Brian Jacques was born and bred in Liverpool. At the age of fifteen he went to sea and travelled the world. He worked as a stand-up comedian and playwright and hosted his own programme, Jakestown, on Radio Merseyside. His bestselling Redwall books have captured readers all over the world and won universal praise. He died in 2011.
Badrang the Stoat dreams of becoming the Lord of all the Eastern Coast. After two long seasons killing and conquering with his ferocious army of weasels, ferrets, foxes and rats, it seems as if nothing will stop him.
But Badrang hasn’t bargained for the bravery and fighting spirit of a young mouse called Martin – a mouse who refuses to bow down to the deadly tyrant and who will stand up for his right to freedom at any cost.
Lord Brocktree
Martin the Warrior
Mossflower
The Legend of Luke
Outcast of Redwall
Mariel of Redwall
The Bellmaker
Salamandastron
Redwall
Mattimeo
The Pearls of Lutra
The Long Patrol
Marlfox
The Taggerung
Triss
Loamhedge
Rakkety Tam
High Rhulain
Redwall Friend & Foe
A Redwall Winter’s Tale
The Tribes of Redwall: Mice
The Tribes of Redwall: Badgers
Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about
your favourite characters from the legendary world of
Redwall, and their creator, Brian Jacques!
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HE WAS ONLY a young mouse, but of strong build, with a glint in his eye that proclaimed him a born fighter. A creature of few words who never chattered needlessly. The early summer sun of the Eastern Coast beat down pitilessly on his unprotected head as he carried and stacked chunks of rock beside the masons who would shape it into blocks that would enlarge Fort Marshank.
A weasel Captain named Hisk swaggered up, cracking his long whip threateningly, looking for an excuse to cut loose on the slaves who toiled in the dusty heat around him. His eye settled on the young mouse.
‘You there, liven yourself up! Come on, stir yer stumps, Lord Badrang will be round for an inspection soon. Get movin’ or y’ll taste my whip!’
The mouse dropped the rock he was carrying and stood staring levelly at the bullying weasel. Hisk cracked the lash viciously, the tip flicking the air a fraction from his victim’s face. The young mouse did not move. His eyes hooded over as he stood in silent defiance.
The weasel Captain draw the lash back to strike, but the bold, angry eyes of the young slave seemed to challenge him. Like all bullies, the weasel was a coward at heart. Averting his gaze from the piercing stare, Hisk snapped his whip in the direction of some more timid creatures.
‘C’mon, you worthless idlers, no work no food. Move your carcasses. ’Ere comes Lord Badrang!’
Flanked by his aides, Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox, Badrang the Tyrant strode imperiously on to the site. He waited whilst two hedgehogs hurriedly built him a makeshift seat from stone blocks. Skalrag swiftly covered it with a velvet cloak. Badrang sat, gazing at the work going on around him.
The stoat Lord addressed Hisk: ‘Will my fortress be finished before summer is out?’
Hisk waved his coiled whip about at the slaves. ‘Lord, if the weather was cooler an’ we ’ad more creatures . . .’
Badrang moved swiftly in his anger. Seizing a pebble, he hurled it, striking Hisk on the jaw. The weasel Captain stood dumbly, blood trickling from his lip as the Tyrant berated him.
‘Excuses! I don’t want to hear complaints or excuses, d’you hear me? What I need is a fortress built before autumn. Well, don’t stand there snivelling, get on with it!’
Immediately, Hisk got to work, flaying about with the whip as he passed on his master’s bad mood.
‘Move, you useless lumps! You heard Lord Badrang, Marshank must be ready before the season’s out! It’ll be double the work an’ half rations from now on. Move!’
An old squirrel was staggering by, bent double under the burden of a large rock. Hisk lashed out at him. The whip curled around the aged creature’s footpaws, tripping him as he dropped the rock. The weasel began laying into his victim, striking indiscriminately at the old one’s frail body.
‘You worthless layabout, I’ll strip the mis’rable hide off yer!’
The lash rose and fell as Hisk flogged away at the unprotected creature on the ground.
‘I’ll teach yer a lesson yer won’t ferget . . .’
Suddenly the whip stopped in midswing. It went taut as Hisk pulled on the handle. He tugged at it but was yanked backwards. The young mouse had the end of the whip coiled around his paw.
Hisk’s eyes bulged with temper as he shouted at the intruder, ‘Leggo my whip, mouse, or I’ll gut yer!’
The weasel reached for the dagger at his waist, but he was not fast enough. The mouse hurled himself upon Hisk. Wrapping the whiplash round the Captain’s neck, he heaved hard. Hisk thrashed furiously about in the dust, choking and slobbering as the lash tightened. Gurrad blew a hasty alarm on a bone whistle he carried slung about his neck.
In a trice the mouse was set upon by the nearest six guards. He disappeared beneath a jumble of ferrets, weasels and rats as they pounded him mercilessly, stamping upon his paws and breaking his hold on the whip. They continued relentlessly beating him with spearhandles, rods and whips until Badrang intervened.
‘That’s enough. Bring him to me!’
His paws pinioned by whips and a spear handle pulled hard across his throat, the young mouse was dragged struggling and kicking into the stoat Lord’s presence.
Badrang drew his sword and pressed the point against the young one’s heaving chest. Leaning forward, he hissed into the captive’s face, ‘You know the penalty is death for attacking one of my horde. I could run you through with my sword right now and snuff out your life. What d’you say to that, mouse?’
The strong young mouse’s eyes burned into the Tyrant’s face like twin flames as he gritted out, ‘Scum! That sword is not yours, it belongs to me as it belonged to my father!’
Badrang withdrew the swordpoint. He sat back, shaking his head slowly in amazement at the boldness of the creature in front of him.
‘Well well, you’re not short of nerve, mouse. What’s your name?’
The answer was loud and fearless.
