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‘When blood of weak meets blood of strong,
Reap the whirlwind you have sown,
Beware the lightning summer mark,
Of one whom you have known.
To the Lord who scorns all pity,
Open wide Dark Forest gate,
There a little flower awaits,
One day to seal your fate.’
Nightshade the Seer
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published by Hutchinson Children’s Books 1995
Red Fox edition 1996
The right of Brian Jacques and Allan Curless to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
ISBN 0 09 960091 9
BOOK ONE
A Friendship Made
BOOK TWO
A Broken Trust
BOOK THREE
The Warrior’s Reckoning
It was a warm old autumn afternoon of russet and gold, a time for legends and stories of seasons long gone. Blue haze on the far horizon blended sea and sky into one. On the pale sands of a silent shore, ebbing waves had carelessly strewn a broken necklace of shells and pebbles along the tideline. Standing tall and mysterious was the mountain, like some huge beast guarding the coast. Salamandastron! Stronghold of Badger Lords and fighting hares. Once when the earth was young, it had spouted fire and molten rock. But the winds of time had long since banished smoke from the monolith, cooling its stones. Now Salamandastron was home and fortress combined, run through and honeycombed with halls, caverns, corridors, chambers, tunnels and secret places.
Midway up the west face on a broad rocky ledge, tufted with shrubs and wildflowers, a picnic lunch was set, close to the mouth of a tunnel entrance. Half a score of leverets, young hares, attended by a fully grown harewife, sat watching an ancient otter. Stooped and greyed by many seasons, he stood leaning on an ashpole, shaking his grizzled head in disapproval, as old creatures often will when faced with the young. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong for an old beast.
‘Hmph! Wish I was at the Abbey, those young uns at Redwall have proper manners. Instead o’ layin’ about gawpin’, first thing they’d do would be help a body sit down!’
Stifling a smile, the harewife watched the leverets scurrying around the aged otter, doing their best to show respect and concern as they assisted him.
‘A seat y’say, nothing simpler, old chap, er, I mean, sir.’
‘Pop y’self down here, sir, grass is nice an’ soft, wot!’
‘Whoops a daisy! Easy does it, ol’ sir!’
‘Lean y’back on this rock, that’s the ticket!’
‘Righto, ancient one, comfy enough now?’
The venerable beast nodded slowly. ‘Well enough, thank ye. Now, are you all goin’ t’stand there watchin’ a pore creature starve?’
There followed a further scuffle as the young hares set food and drink before their guest.
‘Enough tuck to kill a duck here, sir!’
‘Summer Salad an’ a beaker of Old Mountain Ale.’
‘How about freshbaked carrot’n’leek flan?’
‘Some scones with gooseberry jelly, very good y’know!’
‘Rather! Give the old chap a hot pastie!’
When the old otter was served, the harewife beckoned the young ones back to their seats. ‘Good show, chaps, but mind y’manners or Mister Rillbrook won’t tell you a story.’
Beneath fuzzy brows, Rillbrook’s old eyes glinted mischievously. He broke open a steaming pastie, and said, grumpily, ‘Story? Just stopped here t’rest awhile, marm, wasn’t intendin’ t’do no storytellin’.’
A fat, cheeky leveret piped up indignantly, ‘Scoffin’ a load of our grub an’ not tellin’ a story? I say, what a bally swizz!’
The harewife cuffed his long ear lightly. ‘Burrbob! That’s quite enough from you, m’laddo. I don’t think you deserve a story after such impudence!’
Rillbrook took a deep draught of Mountain Ale, smacked his lips and wiped a paw across his mouth. ‘Oh I dunno, marm, a good story often teaches rotters an’ rogues to be better creatures.’
The leverets shouted encouragement eagerly.
‘Rather, tell on, old chap!’
‘I’ll say! Anythin’ to make us better creatures, wot?’
‘Do us the world o’ good, doncha know!’
The ancient otter waited until silence fell and they were watching him expectantly, then he began.
