26

The storms which had been battering the high cliffsides slackened off to a steady downpour. Fenna popped her head outside the cave, shielding her eyes. “It’s hard to see anything properly on a rainy night. No sign of Horty yet, I do hope he’s alr . . .”

A monolithic shape loomed out of the darkness, silent as a moonshadow. The squirrelmaid staggered backward as a badger of massive proportions padded in. Over his shoulder lay Horty, draped like a limp rag. The badger carried on past them, to the back of the cave, his deep growl echoing.

“I found your friend, never fear, he’ll come to his senses before too long. Be still now until I get a fire going.”

Bragoon’s paw stayed Springald from rising. “Be still, Spring, do as our friend says.”

They heard steel strike flint, as the badger’s soft breath coaxed flame from the sparks that fell onto the tinder. Soon a pale light flickered. It became a proper fire when the badger added dried grass and twigs to it. He banked it up with broken pine branches, waited a moment, then turned to face the travellers. Bragoon had encountered a badger or two before, but none like this one. Warrior was written all over this giant beast—from the great bow he carried, to the long quiver full of arrows, to the lethal dagger strapped below his shoulder. He wore a simple smock of rust-hued homespun, belted with a woven sash.

But it was his face that denoted his calling. A deep, jagged scar ran lengthwise across the broad-striped muzzle, with stitchmarks pocking either side. The dark eyes remained impassive, reflecting the firelight. The otter judged him to be one of those fated creatures cursed with that malady called Bloodwrath—the red tinge mixed with the creamy eye whites betrayed it. Bragoon had heard tales of such badgers that described them as terrible to behold and unstoppable in battle. The otter held out his paw, flat, with the palm upward, a sign of peace. The badger did likewise. Then he placed his paw on top, making Bragoon’s look like the tiny paw of a Dibbun. He introduced himself.

“I am Lonna Bowstripe. This is not my cave, but you are welcome to stay here until the hare recovers. I saw you escape those rats today and knew you would shelter up here. I watched from the hills what a brave thing your friend did. I killed those three rats who tried to capture him—vermin are bullies and murderers, they are no great loss to anybeast. Who are you, why are you in this country?”

The otter bowed respectfully. “I am Bragoon. This is Saro, Fenna and Springald. The hare is named Horty. We are travellers.” He gestured upward toward the plateau on top of the cliffs. “We are seeking a place called Loamhedge. It lies somewhere up there.”

Lonna began stringing his bow. “A dangerous quest, friend. There are many Darrat rats out there still. Their captain was one of the three I slew. You need to reach the clifftops without interference from them. Your journey will be hard enough without rats following you. Perhaps they are camped in the area. I will warn them off. Pass me an arrow, Fenna.”

The squirrelmaid took a shaft, nearly as long as she was, from the badger’s quiver. They watched Lonna blunt the point by jamming an old pinecone over it. He held it to the fire until it was blazing and crackling. Testing the air outside the cave, the badger seemed satisfied.

“It’s not raining too heavily now, the shaft should burn for a bit before it goes out.” With a single graceful move, Lonna set the blazing arrow on his string, drawing the shaft back until the burning end almost touched the bow. Whooooosh! It shot off like a rocket, into the night sky above the dunes.

Throwing back his head, the big beast roared out in a thunderous voice that echoed around the cave and along the cliffsides. “I am Lonna Bowstripe! I eat rats! I will taste the blood of any who are here by dawn! Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaa!”

He returned to the fire as they took their paws from ringing ears and began tending to Horty. Lonna smiled and shook his head as Horty began to stir. “He looks hard to kill—I’ve heard it said that hares are perilous beasts. This one will be a warrior one day.”

The giant badger looked so large and ferocious in the firelight that Springald could readily understand how the rats would fear him. She enquired politely, “Sir, you didn’t really eat three rats, did you?”

The smile still lingered on Lonna’s lips. “Nay, little maid, don’t believe all you hear. The language of death and violence is all that vermin understand. I’d sooner devour a crushed toad that was four seasons dead than eat rat. I eat only the same food as you do.”

“Eat? I say, did some chap mention eats? I’m famished!”

Bragoon assisted the incorrigible hare to sit upright. “Oh, this ’un’s awake, sure enough. Well, how d’ye feel, young famine belly? Oh, ye’d better thank the beast who saved ye. This is Lonna Bowstripe.”