‘I am called Martin, son of Luke the Warrior!’
‘See the roving river run
Over hill and dale
To a secret forest place,
O my heart, Noonvale.
Look for me at dawning
When the sun’s reborn
In the silent beauty
Twixt the night and morn.
Wait till the lark ascends
And skies are blue.
There where the rainbow ends
I will meet you.’
The mousemaid Rose sat quite still as the last tremulous notes of her song hovered on the evening air. From a vantage point in the rocks south of Marshank she looked out to sea. The water was tinted gold and scarlet from soft cloud layers, reflecting the far westering sun at her back. Below on the shore an ebbing tide gurgled and chuckled small secrets to itself as it lapped the pebbles.
‘Hurr Miz Roser, you’m cumm an’ get this yurr supper. Oi bain’t a-cooken vittles to lay abowt an’ git cold ’n’ soggy. Bo urr no.’
Rose’s companion Grumm waved a heavy digging paw at her, and the mousemaid wandered over to join her mole friend at the low fire he had been cooking on. She sniffed appreciatively.
‘Hmm, wild oatcakes and vegetable soup! Good old Grumm, you could make a banquet from nothing.’
Grumm smiled, his dark velvety face crinkling around two bright button eyes. He waved the tiny ladle which he always carried thrust through his belt like a sword.
‘Hurr, an’ you udd charm’ee burds outener trees with yurr sweet talken, mizzy. Set’ee daown an’ eat oop.’
Rose accepted the deep scallop shell full of fragrant soup. Placing her oatcake on a flat rock across the fire to keep it warm, she shook her head as she sipped away.
‘You’re worse than an old mousewife, Grumm Trencher. I wager you’d rock me to sleep if I let you.’
Grumm wagged the small ladle at her. ‘Hurr aye, you’m needen all yore sleep. Urrmagine wot yore ole dad’d say iffen oi brought ’ee ’ome tired out an’ a-starved, hoo arr!’
The mousemaid took a hasty bite of oatcake, fanning her mouth. ‘Oo, ’s hot! There’ll be no sleep for us until we’ve found out whether or not Brome is held captive in that dreadful fortress.’
Grumm wiped his ladle clean with some sedge grass. ‘May’ap ole Brome jus’ a-wandered off ’n’ got losed, may’ap ’ee bain’t catchered in yon fortress.’
Rose shook her head.
‘You must understand, Grumm, the name Brome and the word trouble go together. He was always in trouble with Father at home – that’s why he went off wandering. You weren’t there at the time but they had a furious argument over Brome just taking off and roaming as he pleased. Father said it was no way for the son of a Chieftain to learn his responsibilities, but Brome wouldn’t listen, he ran off alone. Well, we’ve tracked him this far, Grumm, and I’m certain that my brother has run straight into trouble again. That’s why I’m sure he’s been taken by Badrang’s scouts. I hope that he hasn’t been forced to tell them where Noonvale is. The whole tribe of Urran Voh would be in danger if Brome gave away our location to that filthy Tyrant.’
Grumm refilled Rose’s shell with vegetable soup.
‘Doant’ee fret, mizzy. Ole Brome can keepen his’n mouth shutted toighter’n a mussel at low toide, ho urr!’
The mousemaid unwound the throwing sling from about her waist. ‘I hope you’re right, Grumm. I’d hate to think of the things those vermin would do to a young mouse to get information.’
The mole patted Rose’s back gently with a heavy digging claw. ‘Doant’ee wurry, Roser. Us’ll get ole Maister Brome out’n yon pest’ole iffen him be in thurr.’
When they had finished eating they extinguished the fire and broke camp. A stiff breeze had sprung out of the east, bringing with it a light spatter of raindrops which threatened to get heavier as night set in.
Scrambling down the rocks, the two friends gained the shore, their paws making soft chinking noises as they trotted through the shingled tideline. Marshank stood grim and forbidding up ahead, a dark hump of misery in the moonless night.
THE OLD SQUIRREL Martin had saved peered through the cracks of the wooden slave compound at the lone figure tied between two posts on the walltop above the main gates. His son, a burly male named Felldoh, stood behind the elder. He gritted his teeth savagely.
‘The scurvy toads, they’ll pay for this someday!’
Barkjon, the old one, shook his head sadly. ‘Martin will have a bad time tonight if the weather gets worse.’
Felldoh thumped a sturdy paw against the wooden compound fence. ‘It’s the morning I’m more worried about, when the gannets and gulls and those other big hungry sea birds come searching for food and see him tied up there. They’ll rip Martin to bits!’
A weasel guard called Rotnose banged his spearbutt on the fence alongside Barkjon’s nose.
‘Gerraway from there, you two, or you’ll be next up there with the mouse. Double work for you tomorrow. Get some sleep while you can. Sweet dreams now, hawhawhaw!’
Floodtide returned, bringing with it a storm. The gale shrieked, driving heavy rain before it. On the walltop Martin bowed his head against the battering elements. It was all that he could do, tied as he was by four paws between two thick wooden posts. Rain plastered the single frayed garment he wore close to his body, and the wetness ran down his back, into his ears, across his eyes and over his nose into his mouth, battering his bowed head and numbing his whole body, which shook and quivered in the ceaseless gale. He hung there, like a rag doll in the wind.
Martin’s mind went back to the caves on the northwest shore where he had been born. Luke the Warrior was his father. He had never known a mother; she had been killed in a searat raid when he was a tiny infant. Luke had raised him the best way he could, but Luke was a warrior and sworn to the destruction of searats and corsairs. He was unused to rearing babies.