‘They call me Rillbrook the Wanderer, son of Rillbrook the Wanderer, my grandsire was called Rillbrook the Wanderer . . .’
The cheeky Burrbob could be heard muttering, ‘I s’pose his great great auntie was called Rillbrook the thingummy, we know that, get on with the yarn. Yowch!’
This time the harewife’s quick paw did not descend so lightly on the impudent leveret’s ear. She fixed him with a frosty glare, and said, ‘One more word from you, sir, and it’s bed with no supper!’
Burrbob took the hint, becoming the very model of silence.
Rillbrook started from where he had left off.
‘I have wandered all the seasons of my life, near and far, sometimes under forgotten skies, along hidden streams, across silent forests. I have seen many things: mountains topped with snow, hot wastelands where creatures would kill for water. I have eaten among strangebeasts, listened to their songs, poems and stories, words that have brought tears and laughter to these old eyes. I have heard tales so mysterious that they trouble my memory and still return to roam my dreams on lonely nights.
‘Listen now, and I will relate to you a mighty saga. It concerns a Badger Lord who once ruled this mountain and his mortal enemy, a Ferret Warlord. The destiny of these two was entwined with many creatures, but mainly with two young ones who dwelt at the Abbey of Redwall. They were a pair thrown together by chance, for good or evil.
‘Each of us is born to follow a star, be it bright and shining, or dark and fated. Sometimes the paths of these stars will cross, bringing love or hatred. However, if you look up at the skies on a clear night, out of all the countless lights which twinkle and shine, there will come one. That star will be seen in a blaze, burning a path of light across the roof of the earth, a great comet. Think on these words as my tale unfolds. Mayhap you will learn something valuable, not about stars, but of the value friendship brings.’
1
Skarlath the kestrel fledged later than his brothers and sisters; the autumn was almost over when he left the nest never to return. This is the way with hawks. They are fierce and independent, free spirits who love to soar high.
So it was with Skarlath, but being young and reckless he flew north and was trapped by winter. Howling gales from the very edges of the world bore him away. The young kestrel was held captive by a whirling mass of snow that swept him over hill, dale and forest. Shrieking winds drove him along, a bundle of wet feathers in a tight cocoon of damp white flakes that built on to his plumage in small drifts. Helpless, Skarlath was shot like an arrow into a forest. His body smashed against the trunk of an old hornbeam. Relentlessly the storm plunged onward, keening a wild dirge, leaving in its wake the unconscious young kestrel.
Skarlath regained his senses slowly. It was night, still, with not a breeze about the forest. The cold was bitter and intense, and frost glittered and twinkled on snow-laden tree boughs. Somewhere close he could see the glow of a fire, but could not feel its heat. Voices and raucous laughter came from the lighted area, drawing him, but when he tried to move, the young kestrel squawked aloud in pain. His whole body was pinioned by ice; he was frozen tight, spreadeagled to the trunk of the hornbeam.
Swartt Sixclaw sat closest to the fire. He was a young ferret, but obviously the leader of the threescore vermin who made up the band. Tall, vicious and sinewy, Swartt had made himself Chieftain, because he was quicker and stronger than any who dared challenge him. He was a fearsome sight to friend and foe alike, his face striped with a sloping pattern of purple and green dye, teeth stained glistening red. Round his neck hung the teeth and claws of dead enemies. His left forepaw bore six claws – it rested on the hilt of a long curved sword thrust through a snakeskin belt.
The kestrel’s agonized cries brought Swartt upright. Kicking a nearby stoat, he snarled, ‘Trattak, go and see what’s makin’ that noise.’
The stoat scuttled obediently off into the snow-laden trees. It did not take him long to find Skarlath. ‘Over ’ere, some stupid bird got itself froze to a tree!’ he called out.
Swartt smiled wickedly at a young badger, tied to a log by a halter. It was a creature about the same age as himself, painfully hobbled and muzzled with rawhide strips. On its head was a broad, golden-coloured stripe. Drawing his sword, the ferret touched its point to the rare-coloured stripe. ‘Get up, Scumtripe, and give your master a ride over there,’ he said.