Horty did an exaggerated double take at the huge badger. He winked cheekily. “Good grief, sah, bet you can pack the jolly old provisions away, wot wot?”

They pooled the resources of their packs and were soon toasting yellow cheese and oat scones over the fire. Saro poured dandelion and burdock cordial for the company. Springald split some loaves of nutbread and spread them with honey.

Lonna glanced sideways at Horty, taken aback by the young hare’s appetite. “Great seasons, talk about packing provisions away! Where do you put it all? You’re a bottomless pit!”

They all burst into laughter at the sight of Horty’s indignant face.

Over the next few hours, they exchanged their stories. The five friends told Lonna all about Redwall and its creatures. They also explained Martha’s situation and the reason for their quest. When the giant badger related his own personal history, they were greatly saddened and angry, too. There was a hushed silence when he came to the end of his narrative. Lonna ran his paw down the fearsome scar, tracing it across his still face.

“They will pay with their lives, Raga Bol and all his vermin crew. As sure as the days break and the seasons turn!”

The five travellers did not doubt a word that he uttered.

Lonna rose and replenished the fire. “You must sleep now. Tomorrow will be a hard day’s climbing. I think the plateau above the cliffs is no place for the fainthearted. Take a good rest tonight, I’ll guard the cave entrance.”

Bragoon uncovered his sword. “I’ll keep ye company, Lonna. Two guards are better’n one, an’ four eyes can see more than two.”

They sat together at the cave entrance. Lonna could not take his gaze from the otter’s sword, drawn to it like a magnet to metal. “That is indeed a wondrous weapon you carry, Bragoon.”

The otter let the firelight play along the blade. “Aye, ’tis so, though it don’t belong t’me. Abbot Carrul of Redwall loaned it t’me the day we left. I think he did it not just for our protection, but as a sort o’ good-luck charm for the journey. This sword belongs at the Abbey. ’Twas owned in the far olden seasons by a mouse. His name was Martin the Warrior, one o’ the founders of Redwall. I was told stories of Martin an’ his sword when I was nought but a Dibbun. They say it was forged an’ made by a great badger lord, a warrior himself, an’ a very skilled swordsmith, as ye can see. He made it from a lump of ore that fell from the sky, a piece of a star, I was told. This badger, he was Lord of Salamandastron, a mountain fortress. Did ye ever hear of that place, Lonna?”

The dark eyes of the giant flashed. “Every badger knows the name of Salamandastron. I will go there myself someday. I feel my days will end there—but only when my score with Raga Bol is settled.”

Bragoon sat up with a start, realising that he had dropped off to sleep during the night, something he would never have done in his younger seasons. Dawnlight was filtering into the cave, and Lonna Bowstripe was gone. As Saro was rekindling the fire from its embers, the three young ones were just waking.

She gave Bragoon a beaker of hot mint tea. “Mornin’, matey. Well, our bigbeast left while it was still dark. I saw ’im go, y’know.”

Fenna poured tea for herself. “Lonna’s gone?”

Saro nodded. “Aye, you lot were all asleep. Horty’s snorin’ woke me, sounded like a tribe o’ stuffed-up frogs.”

The young hare huffed indignantly at her, but Saro carried on. “I was lyin’ there wide awake, watchin’ Lonna in the fireglow. He’d picked up the sword o’ Martin to admire it. Well, next thing that badger went stiff as a frozen pike, sittin’ there starin’ at the blade as if it was speakin’ to ’im. I watched for a while, then Horty started snorin’ agin. So I gave ’im a good kick an’ settled back to catch a nap.”

Horty interrupted. “Blinkin’ cadess, kickin’ a chap in mid slumber? Rank bad manners, I’d say. Hmph!”

The elderly squirrel shrugged. “When I woke up agin, he’d gone.”

Bragoon slapped his rudder against the rock floor. “I’ll wager ’twas Martin the Warrior, speakin’ to Lonna through the sword. He told the badger where t’find Raga Bol, an’ Lonna took off after the villain!”

Bragoon wrapped the sword up reverently as Horty chuckled. “I bet old Raggaballoon wotsisname wouldn’t be too pleased with Martin, if he knew. Snitchin’ about him to that bally great hulk. I’d hate to be in his way when he feels peevish. Frazzlin’ frogs, imagine what old Lonna’ll do to that vermin when he catches up with him, wot wot!”

