23

A squabbling flock of starlings, disputing rights to an ants’ nest, woke Jibsnout in the hour following daybreak. With a cavernous yawn, the big Searat heaved himself upright. He cast a jaundiced eye over the three sons of Wirga who were curled up together, sleeping beneath a wych hazel.

Jibsnout cuffed the trio roughly, stirring them into wakefulness. “Up on yer hunkers, whelps, we’re on the move again!”

The three smaller rats rose reluctantly, one of them glaring balefully at the Tracker and hissing. “We only lay down an hour afore dawn.”

Jibsnout smirked. “Aye, ’tis a shame, ain’t it? Move yerself, snotty snout, an’ don’t argue wid me. If’n I say ye march, then ye march, so button yer lip!”

Quivering with anger, the smaller rat picked up his little spear—each of his brothers carried one, too. Jibsnout had seen them use the deadly weapons, but not as spears. Although they were actually hollow rods, the spearpoints could be removed, transforming them into blowpipes through which poisoned darts could be shot with lethal accuracy. The big Searat stroked his long dagger fondly and moved closer to the sons of Wirga. He fixed the angry one with a cold stare.

“Go on, mamma’s liddle rat, use it, I dare ye. Think yore brave enough t’slay me, eh?”

Lashing out swiftly, Jibsnout knocked the spear from the smaller rat’s paws. Whipping out his blade, he menaced the other two. “Just try raisin’ one o’ those things against me, an’ poison or not, I’ll rip yer throats out! Well, come on, ye gutless wonders, who’s ready fer a fight t’the death?”

The sons of Wirga stood silent, their eyes cast down. Jibsnout curled his lip scornfully, turning his back on them. “Hah, I thought so! There’s more backbone in an egg than in youse three put t’gether. Scringin’ cowards!”

Each of the three blowpipes was already charged with a poison dart. Silently slipping the head from his spear, the rat whom Jibsnout had insulted placed the hollow rod to his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he prepared to propel the dart.

Zzzzzzip!

A long arrow struck the little rat, driving him back a full four paces. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Diving to either side, the remaining two sons of Wirga sought cover. Lonna emerged from out of the trees, fitting another shaft to his bowstring. The badger’s eyes were red with the light of vengeance, the snarl on his scarred, stitched face transforming him into a terrifying apparition. Frightened though he was, Jibsnout, a seasoned fighter, acted swiftly. Wielding his dagger, he dashed forward, hoping to get so close to his adversary that the bow and arrow would be rendered useless.

Lonna was in a dilemma: he could see one of the Searats glancing around a treetrunk, ready to fire a blowpipe, and Jibsnout thundering toward him. With lightning speed the badger acted. Falling into a crouch, he fired his arrow, but only narrowly missed being shot himself as a poison dart whipped by overhead. Jibsnout roared in pain as the arrow transfixed his paw to the ground. As Lonna rose, taking another shaft from his quiver, the Searat who had fired the dart fled off into the woodlands.

The remaining son of Wirga came from behind a fir tree, certain that he could not fail to hit a target as big as the badger. As he placed the blowpipe to his mouth, Figalok the squirrel appeared directly in front of him, hanging by her tail from an overhead branch. She grabbed the opposite end of the vermin’s blowpipe and blew hard. Clutching his throat, the horrified rat fell writhing to the ground, choked on his own poison dart.

Figalok dropped out of the tree, nodding to Lonna. “Chahaah, gotta be plenny quick wirra Searatta!”

The big badger put up his bow, striving to master the Bloodwrath that was coursing through him. “You saved my life, friend, but I’ll have to thank you some other time. One of the Searats got away. I must hunt him down now while his trail is still fresh.”

The squirrel gestured at the wounded Jibsnout. “Warra ’bout dissa one, ya goin’ to slay ’im?”

Jibsnout crouched over, his face creased in agony. The arrow that had pierced his footpaw was buried half its length into the ground. He glanced up at Lonna, expecting no mercy from him.

“If’n yore gonna finish me off, make it quick, stripedog!”

The badger strode over and grasped the arrow. With a sharp tug he pulled the arrow out, growling at Jibsnout. “I’m no Searat, I don’t kill defenceless beasts!” Ripping the sleeve from the rat’s frayed tunic, Lonna grabbed a pawful of damp moss and dockleaves.

The puzzled rat watched his enemy binding the wound up tight. “Ye mean yore lettin’ me live?”

The badger hauled him upright, slamming him against a tree. “My name is Lonna Bowstripe. Take this message to Raga Bol. Tell him that he and all his crew of murderers are walking deadbeasts. I will find them and slay them, one by one. Even you. Now begone from my sight and deliver my message to your captain. Tell him I am coming, nothing will stop me!”

Lonna and Figalok watched Jibsnout limping painfully off until he was obscured by the trees, then together, the two friends took a brief meal. The squirrel wielded a blowpipe spear and poison darts taken from the slain Searats.

“Chahaah! Me betcha dis keep Ravin away from squirrel. Lonna Bigbeast, ya goin’ after dat Searatta who runned away? Me go witcha, we find ’im afore tomorra.”