The vermin crowding round the flames jeered and laughed, as Swartt sat upon the badger’s back and goaded it forward, raking with his claws and slapping it with the flat of his swordblade. Hobbled close, the young creature could only take small stumbling steps. Anguished growls issued from its bound mouth as it fumbled through the snow.
Swartt thought it no end of a joke, shouting aloud for the benefit of his band, ‘Giddy up, Scumtripe, y’great lazy stripedog, move!’
Skarlath eyed the ferret fearfully, as Swartt brought his face close, leering and licking his lips. ‘Well now, what ’ave we ’ere? A kestrel, not as tasty as quail or woodpigeon, but young and tender I’ll wager. Stuck fast by the ice are ye, bird? That’ll keep y’nice an’ fresh until you join me at breakfast!’
Then, dragging the badger cruelly up, he tied the halter attached to its muzzle to an overhanging limb of the hornbeam. ‘Here’s a good job for ye, Scumtripe – guard my breakfast until mornin’! Yer gettin’ too fat’n’lazy lyin’ by the fire.’ Swartt Sixclaw strode off chuckling to rejoin his band round the flames, leaving the unfortunate pair fastened to the tree.
An hour passed, when all that could be heard was the crackling of pine logs as flames devoured them; the vermin camp was silenced in sleep. Suddenly, in one swift, silent movement, the badger flung his body close against the kestrel, trapping the bird between himself and the bark. At first the young kestrel thought he was to be smothered, but the warmth from the soft fur of the badger’s chest started to melt the ice. Slowly, Skarlath felt the blood begin to stir in his veins. Although the badger was tethered and muzzled he clung on tightly with all his strength until at last Skarlath was able to move his head and wings. Skarlath jerked his head around until he found himself looking into the dark eyes of the golden-striped creature. Both young ones stared at each other, communicating in silence. Then the badger held still as the hawk’s beak went to work. With short, savage movements Skarlath tore into the rawhide muzzle strips that bound the badger until they were ripped to shreds. The badger clenched and unclenched his teeth, testing his jaws, then bowing his great gold-striped head he devoured the rawhide hobbles that bound his paws, chewing and swallowing the strips in his hunger. They were both free!
‘Come, friend, we go, escape, get away!’ said Skarlath, keeping his voice to a hoarse whisper.
But the badger acted as if he had not heard his companion. Fierce anger burned in his eyes. Stretching his powerful young limbs, the badger seized a bough of the hornbeam and snapped it from the tree with a single wrench. Smashing the bough against the treetrunk, he broke it in two then, casting aside the thin end, he gripped the heavier piece with both paws. It was about half his own height, thicker at one end than the other, like some huge rough club. Roaring out his challenge, he charged the unwary vermin around the fire.
‘Eeulaliaaaaaa!’
The camp came to life instantly. Two vermin fell under the club as the badger threw himself at Swartt. Before the ferret had half drawn his sword the badger’s club thudded hard against his foe’s sixclawed paw. Swartt screeched and fell back injured, yelling to his creatures, ‘Stop him! Kill him!’
Skarlath saw the badger disappear under a crowd of vermin as they tried to bring him down, and he hurtled in, ripping and stabbing with beak and talons. Though the badger was weighted by foebeasts, none could fell him. He stood like a mighty young oak, flailing the club, his deep-throated warcry ringing through the forest.
‘Eeulaliaaaaa!’
Skarlath decided then that his friend was totally mad. The vermin numbers would tell soon and the badger would be brought down to be slain. Fighting his way through, the kestrel landed upon the badger’s shoulder and cried into his ear, ‘Come away or we’ll both be killed. Escape!’