Bragoon began packing his belongings. “I wouldn’t like to imagine, mate. That’s Lonna’s business, an’ I’m sure he can take care of it well. But we’ve got our own problems to tend. Up an’ on to Loamhedge, mateys!”

Morning boded bright as they left the cave and began climbing the cliff to its top. It was hard going until the two squirrels, Saro and Fenna, went ahead. Soon they were on top of the cliff. Lowering down a rope, they heaved up all the packs, then secured the rope around a rock, allowing the other three to haul themselves up.

It was a breathtaking panorama from the plateau. Horty’s keen eyes spotted a small dark smudge, moving across the scrublands in the distance. He pointed. “I say, you chaps, that could be thingummy, er, Lonna!”

Springald shaded her eyes. “So it could! He’s headed northwest, that’s the direction we came from. Saro, d’you suppose he’s going to Redwall?”

Sarobando felt they were wasting time sightseeing. “I couldn’t really say, missy, but one thing’s shore, we ain’t goin’ to Redwall. ’Tis Loamhedge we want. So stop lookin’ backwards an’ let’s go for’ard. Quick march!”

Shimmering flatlands, devoid of vegetation or shade, rolled out before them. Small swirls of dust eddied in spirals on the hot breeze. Sarobando squinted her eyes against the distance.

“Miss Fenna, yore in charge o’ the drinks, we’ll have t’be stingy with liquid. It might be some time afore we run across water by the look o’ things.”

Immediately after the squirrel mentioned drinks, Horty began feeling thirsty. “I say, Fenna old gel, pass me that canteen, there’s a good little treebounder. I’m parched!”

Fenna marched right on past him. “We’ll drink at midday and not before, so forget about it and keep going.”

The young hare appealed to his comrades. “Wot? Did you chaps hear this heartless curmudgeon?”

Bragoon grinned pitilessly at Horty. “Aye, loud an’ clear, mate. Wot’s the matter, are ye thirsty already?”

The incorrigible hare clapped a paw to his throat dramatically. “Me flippin’ mouth’s like a sandpit, an’ the old tongue feels like a bally feather mattress. A drink, for pity’s sake, marm!”

Saro levelled a paw at him. “Ye drink when Fenna tells ye. Now get a slingstone pebble an’ suck it. That’ll keep the thirst off as y’march, ’tis an old trick.”

Horty pulled a pebble from his pouch, looked at it in disgust, then put it back. “Permission to sing, sah!”

The otter waved a paw in the air. “Sing y’self blue in the face for all I care, but forget about drinkin’.”

Horty had to dig through his store of ballads and ditties, but he soon came up with an appropriate one.

“I knew a jolly old spider, and she always used t’say,

she could dive in a bath of cider, an’ swim around all day.

Oh I would like to be that spider,

floatin’ round in sparklin’ cider,

she’d drink an drink, ’til she started to sink,

there’d be so much cider inside o’ that spider!

I once knew a friendly flea, to whom I used to chat,

his favourite drink was ice-cold tea, what d’ye think of that?

Oh I would like to be that flea,

sippin’ cups of ice-cold tea,

all in fine fettle from a rusty kettle,

’til I drank as much tea as that flea!

O cider spider, tea an’ flea,

’tis all good manner o’ drinks for me.

I’m an absolute whizz for strawberry fizz,

I’ll sup old ale ’til I turn pale,

I’d never bilk at greensap milk.

Give this ripsnorter some rosehip water,

or cordial fine made from dandelion,

give me a barrel it’s mine all mine,

just tip me the nod or give me a wink,

an’ I’ll drink an’ drink an’ drink . . .

an’ dri . . . hi . . . hi . . . hiiiiiiiink!”

Saro covered her ears with both paws and roared, “Enough! I can’t stand no more o’ that caterwaulin’, give that hare a drink. Give everybeast a drink!”

Fenna passed the canteen around, allowing each of the group one good mouthful. Horty was onto his second swig when the otter snatched the canteen from him and stoppered it. “Ye great guzzlin’ gizzard, don’t ye know when t’stop?”

Horty gave him a hurt look and belched. “Beg pardon, sah. Miserable blinkin’ bangtail, I barely wet me lips, wot!”

Bragoon grabbed the young hare by his fluffy tailscut and tugged hard. “One more word and ye’ll be wearin’ this as a bobble twixt yore ears. Now belt up an’ march!”

