7

Some leagues north of Redwall Abbey, the ragtag vermin gang blundered their way through the nighttime thickness of Mossflower woodlands. Skrodd swiped at the undergrowth with his former leader’s cutlass as he led the party.

The big rat, Dargle, kept muttering under his breath, continuously criticising Skrodd. “Fancy trackin’ two beasts when yore lost, huh!”

Tired and sleepy, the other vermin managed a weary murmur of agreement. Skrodd did not want to challenge Dargle directly—it was the wrong time and place for such a move. So he asserted his authority by bullying all and sundry. He turned on them, brandishing the cutlass.

“Shut yer gobs an’ keep movin’. Lost? Hah! Youse’d be the lost ones if’n I wasn’t leadin’ ye!”

Flinky enjoyed causing trouble. Disguising his voice, he called out behind the big fox’s back. “That’s no way t’be talkin’ to pore pawsore beasts!”

Little Redd agreed with him. “Aye, we should be sleepin’ now instead o’ wanderin’ round an’ round all night long!”

Although Flinky was the instigator, Redd was the unlucky one whose voice Skrodd identified. With a savage kick, Skrodd sent the small fox sprawling.

Laying the cutlass blade against his neck, he snarled, “Ye liddle runt, say the word an’ ye can sleep ’ere fer good. I’ve took enough of yore moanin’!”

Realising that he had gone too far, Flinky tried to remedy the situation by pulling Redd upright as he appealed to Skrodd. “Ah, come on now, sure he’s only a tired young whelp. No sense in slayin’ one of yore own mates. Let’s step out a bit, an’ I’ll sing a song to help us along, eh?”

Skrodd relented, pointing his blade at the stoat. “Right, you sing. The rest o’ ye march, an’ shuttup!”

Flinky’s ditty put a little fresh life into the gang’s paws.

 

“Ferrets are fine ould foragers,

though frequently furtive an’ fey,

stoats can sing sweetly fer seasons,

so me sister used to say,

but foxes are fine an’ ferocious,

when faced with a fight or a fray,

an’ rats remain rambunctious but only for a day!

But wot about weasels, those wily ould weasels,

they’re woefully wayward an’ wild,

the ones they’ve whipped an’ walloped,

will wail that weasels are vile,

they’ve bullied an’ beaten an’ battered,

they’ve tormented tortured an’ tripped,

I’m sure any day their pore victims would say,

steer clear o’ the weasel don’t get in his way,

for of all the vermin ye’d care to recall,

the weasel’s the wickedest wretch of all.

An’ virtuous vermin will all agree,

any weasel is worse than me!”

 

There were four weasels in the gang: Slipback; his mate, Juppa; and two taciturn brothers, Rogg and Floggo. All of them protested volubly at Flinky’s song.

“That ain’t right, foxes are worse’n weasels!”

“Ye sing dat again, an’ I’ll wallop ye alright!”

Skrodd’s bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I’ll show ye ’ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin’ else, Flinky, an’ don’t insult nobeast!”

Dargle called out, “Aye, an’ be nice to foxes, they’re easy hurt!”

Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an’ they can hurt rats easily, too!”

Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don’t scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don’t make mistakes when we fight!”

Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.

Keeping his voice low, the bigger fox took on a friendly tone with the young one. “You stay by me, mate. Us foxes’ve got to stick together.”

Little Redd had to glance around to make sure Skrodd was not talking to some other beast. He was more used to kicks and insults than to kind words.

The big fox winked at him. “I been keepin’ an eye on ye, mate. Yore a smart little feller, not like this other lot!”

Redd hated being called “little,” but he was quite pleased to know that Skrodd thought of him as smart. He returned the wink, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“I ain’t no fool, an’ I ain’t so little, either. I’m growin’ fast. One day they’ll call me Big Redd.”

Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t’do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t’be useful to me?”

Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin’, mate!”

Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat’s gettin’ too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o’ be my second in command.”

Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I’ll do that, just watch me. Soon they’ll be callin’ me Big Redd. I won’t let ye down, mate!”

Skrodd patted the small fox’s back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we’ll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don’t mean nothin’. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”

The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position. “Sounds great t’me, mate. Badredd—I like that! ’Tis a real killer’s name. Badredd!”

