Prince Bladd was secretly glad that he did not have to go sailing on a long voyage after all. He shrugged happily. Veil, dat’s dat, ain’t got no ship now, yarr!
There had been no vessels moored in the fjord since Agarnu’s ill-fated trip with his father. The stolen vessel had been specially built for Kurda and Bladd.
Now Kurda eyed her father contemptuously. Yarr, only der fool who rules a kingdom by der sea would have no ships!
Agarnu knew she was right. He flinched at the scorn in Kurda’s voice.
Wheeling about on his fishbone leg, he stumped back to the stronghold, blustering, Tchah! No need for der ships. Vy us needs ships? Got everyt’ink else, kingdom, stronghold, yarr! Light der beacon, Freebooters see it. Dey got ships, let dem do der job for us. Jarr!
Kurda gripped her sabre tighter. This was the best idea her father had ever come up with.
She grinned wickedly at Riftun. Jarr, Freebooters! Get dose Ratguards to fix up de beacon, now!
Eventide shades slid from crimson to slatey purple over the sea. On the high rocky point at the estuary a massive pile of pine logs, branches, foliage and dead moss had been erected by the weary Ratguards. Barrels of fish and vegetable oil stood close by. Kurda watched Captain Riftun set light to the beacon fire: it would burn red and gold by night and the oil would make it send up a column of dark smoke by day. Freebooters, vermin pirates and corsairs sailing anywhere in the region would see the signal and come to investigate.
Kurda pointed her sabre blade directly at Riftun. Keep dis burnin’, night an’ day, and you stay’ere! Let me know ven de Freebooters be sighted, yarr?
Firelight reflected off the Captain’s spearblade as he saluted. Yarr, Princess,’twill be as ye command!
Kurda stared out over the restless deeps of wave and water. She spoke her thoughts aloud. No slave escapes Riftgard. I’ll find dem. Ven I do, dey be sorry dey was ever borned. Diss I vow!
9
Dawn had always been the time that Skipper of otters loved best. Rising silently at the first song of larks on the western flatlands beyond the Abbey, he would pad gently out of the dormitory for his morning exercise. This usually took the form of a good brisk swim in the Abbey pond, after which he ran several times around the outer wall-tops. Then he practised with javelin, club and sling. The big sturdy otter was not a beast to let fat grow about his middle. With his appetite sharpened, Skipper slipped quietly into the kitchens. Friar Gooch the squirrelcook and his assistant, the molemaid Furrel, were preparing breakfast.
Knowing Skipper was not a great talker first thing in the morning, they left a tray out for him. With a nod of thanks, he took his food: warm oat scones, a small bowl of shrimp and hotroot soup (a special favourite with otters), and a large beaker of mint and pennycress cordial.
Wordlessly, he left and went to seek someplace quiet, where he could eat and meditate before joining the bustle of Red-wall’s daily life.
Skipper dearly loved the Abbey, having lived on and off there through his young seasons, often leaving to live for a time with boisterous river otters and wild sea otters. But he always returned to Redwall, where he could trace his forebears right back to the famous otter Warrior, the one they had called Taggerung. Abbot Apodemus had tried to press onto Skipper the honour of being Redwall’s Warrior, though he refused on the grounds that he had never felt himself to be the Chosen One.
Skipper did, however, take on the role of Master at Arms to the Abbey, training others in weaponry and warskills, though there had never been the need for anything like that in living memory. Redwall’s seasons of peace and plenty stretched back many, many seasons. But the big otter had chosen to stay in case he was ever needed.
Great Hall was an island of serenity when it was not being used for feasting. Rising sunlight cast soft strips of multicoloured light from the stained-glass windows onto the smoothworn stone floor. Skipper took his tray and settled down with his back against the base of a sandstone column. From there he could view the ancient tapestry depicting Martin the Warrior, the Abbey’s first Champion. Foxes, rats, stoats, weasels and all manner of vermin could be seen fleeing from the armoured mouse who formed the centre of the picture. Martin had a face anybeast could trust: strong, smiling, kindly, yet with raw danger shining in his resolute eyes, which warned any evildoer to beware. He leaned upon a sword. Over the tapestry, on two silver spikes, the real one rested.
Such a blade! It had a red pommel stone and a black bound handle with a cross-hilt. Like any warrior’s weapon, it was proficient, plain and simple. But the blade, double-edged shining steel, had a point like an ice needle. Legend said that it had been forged by a Badger Lord in the fires of Salamandastron, from the metal of a fallen star. With such a sword in his grasp, a warrior could face any odds.
Eating in leisurely fashion, Skipper continued staring at Martin and the blade which rested above the skilfully woven tapestry. For some unknown reason, his eyelids began feeling heavy; and he had put aside the breakfast tray, when a sudden flash of sunlight shimmered on theswordblade. Skipper blinked at the spots of gold and silver dancing across his vision. Martin seemed to be staring at him from the tapestry.
A voice, warm and distant, echoed around the room; the otter was not sure whether it was actually a real sound, or something inside his mind.
Look to the summer, Watch for the maid, A young running slave Who will hold my blade.
Time stood still for Skipper. The sunspots diminished and mist swirled slowly before his eyes.
Hello there, big fellow. Not like you to be taking a nap this early in the day.
Skipper shook his head, coming back to reality at the sight of Abbot Apodemus standing over him.
Er, wot? Er, er, g’mornin’, Father Abbot....
Apodemus looked around at Great Hall. Wonderfully calm in here, isn’t it? I’d join you, only ‘tis too much effort sitting down there and having to heave oneself up again. Pity I’m not as fit as you, Skip.
The otter rubbed his eyes and stood up, respectfully allowing the Abbot to lean on his paw. He supported the old mouse as they walked toward the door, listening to what the good creature had to say.
Cavern Hole’s like a battleground at breakfast rime, far too noisy, between Dibbuns squeaking and scrambling about, and every otherbeast shouting about going on a treasure hunt. Oh dear, it was all too much for me. Let’s take a stroll down to the gatehouse. Malbun and Crikulus are taking their breakfast quietly there, sensible creatures.
Skipper walked along in silence with the Abbot, trying hard to remember what it was he had wanted to tell him. But the otter’s mind was a blank for the present.
Shining dust motes, like tiny slow-motion fireflies, swirled gracefully around the piled-up mass of parchments, scrolls and old volumes on the desk inside the gatehouse. Malbun Grimp and Crikulus the Gatekeeper both had quill pens behind their ears. The quaint pair munched on warm damson scones and sipped elder-bark tea as they sorted through the jumble.
Crikulus moved a pile of scrolls from an armchair and allowed Skipper to plump the Abbot down in it, causing more dust to rise.
The ancient shrew peered over his rock crystal spectacles at them both.
A good mornin’ to ye both. What brings ye here to this dusty dungeon on such a fine day, eh?
Apodemus placed both paws in his wide habit sleeves. This so-called treasure hunt. 1 want your opinion and advice as to such a fanciful venture.