilst keeping an eye on the work party.
"Here, tear a strip off my cloak, a bloodstained piece. Now tie it around my brow, Gliv, good. How does that look?"
The stoat knotted the material beneath Vilaya's right ear. "Take off yore cloak. I'll smear some soil on yore face." Gliv did this, leaning in close to check the effect. "Aye, ye look the part now. Anybeast'd take ye for an ole Ravager who's taken a scratch or two. Come on, let's gather some leafy branches an' join 'em."
The Sable Quean drew her helper closer, murmuring to her, "No, you stay here. I'll go with them--it's better that I go alone."
Gliv glanced uneasily at her. "But what about me? What am I supposed to do?"
Vilaya was smiling now. The stoat had seen that smile before. She tried to pull away, but Vilaya held her tight.