The badger struggled to the fire’s edge and, using his club, he scattered the blazing logs into the ranks of his enemies. Flames whirred and sparks showered as he battered burning wood everywhere. It sizzled and steamed in the snow, throwing up choking clouds of smoke and wood ash. Then the two friends were away, the young badger bounding through the night forest with Skarlath perched upon his shoulder. Bursting with the energy of freedom they travelled tirelessly, crashing through bush, briar and bramble in a welter of flying snow.
Back in the ruined camp, all was confusion, smoke, ashes and freezing dark night. A weasel called Muggra extricated himself from a snowdrift where the badger’s club had bowled him. Rubbing his aching back he crawled over to where an older vixen named Nightshade was ministering to Swartt, binding his sixclawed paw with a poultice of herbs and snow. Muggra sneaked a pawful of the herbs and rubbed them on his own back, asking, ‘Shall we follow them an’ slay ’em with arrows?’
The vixen answered without looking up from her task. ‘Aye, best do it right away, before they get too far.’
Bad temperedly, Swartt made as if to raise his six-clawed paw and swipe out at them both, but the movement caused him to snarl in agony; his paw hung limp and throbbing. ‘Idiots! Get the fire goin’, quick, before we freeze t’death in the dark here,’ he spat. ‘Follow them? With me paw smashed an’ ruined, an’ five slain, another five, maybe, wounded or injured? I give orders round ’ere, mudbrains, we follow ’em when I’m ready, an’ not before!’
With lightning speed he shot out his good paw, and seizing the weasel Muggra by the neck he pulled him close, his hot breath vaporizing on the weasel’s face as he hissed, ‘But when this paw’s fixed an’ I’ve rested by a good fire, there’ll be noplace that badger can hide from Swartt Sixclaw. I’ll follow that one to the edge of the world or to Hellgates, and he’ll take a long time t’die at the blade of my sword. I’ll hunt him t’the death an’ slay him bit by bit, if it takes me ten seasons!’
The vixen Nightshade continued binding Swartt’s paw, fixing the herbs and snow tight, with mud from the earth where the fire had been, and strips of aspen bark. ‘If you leave it later than this night it will take you a lifetime,’ she said as she worked.
Swartt winced as the dressing tightened. ‘Shut yer slimy mouth, fox, always seein’ the future, or sayin’ that y’do. I could fix your future with one swing of me sword, that’d keep you quiet!’
Muggra was choking under Swartt’s grip. The ferret looked at the weasel as if just noticing him. ‘What’re you doin’ gurglin’ there, didn’t I tell y’to get a fire goin’? Trattak! Halfrump! Gerrout an’ forage for dry timber! The rest of you, get shot of those deadbeasts an’ clear this place up!’ He flung the weasel aside.
Later, as fresh flames licked hungrily around resinous pine boughs, Swartt lay back gritting his teeth, and muttering savagely: ‘We’ll meet again, badger. Make the best of these few days y’ve got left – I’ll find ye, Scumtripe!’
2
The badger did not stop running until it was broad daylight, cold and crystal clear. He halted in a small clearing at the forest edge. Skarlath fluttered to one side as the hefty young badger threw himself down in the snow and lay panting, tongue lolling, as steam rose from his thick coat. After a while he sat up, cramming pawfuls of the cooling snow into his mouth and gulping them down.
Skarlath hopped about, testing his wings with short swoops, noting gratefully that his pinions were undamaged. Glad to be alive he shook his plumage and spread his wings. ‘Heeeeh! Rest, friend, then we go far away!’ he cried.
The badger stood and picked up his club. ‘You go where you want. When I’ve rested and found something to eat I’m going back there to slay that vermin Swartt Sixclaw!’
The young kestrel took flight and wheeled round the badger’s head, his wings brushing his friend’s gold-striped muzzle. ‘Heekeeer!’ he cried. ‘Then you are a deadbeast, my friend. Swartt has too many vermin, you will surely be slain!’
The badger clenched his jaws as his body trembled with rage. ‘For many seasons that ferret held me slave, dragging me around hobbled and muzzled, starving, beating, making fun of me. Scumtripe, that was his name for me – Scumtripe! I’ll make him repeat my name ten-score times before I slay him with this club. But what is my name?’