Martin was only two seasons out of infancy when his father and some other warriors captured a searat galley after a hard pitched battle on the shoreline. Flushed with success and driven by the awful rage to take vengeance upon his wife’s murderers, Luke the Warrior gathered a crew and decided to sail off in his prize vessel, to wage war on the searats. Martin remembered he was still very young, but fired with a determination to accompany his father. Luke, however, would not hear of it. He left Martin in the care of his wife’s mother Windred. The day he sailed Martin sat stonefaced outside the cave. Luke could not reason with him.
‘Son, son, you would not last two moons out there on the high seas. I cannot risk your life pitting you in battle against the sea scum I am sworn to do war with. Listen to me, I know what is best for you!’
But Martin would not listen. ‘I want to sail on the ship and be a warrior like you!’
Luke spread his paws wide and sighed with frustration. ‘What am I going to do with you, Martin? You have my warrior spirit and your mother’s determination. Listen, son, take my sword.’
It was a fighting sword and well used. Luke pressed it into his son’s paws. The young mouse gazed wide-eyed at the battle-scarred blade and gripped the handle tight as if he would never let go.
Luke smiled, recalling the time when his father had passed the sword on to him. Tapping a paw against the crosshilt, Luke said, ‘I can see it is in you to be a fighter, Martin. The first thing warriors must learn is discipline.’
Martin felt as though the sword were speaking for him. ‘Tell me what to do and I will obey.’
Relief surged through Luke as he commanded the would-be warrior. ‘You will stay and defend our cave against all corners, protect those weaker than yourself and honour our code. Always use the sword to stand for good and right, never do a thing you would be ashamed of, but never let your heart rule your mind.’
He tapped the blade once more as its pitted edge glinted in the winter morning.
‘And never ever let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as you live. When the time comes, pass it on to another, maybe your own son. You will know instinctively if he is a warrior. If not, hide the sword where only a true warrior who is brave of heart, would dare go to find it. Swear this to me Martin.’
‘I swear it, on my life!’ The young mouse’s grey eyes reflected the wintry sea as he spoke.
Coming back to reality, Martin lifted his head in the teeth of the gale. Was it a tear, or just rain running from his eyes as he pictured the small figure standing upon the pebbled strand alone, waving the sword in a warrior’s salute as his father’s ship was lost on the horizon in an afternoon of snow and icy winter spume.
Martin’s head slumped on to his sodden chest as he recalled the day of his capture. Timballisto was a budding warrior, several seasons Martin’s senior. He had been left in charge of the tribe by Luke. The young mouse resented his older friend’s authority and often showed it by wandering far along the coast, away from the safe boundaries of the caves. It was on one such day that Martin took his father’s sword, following the tideline north until the short winter afternoon began darkening. He was busy chopping away with the great blade at a driftwood log, reasoning that he could not be scolded for bringing back firewood to the cave fires.
Windred saw him from afar. She had been following his pawtracks since early noon; they stood out clearly in the smooth wet sand, marked with a straight furrow where the swordpoint trailed at Martin’s side. She hurried forward scolding her grandson. ‘Martin! I’ve been out of my mind with worry. What have you been told about going off alone? D’you realise you’re almost a league from the caves?’
Suddenly Windred stopped berating him. She was staring beyond Martin to where a band of villainous-looking creatures were running along the shore towards them. The old mouse threw off her shawl. ‘Martin, come to me. We must get away from here. Quickly!’
The young mouse turned and saw the corsairs. Dropping the firewood, he took up the sword in both paws. ‘Run Grandma!’
Windred would not have run anyway, but she was rooted to the spot with fear. A stoat headed the band. They stopped within two paces of their victims. The stoat grinned wickedly. ‘That’s a big sword for a little mouse to be wielding. You’d better give it to me before you hurt yourself.’
The sword was heavy and Martin’s paws were tired, but he held it point forward, unwavering. ‘Leave us alone, stay back! My father told me never to let another creature take this sword from me!’
Now the corsairs began spreading out slowly, encircling Martin and Windred, licking knives and spearblades as they chuckled evilly at the old mouse and the small would-be warrior. The stoat took a pace forward, his voice deceptively friendly. ‘A wise beast your father. Did he ever tell you about those who could slay with a single spear thrust? Like this . . . or this!’ As he spoke the stoat brought up his spear and began jabbing expertly at Martin. The young mouse parried, fighting off the questing spearpoint amid the laughter of the cruel corsairs.
At a nod from the stoat a weasel ran forward from behind Martin. He dealt the young mouse a heavy blow with an oaken pikestaff, laying him out flat on the sand. Badrang picked up the sword. Stepping over Martin’s senseless body, he winked at Windred. She was held tight between two searats, tied and gagged by her own shawl, eyes wide with terror. The stoat stared along the swordblade at her.
‘Well Grandma, he’s a bold brat, that one of yours. Hmm, nice sword. It should serve me well. Hisk, we’ve wasted enough time. Chain these two up and get ’em back to the slavelines.’
Shackled to Windred, Martin was half-dragged, half-carried further north along the wintry shore into the gathering night.
It was in the short hours before dawn that Martin came awake, shivering and moaning as a fiery drum of relentless pain beat inside his skull. Whips cracked; he was pulled upright by other slaves as the chain began moving.
Then came the long march. . . . Two seasons, trekking under the rods and whips of slavedrivers, tied by the neck to a succession of wretched creatures, all captives together. He lost count of the days. They rolled interminably on into spring, summer then autumn, with Windred long dead from hunger, thirst and hardship under the lash.
Martin recalled his grief for the old mousewife, the closest he had ever come to knowing a mother: his stifled tears and the leaden weight of sadness at her loss, the feeling of loneliness and desolation without her. She had deserved far better a fate than the one she suffered. His body began trembling at the thought of the vermin who had caused all of this cruelty.
Badrang!
The laughing, sneering, commanding stoat, swaggering along wearing the sword he had taken from Martin.
A strength born of built-up rage coursed suddenly through the young mouse. He stood erect, tugging at his bonds, oblivious to the pounding storm as a mighty roar welled up from deep inside him.