It was hard, hot and dusty out on the flatlands, but they trekked doggedly onward. Even the breeze was like the heat from an open oven door. With neither shade nor shadow to shelter from the ruthless eye of the blazing sun, it soon became an effort to walk.

Bragoon licked his dry lips. Dropping his pack, he crouched down on his hunkers. “Phew! I tell ye, mates, I never knew a day could get so hot. We’ll rest here awhile.”

The aged squirrel set about making things comfortable. She laced their cloaks together and made a lean-to. Weighting one end of the cloaks with their supply packs, she propped up the other end with two travelling staves. “That’ll give us a bit o’ shade. Get under it, an’ we’ll take another drink. Mebbe we’ll have a nap ’til it gets cooler. Then we can travel in the evenin’.”

The otter dug a beaker out of his pack. “Good idea, mate. Fenna, pass me the canteen. I’ll measure our drinks out, so nobeast gets any less.” Here he glanced at Horty. “Or more than the others!”

They were each allowed one half-beaker, which they sipped gratefully.

Horty quaffed his off in a single gulp. “Bit measly, wot! Where’s the food?” He was the only one who felt like eating; the others stretched out and tried to rest.

Fenna watched the hare stuff down candied fruits. “That will make you even thirstier. The sweetness will start you wanting to drink more.”

Horty waggled his ears at her. “Oh pish tush an’ fol de rol, miss, I like eatin’, doncha know!”

Bragoon opened one eye, remarking ironically, “Ye like eatin’, really? I’d never have known if’n ye hadn’t told me so! Put that haversack back on the cloak ends, or the wind’ll blow our shelter away.”

Springald dreamt she was back at Redwall, paddling in the Abbey pond. Cool, wet banksand slopped between her footpaws as she splashed happily about. Sister Portula and the Abbot came strolling across the dewy lawn. Although the mousemaid could hear what they were saying, their voices sounded different.

“All gone! Every flippin’ thing is confounded well gone, wot?” Springald wakened to see the reddish evening light through clouds of dust. Horty was stamping about outside the lean-to entrance, sobbing hoarsely. “Every blinkin’ drop t’drink, an’ every mouthful of scoff. Gone, gone, we’ve been robbed, flamin’ well looted!”

Bragoon grabbed the hare and shook him. “Stop that bawlin’, calm down an’ tell us wot ’appened.”

Springald gathered round with Fenna and Sarobando to hear Horty’s woeful tale.

“Couldn’t sleep, y’know, too bally hot, wot. I was jolly thirsty, too, so I got up an’ went outside t’get the canteen out of the haversacks. Some blighter’s filched the lot. They’ve left rocks in their place. Go an’ see f’y’self!”

It was true: five rocks sat holding down the rear of the lean-to, where the five packs of food and drink had been stowed.

Saro held up her paws. “Be still, there may be tracks, pawprints or dragmarks!”

She went down on all fours, eyes close to the dusty earth, nose twitching as she sniffed. A moment later, she stood up with a look of disgust on her face. “Nothing! Not a single trace. Must’ve been an experienced thief who did it.”

Bragoon commented wryly. “A beast would have t’be clever to survive in this wasteland. Well, that’s it! No good weepin’ o’er stolen supplies, we’ll just have t’get on with it. While ’tis dark the weather’s cooler, so we’ll travel by night, at the double. Right, Saro?”

The old squirrel nodded and began issuing guidelines. “Aye, mate. March fast an’ silent, no talkin’. We don’t know wot’s out there in the darkness. ’Tis strange territory, so stick together an’ hold paws. There’ll be no time for restin’.”

She wagged a stern paw at the young hare. “Listen good, Horty, this ain’t a game anymore, see. If you start yammerin’ on about food’n’drink, or causin’ any upset, ye’ll be riskin’ our lives. Just march, do as yore told an’ shut that great mouth o’ yours, d’ye hear?”

Horty placed a paw over his own mouth and drew the other paw across his throat in a slitting motion.

Springald nodded. “I think he’s gotten the idea. Quick march!”

Off they went into the day’s last crimson-tinged twilight—without food, drink or any hope of rest. The five small figures were dwarfed by the immensity of a dust-blown, trackless desert. Hidden eyes watched their departure, and sinister shapes rose from the earth to follow the questors.