Whirling his club, the badger charged a dead elm stump and struck the rotting wood a mighty blow . . . Whumpff! A hole appeared in the elm stump as Skarlath shrieked out, ‘Kreeee! Look, food!’
Hazelnuts, chestnuts and acorns poured out onto the snow, the forgotten cache of some careless squirrel. Anger was momentarily forgotten as the two friends laughed aloud at their good fortune and fell upon the life-giving treasure. Sitting on the stump, the badger cracked shells in his strong teeth and placed the nuts before his friend. Soon they were both crunching and munching.
The kestrel spoke around a beakful of chestnut: ‘I am Skarlath, I was alone, but you saved my life, now I am with you. Where come you from, friend?’
Scratching his golden stripe, the badger chewed thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure, I think I had a mother, Bella or Bellen or something, it’s hard to remember. I must have been very young. Boar the Fighter, that’s a name I recall, maybe he was my father, or my grandsire, I’m not certain. Sometimes I dream about home, or maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels nice. Then there’s the mountain, was that my home? It is all very mixed up. But Swartt Sixclaw, I won’t forget him . . .’ The young badger looked quizzically at his friend the kestrel. ‘Maybe Swartt was right, perhaps my name is Scumtripe. He gave me that name. What do you think my name should be, friend Skarlath?’
The kestrel felt fierce pity for the young badger well up in him. He hopped up onto the strong dark furred shoulder, and cried, ‘Kreeeee! Your name I don’t know. But I know you are a great warrior, slay five and injure many, like a lightning bolt! There is none so quick or strong with a mace as you!’
The badger picked up his hornbeam limb and hefted it. ‘So this is a mace, is it? I never knew a mace looked like this!’
Skarlath looked at the hulking young beast with his tree limb. ‘If you call it a mace methinks nobeast would argue the point. Warriors like you can be anything they want to be. You are unsure of your true name. I will give you a good name. The mark of the sun is on your face, your speed is that of lightning, you have your own special weapon . . . You are Sunflash the Mace!’
The badger laughed happily and, standing at his full height, he spun the formidable hornbeam in his paws and roared: ‘I have a name! It is a good name! I know who I am! Sunflash the Mace! Eeulaliaaaaaaa!’
Skarlath took wing and circled high, calling wildly, ‘Kreeeeeeee! Sunflash the Mace! Kreeeeeeeee!’
When the kestrel flew to earth again, Sunflash was away, already backtracking swiftly through the forest. Skarlath winged between the trees after him. ‘Sunflash, where do you go?’ he called.
The warrior blood was rising in the badger’s eyes as he brushed past Skarlath. ‘Out of my way,’ he growled. ‘I am going to settle accounts with the ferret!’
‘So, you go to your death!’ said Skarlath, as he found his perch on the big shoulder and clung doggedly. ‘I have told you Swartt has too many vermin, even for you. No matter, I have sworn to stay by your side. I go with you, and we will both be slain!’
Sunflash halted. ‘But what else can I do?’ he said, a bewildered look on his young face. ‘Sixclaw is my enemy!’
Skarlath was wise for a young kestrel. He rapped his beak lightly against the skull of Sunflash, saying, ‘We can think! You are brave, but headstrong. Why risk your life against the odds when, if we take our time, we can be certain victors one day.’
Sunflash sat down in the snow, leaning his chin on the mace as he gazed at his companion. ‘Tell me how we will do this? I will listen and learn.’
Thus began the education of Sunflash the Mace. Skarlath outlined his plan, which was simple and should be effective. ‘Why run after Swartt? He will be coming after us. The ferret will lose face in front of his vermin if he lets you live. Let Sixclaw wear himself out chasing us, while we leave this cold land and find warm country, where it is green and there is plenty of food. There we can rest and grow strong.