‘I am a warrior! Martin son of Luke! I will live, I will not give in and die up here! Do you hear me, Badrang? I will live to take back my father’s sword and slay you one day! Badraaaaaaaannggg!’
Stormwater filled his mouth, rushing winds tore at his face.
‘Martin son of Luke, can you hear me?’ a voice called up to him from the shore outside the fortress.
He could not see the speaker but he heard the voice clearly above the gale.
‘Yes, I hear you. What is your name?’
‘There are two of us, my friend Grumm Trencher the mole and myself, Laterose, daughter of the Chieftain Urran Voh. We heard you calling out. Tell me, is there a prisoner in there called Brome, a young mouse? He is my brother.’
Martin could feel the storm beating the senses from him. He rallied and shouted back. ‘I do not know of a mouse called Brome and I don’t think I’ll have much chance to. I am sentenced to die up here, Laterose.’
The answer came back in as kindly a tone as the mousemaid could shout under the circumstances.
‘Laterose is my full title. Please call me Rose. My friend and I will do anything possible to help you, though we cannot climb up – the walls are too sheer and high. What can we do? Is there a message you wish carried to another creature?’
Martin shook his head. ‘No message. I am alone. The guards told me that if I live through the night the big sea birds will finish me off in the morning. Is there any way you can keep them off me?’
Rose thought for a moment before answering.
‘Maybe, yes. We are not warriors, but we can use our slings. Also I know a trick to drive sea birds away.’
She waited, but there was no reply. Grumm stepped away from the wall, out on to the beach, shading his eyes against the downpour as he gazed up at the limp figure slumped between the posts.
‘Yurr, ee’m lost ’is senses, fallen aconshuss, if’n you ask oi, pore creetur!’
Rose joined Grumm, and together they watched the unconscious form sway slackly as the elements assaulted it. The mousemaid chose a hard round pebble and fitted it to her sling.
‘We must help him to live, we must!’ Her lip quivered as she spoke. ‘Ooh that Badrang, the cruel cowardly, heartless vermin . . .’
Grumm chuckled softly. ‘Noice wurrds fer a mousey-maid, oi must say. Hurr hurr, him’n ull live sure ’nuff, iffen ’ee be arf as ill-tempurred as ’ee, mizzy.’
DAWN CAME PEARLY grey, shot with shafts of peach and dusky pink as the sun broke the eastern horizon in the wake of the night storm. The sea was a dim shade of oily turquoise, with cream-crested waves in the middle distance. Badrang the Tyrant had his carved throne chair brought out on to the courtyard, where he could watch the fun. Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox stood along with two weasels called Lumpback and Stiffear, awaiting orders as the Tyrant stoat pointed to Martin’s limp figure with his sword.
‘He looks strong enough to have lived through a bit of wind and rain. Gurrad, go and wake the sleeping beauty. When he’s conscious and wriggling about, the birds’ll soon spot him.’
Gurrad sniggered as he looked up at the circling sea birds that were beginning to mass above the fortress.
‘Aye, Lord, that lot look in good appetite as usual, eh?’
Badrang nodded. ‘Never knew a gannet that wasn’t. Ho there, Hisk! Don’t send the slaves to the quarry yet, parade ’em out here where they can see the sentence being carried out. It’ll show ’em what happens to anybeast who puts a paw wrong in my fortress.’
Gurrad slapped Martin around the face with a wet piece of rag until the young mouse revived. He held a beaker of fresh water to the captive’s lips, chuckling as the prisoner drank greedily.
‘That’s the stuff. Drink up now, mouse. Those sea birds’ll soon be down for breakfast. Hehee, look at ’em, big uns, ain’t they? Great pointed beaks they’ve got, good as a knife fer rippin’ an’ tearin’. They’ll enjoy you . . .’
Martin managed to spit the last of the water full into Gurrad’s face. The rat backed off, spluttering nastily.
‘Tough, eh? Well, I ’ope they takes yer eyes first!’
Chancing a glance upwards, Martin could see a great gannet preparing to dive. Two other grey gulls were beginning to swoop low, and others rushed to join them in the descent for food. His paws were swollen by the wet ropes that held him tightly. He struggled wildly, shutting his eyes tight after Gurrad’s cruel remark.
All eyes were on Martin now, the horrified slaves, the gloating horde of Badrang, the hungry sea birds. Plus two other pairs.
Rose and Grumm were crouched behind a stony outcrop on the beach, the young mousemaid watching very carefully as she placed a paw across her throat and took a deep breath. The birds wheeled and dived lower towards the struggling figure bound between the posts on the walltop. Grumm nudged his friend urgently.
‘Aow, do ’asten an’ ’urry, mizzy. They burds be a-goen t’peck Marthen to death. Aowurr, oi carn’t lukk no moare!’
Grumm closed his eyes tight as the sea birds dived for the kill.
Badrang had forgotten to scan the seaward horizon that day, preoccupied as he was with Martin’s death sentence. A sail appeared two points north on the eastern horizon. It was a great green single-masted craft, practically invisible against the sea because of its camouflaged colouring. Three banks of oars protruded to port and starboard, one atop the other, giving it the appearance of a monstrous insect crawling over the waves. It was Badrang’s old partner in murder and treachery upon the high seas, a stoat like himself.
Cap’n Tramun Clogg of the great ship Seascarab!
Clogg was a villainous sight, an enormously fat stoat dressed in stained and tawdry silks, wearing a massive pair of carved wooden clogs. Every part of his fur wherever possible was plaited and braided – beard, eyebrows, moustache – all over his gargantuan body. Plaits and braids stuck out of his ragged sleeve frills, spilled through rents in his shirt, coat and pantaloons, even curled over the tops of the oversized dogs. He gnawed on a half-dead lobster as he slurped seaweed grog from a flagon, belching aloud and spitting shell fragments everywhere. Throwing back his tousled head he roared up at the lookout, a ferret in the crow’s-nest.
