Three rough-looking stoats strolled out of the trees. Malbun eyed them suspiciously. Who are you?
Their leader, a lanky specimen with yellowed broken stumps of teeth, drew a curved sword from his tattered robe. Grinning nastily, he pointed the blade at them.
Never mind who we are, mousey. Who are you, an’ who’s yer noisy liddle pal? Wot are ye doin’ in our woods, eh?
Swallowing hastily, Crikulus tried not to look scared. You’ll pardon me saying so, but Mossflower Woods do not belong to anybeast. They are free to all creatures.
One of the stoats, a fatbellied beast with a marked stoop, leaned on his spear, cackling. Heeheehee, ye’ll pardon me sayin’, ain’t that nice.
Heehee, ‘ow about that, Wicky. Are yer gonna pardon ‘im, or slit ‘is throat? I’ll do the job if ye like. Heeheehee! He advanced on Crikulus with his spear held ready.
Malbun stood up and called out indignantly, Don’t you dare! We are creatures of Redwall Abbey!
The third stoat, an undersized vermin with a big single brass earring, whipped out a hatchet, leering nastily So wot’s that to us, eh? Yew shut yer mouth, or I’ll part yore ears. Where’s yore vittles an’
valuables, quick!
Crikulus bravely placed himself in front of his friend. We don’t carry valuables an’ we haven’t any food. Now leave us alone, I warn you. Some other Redwallers will be here any moment, three big otters an’ a band of Guosim shrews.
The one called Wicky shaded a paw across his eyes and leapt about, waving his sword. Otters, shrews, I don’t see any otters or shrews, d’you, mates? May’aps they’re ‘idin’ close by.
The spear carrier thought it was all very funny. Heeheehee, Redwallers comin’, otters’n’shrews. Who d’ye think yer foolin’, granpa? That’s the oldest trick in the book. Tell us where yore vittles’n’vallibles are an’ we’ll let ye go. But no fibbin’Ñfibs make us angry.
Wicky unwound a long, thin line of greased cord from under his cloak.
He made a running noose and lassoed both Crikulus and Malbun with an expert cast. In a trice they were both bound to the tree that they had their backs to.
Crikulus whispered urgently to Malbun, Where in the name of seasons have Skipper an’ Log a Log got to? What’s keeping them?
Wicky cuffed the old shrew’s ear. Shut yer gob, I’ll tell ye when to talk! Now, I’m goin’ to ask ye once more. Where’s the valuables an’
vittles?
The wound in Malbun’s cheek and the ache in her head was doing little to improve her temper. She snapped sharply, And I’m telling you once more, vermin, so dig the mud out your ears. There aren’t any. Is that plain enough?
The stoat swung his sword, chipping a chunk of bark from the tree a fraction above Malbun’s head. He snarled, Me next strike’ll be lower, about where yer ears are!
His companion with the hatchet waved him out of the way. Yore not’avin all the fun, Wicky, gimme a go. Right, old shrew, you tell us. Cummon, where’s the stuff’idden?
Crikulus kept his voice reasonable, eyeing the hatchet. We have nothing but the robes we are wearing, nothing.
Well, let’s see’ow yer’op round with only one foot-paw!
The stoat flung his hatchet. Crikulus pulled his footpaw aside just in time. The hatchet buried itself in the ground, a hair’s breadth from the old shrew’s paw.
A rough growl came from the spear carrier as he hefted his weapon. Aarrh, I’m sick o’ playin’ around. I’ll slay one of’em, the other’11 talk soon enough then!
Looking directly at Malbun, he leaned back for a throw.
Skipper came hurtling out of the bushes and grabbed the spearbutt, pulling the stoat flat on his back as Log a Log and the others dashed in, surrounding the three vermin. Log a Log snatched the sword from Wicky and cut the captives loose. Skipper snapped the spear as though it were a twig. Roughly he hauled the floored stoat upright and shoved him toward the other two. Huddling miserably together, the three vermin stood dull-eyed, expecting no mercy.
Log a Log turned to Malbun and Crikulus, inspecting them. Are you all right, friends? Did these three harm you?
Malbun held the herbal compress close against her cheek. We’re all right, thank you. They were just about to start on us when you arrived. Please don’t slay them, they’re only three thickheaded, ignorant vermin!
Log a Log looked enquiringly to Skipper, who shrugged. Mossflower’d be better off without such evil scum. But if’n that’s yore wish, marm, then so be it. Ahoy there, vermin, ye’ve got this good mouse t’thank for sparin’ yore worthless lives. Speak up now, thank’er!
Hope gleamed in the stoats’ eyes as they cried out together, Thank ye, marm, thank ye kindly!
Skipper picked up the stoat’s hatchet and hefted it. Tie their footpaws t’gether, Churk.
The burly young ottermaid took the severed rope and lashed the stoats’
footpaws together, as though they were competing in a three-legged race, the middle one’s foot-paws bound to the left and right of his companions.
Skipper spoke. I’m goin’ to count to ten. I wouldn’t be’ere after the count if I was you. Take warnin’, vermin, next time you’re seen in Mossflower country yore deadbeasts, all of ye! One, two ...
Hobbling and stumbling, they fled off into the woodlands. There was no need for Skipper to count further.
Log a Log gave a snort of derision, shaking his head at Malbun. Yore too soft-’earted, marm. They’ll live to slay other pore honest beasts.
Oh well, come on, you two, let’s get ye back to the Abbey. I suppose yore hungry, eh?
Crikulus rubbed his stomach. Hungry’s not the word, friendÑtry famished.
What happened to the owl? I didn’t see him arrive with you.
That’s because you didn’t take the trouble to look up here!
Ovus was perched in a tree directly opposite. He swooped down to the ground and clacked his awesome beak at them. I’m not exactly famished, but I could manage lunch. Or if we’re too late, a spot of afternoon tea would be nice.
The party moved off, with Crikulus striking up a friendship with the talkative tawny owl. Toasted teacakes with a smear of honey on’em, now that’s my choice, with a good beaker of dandelion burdock cordial. Be my guest, sir, we’ll take it in my gatehouse. Would you like to join us, Malbun? Maybe we’ll have some of that soft white cheese with the celery bits in and a mushroom pasty or two, with lots of onion gravy, of course.
Squinching her eyes, the Healer Recorder shook her head gingerly. No, thanks. A bit of quiet and a lie down’ll do me.
17
Late-afternoon sunlight poured in through the Infirmary window at Redwall Abbey. Malbun lay on her bed, fiddling with the edge of the tasselled counterpane. Sleep was eluding her. There was a gentle tap on the door, and Abbot Apodemus entered, carrying a tray. Skipper and Log a Log came in with him. The Abbot checked to see if Malbun was awake.
Ah, having trouble taking a nap, eh, Mai? I thought you’d like a teacake and a nice beaker of mint and comfrey tea.
Malbun sat up. Indeed I would. Thank you, my friend.
As Malbun ate and drank, the Abbot began talking to her of the previous night’s events.
I take it, then, that you and Crikulus left the Abbey late last night during the feast. Still searching for Brockhall, probably. Well, Malbun, what did you find?
The Healer Recorder shrugged dismissively. Oh, noth-ing.
Log a Log and Skipper exchanged suspicious glances. The Guosim Chieftain kept his voice deceptively casual. Ye don’t mind me askin’, marm, but’ow come we found you an’ Crikulus miles from anywhere?