‘I will be your eyes and ears, flying high, watching for Swartt, listening for information. When the time is ripe, then we strike cleverly, my friend, like wasps we worry the ferret and his band. In and out, sting and disappear, slay one or two at a time, strike like Sunflash, vanish like smoke. Then Swartt will come to fear us, he will realize that you will not disappear – that one day he will turn round and you will be there, waiting. This will trouble his mind, haunt his sleep. That is my plan. What do you think?’
A broad smile spread across Sunflash’s face. ‘It is a great plan, Skarlath. I will learn to think like the kestrel. Lead on!’
That day the two friends began travelling south and west on a journey that would last many seasons. Sunflash strode over hill, valley and plain, whilst Skarlath soared and circled overhead, scouting out the land. Winter passed into spring as the two friends journeyed onward, growing up together, getting wiser, seeing and learning as they went. Sunflash could not stand injustice, and wherever he saw creatures being oppressed or enslaved, the big badger, remembering his own enslavement by Swartt, meted out terrible retribution to their tormentors.
His name and fame began spreading. Songs and poems sprang up in the lands he and Skarlath travelled through. Most were heroic, and some, like this one, were humorous:
I met with six weasels one warm summer night,
And I feared for my life I’d be beaten and slain,
But their faces were fearful, all ashen with fright,
They jibbered and whimpered like they were insane.
‘O save us, preserve us, O hide us from him,
The one with the mark of the sun on his face,
In one paw he carries a great hornbeam limb,
He’s the Warrior Lord they call Sunflash the Mace!’
Of a sudden the earth seemed to tremble and shake,
And the verminous weasels passed out in a swoon,
As he came like the wind, with a hawk in his wake,
There he stood strong and tall ’neath the moon.
I’ll never forget what he told me that night,
While he looked at the weasels, stretched out where they fell.
‘You’re a very brave beast to down six in one fight,
For a small baby dormouse you’ve done very well!’
But as more seasons passed and time went on, things did not quite turn out as Skarlath had said they would. Swartt Sixclaw had tracked them as predicted, and Sunflash and his friend worried them, striking at them many times. Each attack was successful, and the ferret lost quite a few of his vermin to the lightning strikes of Sunflash. But Swartt was no fool. The realization of the badger’s guerrilla tactics came home to him one sunny morning in low hill country to the north of Mossflower Woods. Two vermin whom he valued highly, Spurhakk the stoat and Bulfie, a ferret like himself, both hardened and skilful warriors, had vanished overnight. Swartt sat hunched over a small fire, massaging his damaged paw. From shoulder to elbow the limb was as strong as ever, but the sixclawed paw was rigid and unmoving. It ached every morning, reminding him of the winter night when the young badger smashed it with a piece of hornbeam. Nightshade approached with three others who had been out searching for the missing warriors. Swartt quickly pulled a gauntlet onto his dead paw. It was a heavy affair, meshed brass mail, with two weighty copper fasteners, and it made a very formidable weapon. He glanced up at the vixen and snarled, ‘Well, didyer find ’em?’
Nightshade squatted down on the other side of the fire. ‘Aye, both sitting up against a sycamore in a copse over yonder, stone dead, each holding one of these.’ She tossed over two long-stemmed water plants.
Swartt picked them up and inspected them. ‘Bulrushes?’ he said.
Nightshade was a healer, and she knew every plant by name. ‘That’s right, bulrushes. They are also called reed mace, or just mace in some parts of the country.’
Swartt Sixclaw flung them on the fire and watched them smoulder. ‘Mace! It doesn’t take a genius to work out who did this.’
The vixen narrowed her eyes against the smoke of the fire, saying, ‘You should have caught him and slain him the night he escaped.’
Swartt leapt up. Drawing his sword, he scattered the fire, and shouted, ‘Should have! Might have! Would have! That’s in the past! Get those idlers up off their tails, we travel east!’
The vixen sprang aside to avoid the burning embers. ‘East? But my scouts tell me Sunflash still travels south by west. What is there in the east?’
‘Bowfleg!’
Nightshade raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Bowfleg the Warlord?’