‘Boggs, any shape o’ land out there yet, matey?’
The keen-eyed Boggs peered into the distance. ‘Naw, Cap’n, nary a glimmer o’ . . . Wait . . . aye . . . land ahoy!’
The lobster tail fell from Tramun Clogg’s open mouth, to disappear down his open shirt front.
‘Haharr harr, I knowed it! Where away, Boggs y’ ole bilge-dog?’
‘Two points south, Cap’n. Aye, an’ there be a liddle lump a-stickin’ up, either a cliff or some buildin’.’
Clogg gurgled happily. Drawing a broad cutlass from his sash, he began honing it on the sole of his left clog.
‘Bring ’er about two points, Growch. If Badrang ain’t there I’ll eat me dogs, on me oath I will. Gritter, tell the crew to put some vinegar into their oarstrokes; ’urry now, matey. With this wind in our sails an’ a flowin’ sea, we’ll make landfall soon. Hohohoharrharr! Won’t me ole messmate Badrang be pleased ter see ’is great-uncle Clogg agin after all this time!’
At the wheel Growch gave a villainous cackle. ‘Pleased, yer say, Cap’n. I reckon Badrang’ll pop ’is cork!’
Clogg flung the empty grog bottle over the side. ‘An’ if he don’t, I’ll pop it for ’im, haharr!’
Like a great green bird of ill omen, the Seascarab came about and headed for Marshank as Tramun Clogg mused aloud to himself.
‘Iffen I knows Badrang, ’e’ll ’ave slaves aplenty, too many fer one beast to own. An ole matey like ’im won’t begrudge enough fine slaves to row the Seascarab – ’ell’s teeth, I should say not. A pore lubber like me without a single slave to me vessel, asides, tain’t fittin’ fer corsairs an’ searats to row their own craft. So I’ll just nip in nicely an’ ask ’im ’andsome like to fit us out with row-beasts. Badrang’ll give ’em to me, ’e’s a nice cove. An’ wot if ’e don’t, why then I’ll just slit ’is gizzard an’ take ’em, I’ll use ’is skull as me figurehead an’ feed the rest of ’im to the fishes. Only fair, ain’t it, Growch?’
Both pirates burst out laughing at the joke. Clogg liked a joke, but he was joking in deadly earnest this time. He hated Badrang.
The sea birds came diving in voraciously at Martin’s unprotected body. They were within a hair’s breadth of his head when a wild, ear-splitting screech, halfway between a whistle and a cry, rent the morning air. Immediately, the scavenging birds swooped away and zoomed high into the air, shrilling anxiously and wheeling about willy-nilly. Another loud screech followed, and the gulls and gannets milled about high above Martin, some of them bumping into each other in their apparent confusion.
Badrang gaped upwards in amazement. ‘What’s the matter with ’em, why aren’t they tearing him apart?’
A further screech followed, even louder and more angry-sounding than the former two. This time the sea birds sheared off sharply and dispersed.
The Tyrant stoat was furious. ‘What in the name of hellgates is going on?’
A ferret called Bluehide, who had lived in the far north, called out as he scratched his ears in puzzlement. ‘That’s the huntin’ cry of a great eagle. I’ve heard it afore!’
Gurrad shoved him scornfully. ‘Gam! There ain’t no great eagles on this coast.’
A small venturesome kittiwake who had just arrived on the scene took a swift dive at Martin. The screech rang out swift and harsh. The frightened kittiwake took off like a sky rocket.
Bluehide shrugged, eyeing Gurrad in a patronizing manner. ‘That’s a great eagle’s huntin’ cry, I’d stake me oath on it!’
The rat raised his spearbutt threateningly. ‘Listen, addlebrain, I’ve said there ain’t no gr—’
‘Gurrad! Stow that gab and get over here!’
The rat broke off his argument with the ferret and scuttled across to Badrang’s side. The Tyrant scowled as he glowered at the clear blue sky.
‘Never mind what it is, there’s something about that’s scaring the sea birds witless. We’ll have to tempt them down on to the mouse with a bait they can’t resist. Bring a dead fish from the cookhouse.’
Hurriedly the fish was brought to Badrang. He took his sword and cut the cord holding up the weasel Lumpback’s ragged kilt. There was a snigger from the slaves as Lumpback stood grinning sheepishly with his only garment draped around his footpaws on the ground. Ignoring the weasel’s plight, Badrang tossed the cord to Gurrad.
‘Here, tie the fish to this and hang it round the mouse’s neck. That’ll bring hungry sea birds in to feed, eagle or no eagle.’
From their hiding place on the shore, Rose scanned the sky. It was clear and free of sea birds.
‘Thank goodness I won’t have to do the eagle call again, Grumm. It was beginning to strain my throat.’
‘Hurr hurr,’ the mole chuckled. ‘Oi be glad too, mizzy, ’twere a vurry froightenen sound. Oi didden loik et one liddle bit, hurr no.’
Grumm peeked over the rocky outcrop at Martin on the walltop. ‘Mizzy Roser, ’earken! Wot be they villuns a-doin’ to Marthen?’
The mousemaid began twirling her loaded sling. ‘I don’t know, but whatever it is we’ll have to stop them!’
Gurrad was trying to get the cord noose that held the fish over Martin’s head, but the young mouse was ducking and struggling wildly. The rat was losing his temper.
‘Hold still, mouse, or I’ll pin this fish t’yer with me spearpoint!’
Thwock!
Gurrad dropped the fish with an agonized yelp as the slingstone bounced off his paw.
Badrang did not see the stone. All he saw was Gurrad dropping the fish and hopping about sucking on his paw. The Tyrant stood up, knocking his thronechair backwards as he yelled at the unfortunate rat.