But the badger would not hear of it. “No, my friend, you have your own home and kinbeasts to protect. This is something I must do by myself. I am sworn by my own oath to rid the earth of Raga Bol and all his vermin. But I thank you for saving my life, Figalok!”

The elderly squirrel took his paw. “Chahaaw, so be’t, Lonna, ya are d’true warrior. Ya saved us fromma Ravin, glad Figalok could save ya, too. Me no ferget ya alla me life, always think of ya!”

Averting his eyes, Lonna inspected the long dagger he had taken from Jibsnout, pleased that it was a good blade. When he looked up again, Figalok had gone, vanished into the treetops.

The Searat’s trail had gone off to the southeast. Lonna picked it up and followed the tracks. As he walked, the badger fashioned a holder for his dagger, fitting it to his upper left arm close to the shoulder. By late afternoon, the dense woodlands thinned out into pine groves and sandhills. In the distance, Lonna could make out a dark shape to his left on the horizon. The trail of Wirga’s remaining son was running parallel to the mysterious mass. Just before sunset, the badger crested a rise which afforded a clear view of the country he was travelling through. On the one side, the hills bordered a vast, dusty plain, almost like a desert wasteland. On the other side, the odd dark mass reared up into a towering line of forbidding cliffs. After awhile it grew too dark for tracking. Reaching the cliff face, Lonna sighted what he knew was a cave. He climbed up and made camp there for the night.

There was no need for a fire. The night was still and warm, with heat waves drifting in from the plain. Knowing he could pick up the Searat’s tracks at dawn, Lonna sat in the cave entrance, eating an apple and some dried fruit. He gazed up at the night sky, where a sliver of moon, resembling a slice of russet apple, was surrounded by myriads of stars twinkling in the firmament. The words of an old song rose unbidden to his mind.

“When weary day does shed its light,

I rest my head and dream,

I ride the great dark bird of night,

so tranquil and serene.

Then I can touch the moon afar,

which smiles up in the sky,

and steal a twinkle from each star,

as we go winging by.

We’ll fly the night to dawning light,

and wait ’til dark has ceased,

to marvel at the wondrous sight,

of sunrise in the east.

So slumber on, my little one,

float soft as thistledown,

and wake to see when night is done,

fair morning’s golden gown.”

Since Lonna had no recollection of his parents, he surmised that the lullaby had been taught to him by Grawn, the old badger who had reared him.

Lonna stayed that night in the cave on the cliffside. As day dawned he spotted a tiny puff of dust, on a hilltop off to his right. The big badger knew instantly that it was his quarry. The Searat must have spent the night amid the hills, not far from the cave. Pausing only to grab his bow and quiver, Lonna set off in pursuit.

He had travelled no further than the base of the first foothill when he was faced by a small patrol of ten Darrat rats. Their leader eyed him insolently up and down.

“Dis be Darrat land. You give me bow’n’arrers, stripedog. We take ye to Hemper Figlugg!” He grinned at the other rats, murmuring to them, “Much Burcha Glugg, eh?”

Had it been ten rats or twenty, Lonna did not like either their manner or their disposition, so he charged them without warning. They went down like ninepins under the giant badger’s onslaught. Seizing the leader of the patrol, Lonna hurled him bodily into the other rats. Then the big badger was among them like a whirlwind—punching, kicking, butting, thrashing them with their own spears. So surprised were the Darrat that they fled in panic, kicking up sand widespread as they scuttled off amid the hills.

Lonna picked up his bow and quiver. Then, throwing back his great striped head, he gave vent to the fearsome warcry of hares and badgers. “Eulaliiiiiaaaaaa!”

However, with much more urgent business to attend to, he let the Darrat be, and didn’t give chase. Instead, Lonna set off swiftly on the trail of the Searat.

When the Darrat saw they were not being pursued, they halted on the plain beside the foothills. The patrol leader limped up, carrying half a broken spear. He watched the big badger crossing a hilltop, some distance off.

Turning to his subordinates, who were sitting licking their wounds, he snarled, “We was sent to catcher rabbert, mouse an’ squirri’, not stripedog! Huh, let High Kappin catcher that ’un—’e be over dat way wid many Darrat!”

The Searat saw Lonna coming after him. Deserting the hills, he dashed out onto the dusty plain. It was a mistake, the last mistake he was ever to make. The badger’s arrow found him. Once Lonna had the range, nobeast could outrun a shaft from his big bow. Though Wirga did not know, she had lost all three of her sons.

Lonna sat down in a hollow amid the hills and made breakfast from the food in his pack.

Out on the flatlands the five travellers pushed forward, keeping the distant cliffs in view. They marched shoulder to shoulder because, as Saro had pointed out, that way they would not be eating one another’s dust. Since their rescue, Springald and Fenna were paying more attention to Bragoon and Saro. Seasoned campaigners both, the squirrel and the otter were ever ready to share their knowledge with the younger, less experienced trio.

Horty was feeling rather chipper now that any immediate danger was past. He struck up a jolly marching song, to which he himself had written the lyrics. As was usual with hare songs, it dealt mainly with food.