 

After a fruitless night rambling through woodland thickets, the gang watched a rose-tinged dawn break over the treetops. They were soaked through by heavy dew, which was dripping everywhere from boughs and leaves.

Dargle’s temper was on a short fuse. Emerging into a clearing on the bank of a stream, he struck out at Little Redd with his spear haft.

“Keep outta my way, runt! Every time ye come near me, I get soaked wid the water ye knock off the bushes.”

Redd looked appealingly at Skrodd. The big fox cast a glance of mock pity at Dargle and snarled scornfully. “Scared of a few drips o’ dew, are ye? Look at us, we’re all wet through, an’ we ain’t moanin’.”

Dargle faced up to Skrodd right away. “Hah! Wet through an’ weary, an’ wot for, eh? We never found the otter an’ the squirrel. No, we just tramped around all night followin’ you, an’ now we’re good an’ lost. Some leader you are, Skrodd!”

The big fox bristled. “Don’t talk silly, we ain’t lost!”

It was Dargle’s turn to sound scornful. “Oh, ain’t we now? See that rowan tree, I marked it wid me spearblade not long after we started marchin’. Look!”

Flinky inspected the fresh scar on the rowan bark. “Aye, ’tis a new spearmark sure enuff. Dargle’s right!”

Leaning on his spearbutt, the hefty rat grinned teasingly. “We’ve been goin’ round in circles, mates, an’ now our great leader’s got us lost. Well, Skrodd?”

The fox held his blade at the ready and challenged Dargle. “If’n yore so clever, then you find the way. ’Tis easy to stand there talkin’ smart all day, Dargle. Go on, show us how ye are, an’ find the right way!”

The rat squatted down on his haunches, chuckling. “Sort out yore own mess, I’m stoppin’ here an’ restin’.”

Halfchop ventured a suggestion. “Burrad would’ve sent Plumnose to find the way, ’cos he’s a good tracker.”

Relief flooded through Skrodd as he realised that Halfchop had provided the solution to a sticky problem. Taking advantage, he quickly re-established his position as leader of the gang.

“Right, Plumnose, get on yore way! Ferget the two beasts we were trackin’, they’ll keep for another day. Find us the way to this Redwall Abbey place an’ report back here.”

Always one to seize an opportunity, Flinky nodded his head admiringly. “Ah, that’s a grand ould move, Chief. I see ye noticed the fine campsite we’re at. We can lay up here fer a day or two an’ rest, once we’re sure of the way. Lookit, we got a stream wid fish an’ freshwater an’ lots o’ trees full of fat birds sittin’ on nests packed wid eggs. The place is filled wid roots an’ fruit an’ firewood!”

Skrodd looked sage. “That’s wot I was thinkin’, a day or two here’ll freshen us up for the rest o’ the journey. We’ll make camp an’ rest awhile, mates.”

Only Plumnose was not happy with the new plans. His huge nose wobbled from side to side as he complained. “Duh, id’s nod right. I’b tired, too, j’know!”

Rogg and Floggo, the weasel brothers, notched arrows to their bows and fired a pair of shafts near Plumnose’s paws.

“Yore the tracker, Plum, now git goin’!”

“Aye, ye could track a butterfly underwater wid a hooter like that. Hohoho!”

Throwing twigs and grass clumps at the unfortunate creature, the gang drove Plumnose from the camp. Glad they had not been selected to go tracking, they shouted after him.

“Don’t trip over yer nose, Plum!”

“Aye, an’ don’t sniff any big boulders up. Heeheehee!”

The tension was broken for the moment. Gathering wood and foraging for victuals, the gang busied themselves.

Flinky dug a firepit on the streambank, singing a cheery ditty.

 

“Ah ’tis luvverly bein’ a vermin,

’cos ye lead a simple life,

leave the snufflin’ babes behind,

run off from the naggin’ wife.

There’s nought to do but ramble,

an’ plunder on the way,

just look bold, rob all ye can hold,

an’ bid ’em all good day.

A vermin, a vermin, that’s wot I’ll always be,

I’m base an’ vile, ’cos that’s me style,

an’ I’ll bet ye envy me!”