‘Stop playing the fool an’ get that fish round his neck before I come up there and batter some sense into you with it!’
As Gurrad bent to pick the fish up, Grumm fitted a sizeable rock into the spoon of his ladle and whipped it off in the direction of the rat’s bent bottom.
Thwump!
It struck hard and true, knocking Gurrad from the walltop. He plummeted over and landed with a sickening thud in the courtyard below.
Badrang leapt forward, sword in paw, waving at the creatures around him.
‘To the walltop, quick. Somebeast’s hurling rocks!’
They piled up the broad wooden ladders on to the walltop.
Rotnose and Hisk were first up. They were immediately hit by flying stones. Hisk fell senseless, Rotnose crouched, massaging an aching breastbone. Badrang ducked another salvo as he went into a half-stoop, shouting at the others, ‘Where are the stones coming from, can you see?’
Skalrag stood upright, peering at the seemingly deserted shore. ‘Must be somebeast hidin’ out there, Lord!’
Below, at the corner of the courtyard where the slaves were grouped, the big squirrel Felldoh decided to take part in the action. He ducked to the back of the crowd, picking up several large pebbles as he went. With energy born of anger, he chucked a large rough stone at the back of Skalrag’s head. Many times Felldoh had bent under Skalrag’s rod; now was the chance to repay the sadistic fox.
The flying rock did not strike Skalrag’s skull, it narrowly missed, but took half of his left ear in the process, ripping it off as it whizzed by. Felldoh immediately flung two more stones, then keeping his paws at his sides gazed around in amazement as if some other creature were doing the throwing.
As Skalrag screeched in pain, Stiffear sprang up, pointing down into the courtyard as he shouted excitedly, ‘The stones are coming from inside our own fortress!’
Thwack!
A stone from the shoreside struck him square in the back.
Rotnose, still rubbing his chest, sneered at Stiffear, ‘Rubbish, they’re coming from the shore, I tell yer. I was hit meself. . . . Eeeyowch!’
A stone from the courtyard stung his tail. Confusion reigned on the walltop. Badrang and his creatures did not know which side the missiles were coming from. The Tyrant lay flat and raised his head slightly. He could not see the shore clearly but he had an uninterrupted view of the sea. His stomach churned suddenly and he began to curse at the sight his sharp eyes rested on. One more quick look to ascertain that he was not wrong sent Badrang scrambling for the ladder, calling hoarsely as he went, ‘Cut that mouse down from there and bring him with you. Get down into the fortress, quick!’
‘But, Sire, we think that there’s somebeast behind those rocks slinging stones . . .’
Badrang shot a venomous glance at Rotnose as he hissed, ‘Do as I say, scumbrain. We’ve more to worry about than a few stones. Tramun Clogg’s out there with the Seascarab, sailing on a direct course for us!’
Grumm was running out of good rocks to fit his ladle when Rose pointed to the wall.
‘Look, they’ve had enough, they’re cutting Martin loose and retreating into the fortress. Thank the seasons that we were able to help the poor mouse, eh, Grumm.’
The mole mopped his brow and sat with his back against the rocks of their hideout on the beach in the hot midmorning sunlight.
‘Yurr, boi ’okey, us’ns serpintly gave they vurmints summat to think abowt. Oi gave ’em billyoh wi’ moi ole ladler, hurr hurr!’
Rose could not help grinning at her faithful companion. ‘So you did, Grumm. That ladle comes in useful for other things than stirring soup with.’
But Grumm was not listening. Facing seaward, he was pointing straight out at the Seascarab, which was drawing closer by the moment.
‘Lookit, mizzy. Searatters an’ vurmints, oi’ll be bounden!’
A chill of fear ran through the mousemaid. Corsairs! They had seldom visited this coast, but the tales of horror and death that surrounded the raiders from the sea were legendary. Hastily they gathered their few belongings.
‘Let’s not hang about here, Grumm. Come on, we’ll lie low in the marshes behind the fortress.’
Cap’n Tramun Clogg was in high villainous humour. He cut an awkward jig, his dogs clattering noisily on the poop-deck.
‘Haharrharr! I reckernizes that flag flyin’ o’er yon place ashore. Ho lucky day, I knowed it, I could feel it in me dogs! There’s me messmate of bygone seasons Badrang, built hisself a stone castle, pretty as you please. ’Ow many pore liddle slaves would yer say it took to work on a place like that, Crosstooth?’
A wicked-looking fox draped in purple bandannas scratched his chin. ‘Hmmm, I’d say lots, Cap’n.’
‘Lots an’ crowds?’
‘Aye, lots ’n’ crowds.’
‘Which is most, Crosstooth, lots or crowds?’
‘Why bless yer ’eart, Cap’n, crowds, that means lots an’ lots!’
‘Haharrharr, well said, matey. Break out the weapons while I lays plans for a reunion party with me ole messmate Badrang!’
Martin stood swaying on swollen footpaws, his arms still bound. Badrang sat upon his thronechair, eyes narrowed as he watched the reprieved prisoner.
‘Hmm, like I said before; you’re not short of nerve, Martin. Hearken to me now, I could use a creature like you.’
From beneath hooded eyelids Martin watched the Tyrant as he spoke, the young mouse’s gorge beginning to rise at the stoat’s proposal.
‘How would you like to be a Captain in my horde? The best of food, slaves to command as you please, I’ll even give you a spear to carry if you swear loyalty to me as your master. Well, what’ve you got to say to that, young un?’
Martin made no reply. His paws were deadened by the tight bonds, but his rage was aroused and his jaws were strong. He launched himself in a flash upon Badrang, setting his teeth into the stoat’s outstretched paw and biting it savagely to the bone.