“Oh wallop me left an’ stagger me right,

an’ buffet me north an’ south,

if I could teach a stew to walk,

it’d march right into me mouth!

To pasties an’ pies of convenient size,

I’d beat a tattoo on me drum,

so jolly forceful, each tasty morsel,

tramp over me gums to me tum!

As each of ’em trips in through me lips,

all skippin’ along to the beat,

why all of a sudden I’d grab a fat pudden,

an’ leave it no way to retreat!

Form up in line, you vittles so fine,

watch y’dressin’ that salad back there,

a quick salute to trifle’n’fruit,

then charge down the throat of the hare!

Quick march! One two! Scoff ’em all! You an’ you!

Left right! Left right! Here comes supper for tonight!”

A grey, black-flecked Darrat scout came loping into the camp in the foothills of the high cliffs. He threw himself flat in front of High Kappin Birug, the Darrat leader. Pointing back to the scrubland, the rat scout shouted, “Burcha Glugg!”

Birug dashed past him to the top of a hill. He crouched, peering at the small dust cloud with the travellers marching in front of it, not half a mile away. Smirking with satisfaction, Birug turned to the others who had followed him.

“Hemper Figlugg, trus’ me, ho yar, I know dey only go one way. Run for bigrocks. We wait, they be come to us. Burcha Glugg!”

Darrat vermin shook their heads in admiration of Kappin Birug’s cunning. One of them piped up. “Hemper be ’appy to see Burcha Glugg come back.” The more excited of the Darrat leaped up and down, waving spears.

Birug growled a warning at them. “Keepa ’eads down, idjits!”

Horty glanced up at the sky. “Cloudin’ over up there, chaps. We might have a spot of jolly old rain before nightfall, wot?”

Bragoon sniffed the light breeze. “Bit more’n a spot, matey. Looks like we’re in for a downpour afore dark. Keep movin’, step the pace up. Mebbe we’ll find shelter in the lee of those big cliffs.”

Fenna let out a gasp and sat down. “Ouch, my footpaw!”

They gathered around her, crouching down to take a look. The squirrelmaid spoke through lips that hardly moved. “Stay down, all of you, don’t look toward those foothills!”

Bragoon kept his eyes on Fenna. “Why, what’s goin’ on?”

She quickly responded. “Rats ahead, they look like those flesh-eating ones!”

Springald automatically began to look up, but Sarobando pressed her head back down. “Listen to Fenna an’ keep yore eyes down, miss. How many d’ye reckon there are?”

Bragoon interrupted. “Plenty, I’ll wager. Too many for us to fight off. I told ye, those vermin don’t give up easily. They’ve been waitin’ in the foothills for us to show up. Well, mates, wot’s t’be done, eh?”

Fenna shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to run for it.”

Bragoon shook his head. “Bad idea! They’d outcircle us.”

Horty began shrugging off his backpack. “Does any chap mind me makin’ a suggestion, wot?”

Saro saw that the young hare looked serious. “As long as ’tis sensible. Go on then, wot’s yore idea?”

Horty shed his backpack. “Give me some old, dead brush, an’ I’ll decoy the rotters. A hare can jolly well outrun ’em if anybeast can. I’ll take the villains off one way, while you lot go runnin’ off the bally opposite way. See that black hole up there, about halfway along the cliffs? I’ll meet y’back there after dark. Well, what d’you think?”

Springald objected. “It’s far too dangerous. You’ll be caught.”

Saro stared at Horty. “I say give it a try, it might work. Otherwise, we’ll just stick together and get nabbed.”

Bragoon winked at the hare. “Right, go to it, young ’un. Good luck!”

Two Darrat spies peeped over the hilltop, to where the dust cloud had stopped. One whispered. “Warra dey do now, jus’ lay dere?”

The other one leaped up as the dust plume started again, moving swiftly north. “Musta see’d us, dey runnin’ now, fast!”

He waved his spear, calling to Birug, who had the rats standing ready, “Kappin, dey go lef’ plenty fasta!”

Horty pelted along with a bunch of dead bracken tied to his tail, raising a dust cloud that stood out light brown against the lowering clouds. Glancing sideways, he saw the Darrat rats pouring over the hill, veering in his direction. He muttered between clenched teeth.

“Ahah! That’s the way, you vile vermin. Come on, you shower, follow Hortwill Braebuck, skimmer of the scrublands!”

Fenna raised her head. In the distance she could see the dust cloud off to her left. “Good old Horty, he’s whipping along like a whirlwind!”

Still crouching low, they watched their friend’s progress, comparing it to the crowd of Darrat vermin chasing him. Horty was indeed a Redwaller, brave and courageous. Springald felt elation and pride surging through her. She clenched her paws.

“Go on, mate, there’s none faster than you! Flesh eaters, hah! All those scum will eat is the dust in his wake! Run them, Horty, show those rats what a hare from our Abbey can do!”

As soon as Bragoon saw the two dust plumes, he realised that the Darrat had come out of the hills and hit the scrubland. Their intended quarry was far and away out in front. The otter’s eyes shone with admiration.

“I said that young ’un has the makins of a real warrior. He’ll lead ’em a merry dance alright. Oh, drat, here comes the rain!”