 

By late morn they had a good fire burning. Flinky and his mate, Crinktail, were in their element. They boiled woodpigeon eggs, grilled fish, and made a passable vegetable stew from various roots and wild produce which grew plentifully roundabout. Neither Dargle nor Skrodd made any move to help. Sitting close to the fire, they helped themselves, glaring at each other across the flames.

Skrodd collared Little Redd and gave him whispered orders. “Scout round an’ find me somewheres safe to rest. Make sure ’tis soft an’ comfortable. Pick a place far away from that rat, an’ someplace close for yourself, so ye can guard me. Go on!”

Puffed up with his own importance, Redd went to seek a suitable resting spot. He chose the base of a spreading oak, not too close to the stream. It was a basin-shaped depression between two thick roots.

When the gang finished eating, they settled down for a much-needed sleep. Most of them stayed by the fire, but Dargle chose a fernbed on the opposite side of the camp from Skrodd. From there the rat could see his enemy and lay plans.

Little Redd proudly showed Skrodd the spot at the base of the oak trunk. “That’s it, mate, nice an’ snug, see!”

The small fox lay down, gesturing. “There’s plenty o’ room for both of us. I can guard ye good from here, mate.”

Skrodd shook his head disapprovingly. “Nah, ye go an’ lay by the fire with the others. That’ll put ye halfway twixt me’n Dargle. But don’t go sleepin’, keep yore eyes peeled on those ferns where he’s layin’ low. Soon as Dargle makes a move, come runnin’ an’ let me know.”

Little Redd rose reluctantly. “I kin watch him just as well if’n I stop ’ere with you, mate.”

Skrodd hauled him roughly upward, thrusting him toward the fire. “Ye’d do better to heed my orders. Now get goin’. I’m chief round ’ere, see!”

Stinging from the rebuke, Redd slouched over to the fire. Sullenly, he slunk down amid the snoring vermin.

 

With not a breeze to rustle the trees, warm noon sunlight shone down on the camp. Bees hummed gently, and butterflies fluttered silently around blossoming bushes. Near the ashy embers of the cooking fire, Little Redd drifted into a slumber. Only one of the gang was still awake—Dargle. Now was the time to put his plan into action. Draping his cloak over the ferns so it would look like he was still there, the rat inched his way backward out of the foliage. Flat on his stomach, he took a careful route, circling the campsite. When the rear of the spreading oak came in sight, Dargle rose into a half crouch. Gripping his spear firmly, he crept up on his sleeping enemy.

Skrodd woke momentarily, but only to die. A muffled grunt of agony escaped him as Dargle’s spear thrust into his body.

Dargle leaned down on the spearhilt, grinning triumphantly. “ Now who’s the chief, eh?”

It was the rat’s only mistake—it turned out to be his last. Skrodd had lain down to sleep with the cutlass held tight in his paw. Now, with one spasmodic jerk, he whipped the broad blade across his assassin’s neck, almost severing Dargle’s head. The ambitious rat fell slain on top of his victim’s dead body.

 

Little Redd was wakened by Flinky kicking him in the back. The small fox sat up rubbing his eyes and muttering at the still-sleeping stoat. “Keep yore paws to yoreself, ye great lump!”

Flinky rolled over and emitted a huge snore. To avoid a second kick, Redd rose stiffly and looked around. Dargle’s cloak was still draped over the ferns. He let out a sigh of relief and wandered over to check on Skrodd. Redd was dumbfounded by the sight that greeted him—Skrodd and Dargle, both dead!

Little Redd circled them slowly, poking both beasts with a stick and uttering their names softly. There was no doubt about it, they were still as stones. His first thought was to run and tell the others. He had already opened his mouth to shout when a thought struck him. Who would be the next to claim leadership of the gang? Little Redd sat down and did some serious thinking. It did not take him long to reach a decision. He would be the new chief. Getting the cutlass loose from Skrodd’s paw was a difficult task, but he managed it somehow. Dargle was almost decapitated by Skrodd’s death blow. Two good chops of the hefty blade finished the job.

 

Flinky was roused by a painful feeling he knew well, the slap of a flat cutlass blade. He sprang upright, rubbing his rump, expecting to see Skrodd standing over him. Instead, there stood the small fox, whacking away at the other gang vermin and yelling aloud.