The Tyrant roared and bellowed in agony as Martin was set upon by guards, his jaws prised apart with a dagger blade as rods and spearbutts beat furiously at him. The young mouse went down on the ground as Badrang sprinkled blood about, shaking his paw in anguish as he gritted from between clenched teeth, ‘You’ll wish the gannets had got you by the time I’m finished with you, whelp. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll die, but not fast. Fraction by fraction until you scream to welcome death. Take him away and lock him up. I’ll see to him after I’m rid of Clogg!’
Inside the courtyard, slightly to the left of the main gate, was a prison pit, dug deep into the ground with a heavy grating on top. The cover creaked as it was slid to one side. Martin was hurled in, still with both paws bound to his sides. He fell through the darkness and landed with a cushioned thump on something soft. There was a grunt and somebeast was helping him upright whilst another untied his bonds.
A gruff voice spoke. ‘Martin, well at least you’re still alive. I’m Felldoh the squirrel.’
The young mouse rubbed his paws, grimacing as the blood began circulating properly. The squirrel rubbed and patted him until he felt able to move easily again. Martin recognized him, he knew Felldoh as a kindred spirit, another born rebel who had fallen foul of the vermin regime’s justice.
‘Felldoh, what are you doing down here?’
‘Awaiting the Tyrant’s pleasure like you, Martin. That rotten toad Stiffear saw me flinging rocks at him while he was on the walltop. Still, you saved my old dad and I did what I could for you, matey.’
Martin grasped the big squirrel’s paw in the darkness. ‘You are a true friend, Felldoh. Thank you!’
They both sat on the hard-packed earth floor. There was a movement to Martin’s right, and as he tensed a small quiet voice echoed hollowly in the pit.
‘What do you suppose Badrang’s going to do with us?’
Martin peered into the dimness. ‘Who’s there?’
Felldoh reached out and brought their paws together. ‘Martin, this young feller was here before I arrived. Meet Brome.’
‘So, Brome,’ said Martin
He was younger and smaller than Martin and Felldoh, and his voice sounded tiny and frightened. ‘I never did harm to anybeast. I was lost and blundering along the shore one night when the sentries on the wall saw me, and I was captured and thrown down here. Did they capture you, Martin? Will they keep us down here for ever?’
Patting his paw and ruffling his ears good-naturedly, Martin reassured the youngster. ‘You stick with us, Brome. We’ll get you out of here. While I was staked out on the walltop, Felldoh was throwing rocks from inside and your sister Rose chucking them from outside. She’s out there with a mole named Grumm. I owe them my life.’
Brome grasped Martin’s paw. ‘Rose and Grumm! Hahaha, good old Grumm, I knew they’d find me. With those two out there and you and Felldoh in here we’ll escape easily. It’ll be as simple as picking daisies!’
The joy and relief in the young one’s voice was so evident that Martin felt a wave of sympathy for him. Nudging Felldoh in the darkness, Martin spoke with a confidence he did not feel.
‘Aye, simple as picking daisies, eh, Felldoh.’
The squirrel was a kindly beast, he threw his paws about both of them, playing along with Martin’s bravado.
‘Right, lads. Three warriors like us and extra help from outside? Hah, the only thing Badrang’ll eat for dinner will be our dust when we scoot out of here. Friends together!’
Shortly after that Brome fell asleep, cushioned between Martin and Felldoh. Their eyes now accustomed to the gloom, they sat staring at each other.
‘Easy as picking daisies. Hmm, when was the last time you picked daisies, matey?’
‘A long time ago, friend Felldoh. Some of them were pretty tough to pick as I remember. But not impossible.’
‘Aye, with a little outside help we might stand a chance.’
Martin yawned and settled down beside Brome. ‘Sleep first. Being tied out on a walltop in a storm isn’t the most restful place around here. We’ll think of something later, friend. We can’t disappoint this young un.’
Felldoh sat listening to the soft snores of his companions. ‘Oh yes, let’s think of something later,’ he chuckled lightly to himself. ‘How to sprout wings, and defeat Badrang and his horde with outside help from a mole and a mousemaid. By my brush, why didn’t I think of those two good ideas before?’
THE SHIP SEASCARAB at anchor in the bay as four longboats were beached above the tideline. The pirates had come ashore. Surrounded by his savage ragtag crew, Cap’n Tramun Clogg strode into Fortress Marshank. Badrang had the way lined with heavily armed soldiers. They gripped spears tightly, scowling at the ill assorted mob from the Seascarab.
With a great clatter of clogs Tramun hauled out his cutlass and roared playfully as he made a mock dash at Badrang’s soldiers. They drew back in alarm and Clogg winked roguishly at them.
‘Haharr, caught yer nappin’ there, mateys. You’ve all gone soft playin’ at bein’ landlubbers. Ho there, Frogbit, Nipwort, an’ you, Fleabane. Been a bit o’ water passed under the keel since we sailed t’gether. Yore lookin’ plump an’ prosperous these days.’
Swaggering up to the Tyrant’s wooden longhut, Clogg booted the door, ‘Anyone ’ome t’receive a pore seadog who’s down on his luck?’
The weasel captain Hisk swung the door open and announced in a dignified manner, ‘Enter, Cap’n, my master awaits your pleasure.’
‘Oh do ’e now, well ain’t that pretty!’ a searat called Oilback sniggered at Hisk.
Badrang knew he was playing a dangerous game, but slyness and treachery had always been the order of the day between himself and Clogg. The idea was for neither stoat to show he was afraid of the other and to keep up a pretence of being old friends. With this in mind Badrang rushed at his former partner, hugging him tightly as he dropped into corsair slang.
‘Well well, burn me bilges if it ain’t Cap’n Tramun Clogg. How are yer, ye ole wavedog?’
Tramun pounded the other’s back, grinning widely. ‘Badrang, me messmate, stripe me but yore lookin’ fit as a fish an’ spry as a wasp. Oh, it is good for me ole eyes t’see ye agin, me ’earty. Look wot I’ve brought fer you!’
At a signal from Clogg two searats upended a cask upon the table. They smashed in the head and scooped out two beakers, which they presented to the stoats. Badrang brought the drink swiftly to his mouth, halting slyly as Clogg took a great gulp of his. It flowed down through the pirate stoat’s chinplaits as he swigged noisily.
‘Damson wine, matey. The best on earth – an’ all fer me’ n’ you!’
Badrang took a drink that was more of a sip than a gulp. ‘Prime stuff. You allus knew a good barrel o’ drink, you rascal.’
Clogg released Badrang and slumped down in the Tyrant’s thronechair, resting his clogged footpaws noisily on the tabletop.
‘Just like in the ole days, eh?’
Badrang seated himself on the edge of the table, smiling. ‘Aye, just like in the ole days, mate!’
‘Ow long is it since we was last t’gether, d’you reckon?’ Clogg took another swig, grinning and winking.
Badrang took a sip, pursing his lips. ‘Too long, I’d say, Tramun. It’s good to see you agin.’
They continued to play the game, this time with Clogg’s paw straying close to his cutlass, whilst Badrang toyed with the bone handle of a long skinning dagger.
‘I recalls when we was last together, you left me stranded on a reef whilst you sailed off wid twoscore slaves, half o’ which was mine by rights.’ Now the pirate’s voice began to carry a menacing undertone.
Badrang’s face was the picture of injured innocence. ‘Me sailed off ’n’ left you? More the other way round, as I recall. There was a mighty storm an’ we were blown off course. My vessel was wrecked an’ the slaves lost, all of ’em. When you never turned up to ’elp me, I trekked off overland an’ ended up in this place.’
In a trice the time for merriment and reminiscence was over. Clogg hurled his beaker at the wall and stood up.
‘Aye, an’ lookit you now, Lord Badrang if yer please! Surrounded by a fine fortress an’ a passel o’ slaves, I’ll wager. Well, I wants what’s due ter me, I’ve come fer my share!’
Badrang leaped up, confronting his enemy eye to eye. ‘I worked too hard to get what I’ve made ’ere, Clogg. Yore share is nothin’ an’ that’s what y’ll get!’
‘Do yer hear that lads?’ The pirate stoat drew his blade. ‘Let’s show this black-’earted swab that we ain’t ’ere to beg. We’ve come to take a full complement of slaves to row the Seascarab from all three decks!’
With a wild roar, Clogg’s crew unsheathed their weapons and stood ready for slaughter.
‘Make a move an’ yer Cap’n’s a dead un!’
The Tyrant made his move like lightning. Kicking aside Clogg’s blade, he grabbed the stoat’s plaited beard. A dagger appeared in his other paw, dangerously close to Tramun’s throat.
‘This blade is poisoned. One nick is all it takes. Hisk!’
‘The archers have surrounded these quarters, Lord,’ the weasel Captain called from the doorway. ‘They’re standin’ ready with poisoned shafts. None of this scum will leave alive.’
Clogg held up a paw to his crew. ‘Wait, hold yer rush, lads. Put those carvers up.’
He was still smiling, but Badrang could sense the animal rage behind Clogg’s grinning features as the pirate addressed him.
‘You win, matey, though I never thought you’d use a dirty trick like poisoned weapons against an ole shipmate. Put up yore blade. I’ll go peaceful like, back to me ship.’
Badrang stood at the main gates until every last corsair was out of his fortress. The Tyrant was satisfied he had outwitted his foe without bloodshed, which would have been considerable on both sides if a fight had broken out inside Marshank. The archers had their shafts trained on Clogg as he jabbed a warning paw at his enemy.
‘That’s twice you’ve crossed me, Badrang, but the third time I’ll win. I’m goin’, but ye can take an oath I’ll be back, so don’t rest easy, matey. One dark night I’ll slip in when yore least expectin’ it. Then I’ll slit yer gullet, take the slaves an’ burn this fancy place down round yore dead ears. That’s a promise!’
Owing to the heightened tension and upset of the pirates’ visit, it was not until late night that the prisoners were fed. Armed with a bowl of kitchen scraps and accompanied by Gurrad, a young male otter named Keyla stood dropping the leftovers through the grating to the prisoners below. Gurrad drew his cloak close against a chill breeze from the sea. He wanted to be back by the fire, eating roasted fish and drinking the damson wine that Clogg had left.
The rat shoved Keyla sharply. ‘C’mon you, stir your stumps. It’s cold out ’ere!’
Keyla shrugged as he sat down on the grating, poking scraps between the bars one bit at a time.
‘Cold, sir? I think it’s quite warm out here. Still, you do look a bit drawn and peakish. Maybe you’re coming down with fever.’
‘Fever? I ain’t got no fever.’ The rat shuddered and sniffed.
Gurrad was quite taken aback when the young otter stood up and tucked the cloak more snugly around him.
‘You never know, sir. Those searats bring all kinds of illness ashore with them. Why don’t you take yourself indoors by the fire and have a nice beaker of wine? I’ll see to these idiots. Huh, they’re only making things harder for us other slaves, behaving the way they do. Dim-witted fools. You run along now, sir. I’ll take care of feeding these three.’
Gurrad hesitated a moment then shivered as a fresh wind blew around him. That seemed to settle the issue.
‘Listen, I’m getting inside where I’ll be warmer. Don’t be too long out here and report straight back to the compound guard when you’re finished, d’you hear?’
Keyla threw the rat a smart salute. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I need my sleep, I won’t be long. Better hurry now, your eyes look a bit cloudy to me.’
Gurrad needed no further urging. He scurried off shivering and rubbing at his eyes, convinced he was sickening for fever.
Giggling quietly to himself the otter pressed his face to the grating and called down, ‘Felldoh, are you all right?’