“Up on yore hunkers, all of ye!”

The weasel Juppa grabbed a chunk of firewood and advanced on the small fox, snarling. “Ye snotty liddle runt, who do ye think y’are, smackin’ me wid the chief’s blade?”

Redd jarred the wood from Juppa’s paws with a blow from the cutlass. His voice was shrill but commanding. “I’m the new chief round here, that’s who I am. Come an’ see this, all of ye!”

The gang stood around the two carcasses in awed silence as the small fox explained. “I saw Dargle run Skrodd through with his spear. So I rushed in, grabbed the cutlass an’ slew the dirty murderin’ sneak with one swipe!”

Crinktail looked at him disbelievingly. “You, Little Redd, took off Dargle’s block in one go?”

Redd was getting the feel of the heavy sword now. He took a pace back, then leaped forward, swinging the cutlass in both paws, shouting fiercely. “Aye, one swipe! D’ye want me to show ye how? I’m the chief now, this sword’s mine, I killed to get it!”

He was gratified to see fear shining from Crinktail’s eyes as she backed away from him swiftly. “No, no,” she pleaded, “if you say ye did it, I’m not one to argue with ye!”

Ever the one to seize an opportunity, however, Flinky confronted Redd and held out his paws placatingly. “Ah now, don’t go upsettin’ yoreself, Little Redd. We all think ye’ll make a grand chief. Anyway, better’n the last two. Isn’t that right, mates?”

He turned to the gang, winking broadly at them but making sure the small fox could not see his gesture.

“C’mon now, raise yer paws an’ salute the great new chief!”

A newfound confidence flooded through Redd as he watched the remaining nine vermin acknowledging his leadership with raised paws. He suppressed a shudder of joy. For as long as he could recall he had been ignored, bullied or pushed about. Now, in the course of one day, he was in command of the gang.

Deciding to assert his authority, Little Redd glared haughtily at the ratbag vermin. “My name ain’t Little Redd no more. From now on ye’ll all call me Badredd. Is that clear?”

Flinky threw him an elaborate salute. “Badredd it is, yer honour, sure an’ a fine ould name it is! Well now, Badredd sir, wot’s yore pleasure—do we stop ’ere awhile in this grand camp? There’s water an’ vittles aplenty roundabout, an’ ’tis a pleasant spot.”

Badredd nodded imperiously. “Aye, we’ll stop ’ere awhile!”

As they prepared the evening meal, Flinky’s mate, Crinktail, whispered to him. “Badredd, huh! Wot’n the name o’ blood made ye support that liddle fool?”

Flinky winked at her as he turned a roasting woodpigeon on a willow spit over the fire. “Trust me, mate, better a liddle fool than a big bully. I can ’andle this ’un. Badredd’ll do like I suggest, ye’ll see. We’ve ’ad enough o’ weasels, big foxes an’ bullyrats in this gang. This Mossflower territory’s a good soft place to stay, plenty of everythin’. Better’n those ould Northlands. Leave the thinkin’ t’me, we’ll live the good life from now on. Badredd’ll do like I tell ’im.”

 

The newly elected Badredd sat on the streambank, picking a roasted woodpigeon leg and watching the westering sun die in a crimson haze. He listened to Flinky singing as he dished out supper to the gang, who lay about looking contented enough.

 

“Oh this is the place to be,

where the fruit falls from the tree,

where eggs an’ birds jump out of the nest,

right in me pan they come to rest.

Oh this is the place for me,

far from that Northland sea.

Here the good ould fish leap out of the stream,

an shout, ‘Please, sir, cook me,’

where the sun shines all the day,

an’ the cold wind stops away,

an’ the water’s clean ’n’ fresh ’n’ clear,

I’ll make ye a promise now, me dear,

I’ll take a bath so don’t ye fear,

in ten summers’ time if I’m still here,

’cos this is the place for me!”

 

Badredd, however, had totally different plans. Not for him all this lying about on sunny streambanks. Ambition had entered his being. To be the owner of the magic sword and ruler of that place Skrodd had spoken of—Redwall Abbey.