Swartt thrust the sword back through his belt, sneering, ‘Bowfleg the Warlord, hah! You mean Bowfleg the Old, Bowfleg the Fat, Bowfleg the Glutton!’
Nightshade shrugged. ‘Still, he leads a great horde.’
Swartt chuckled evilly as he marched off. ‘Not for long!’
3
The far northwest fringes of Mossflower Woods are broken by rocky outcrops, gullies and hills. One could wonder why creatures bothered living there when the woodlands further inward were so lush and bounteous. But home is home and often creatures do not like to move away from the familiar surroundings of their birthplaces. So it was with the hedgehog family of Tirry Lingl and the mole kin of Bruff Dubbo, who had shared the same dwelling cave for untold generations. Tirry and his wife Dearie had four small hogs, scarce a season and a half old. Not counting his old Uncle Blunn and Aunt Ummer, Bruff had his wife Lully and two little molemaid daughters Nilly and Podd to provide for.
However, the dwelling cave of both families was not a happy place. It was a hungry and dangerous time for them, for outside in the grey drizzling afternoon another family waited, a family of five foxes. The old vixen with a hulking son covered the back exit, whilst the father, an equally old dogfox, sat outside the front entrance with a fully grown son and daughter who towered over him. They had been there nearly half a season, laying siege to the dwelling. It was quite easy to relieve one another for the purposes of eating and sleeping, and still keep up a presence, taunting and reasoning by turns, knowing they had the hedgehogs and moles prisoners in their own home until hunger forced them out.
‘Don’t be foolish, come out, there’s food here, friends,’ the vixen wheedled.
Tirry Lingl shouted back at them, ‘Garn, shift yoreselves, vermin, you ain’t welcome ’ere!’
The hulking fox son sniggered as he called into the back exit, ‘Heehee, there’ll be something tasty here when you come out. Heeheehee. You!’
The vixen nipped him sharply on his ear. ‘Shuttup, acorn brain, do you want to scare ’em to death?’
The old father fox cajoled at the front entrance. ‘Come on, be reasonable, we just want to talk. You don’t think we’d hurt yer liddle ones, do yer?’
Inside the dwelling, Bruff Dubbo helped Tirry to shore up the barricade they had made from furniture and the bit of earth they could scrabble from the cave’s rocky interior.
Bruff shook his dark furry head sadly as he spoke in quaint mole dialect to his companion. ‘Hurr oi wish’t oi ’ad moi ole bow’n’arrers, they vurmints’d soon shift they’m selves, hurr aye!’
Tirry Lingl peered through a gap between an armchair and a table at the foxes sitting outside. ‘They’ve got time on their rotten ole side, Bruff, we ain’t. Liddle uns drank the last o’ the water this mornin’ an’ there’s nought but a stale rye crust stannin’ atwixt us an’ starvation.’
Uncle Blunn’s quavery voice piped up behind them. ‘You’m rarscalls! Oi’m a cummen owt thurr to beat ee with moi gurt stick, ho urr, so oi am!’
Bruff turned the old fellow round, patting his back. ‘You’m a fierce ole h’aminal, Nuncle Blunn, but et be toime furr ee noontide nap. Hurr thurr, go’n lay ee daown.’
Back in the cave, the little hedgehogs began weeping for food and a drink, and the two wives, Lully and Dearie, shushed them soothingly. The small group slumped dejected, knowing what their inevitable fate would be.
Sunflash the Mace sat amid the pines and shrubs on a neighbouring hillside, invisible to the foxes as he watched the scene below. Rain dripped from the edges of an old green cloak draped over his head. The warrior looked up now and then, searching the skies for the familiar figure of Skarlath to break through the drab curtain of drizzle, and then rested his chin on his mace handle. Over the seasons he had shaped it into a weapon that would last throughout his life. The handle had a tight binding of whipcord which formed a loop to go over his paw, and the rest of the club had been fire-hardened, oiled and polished. Several arrowheads and speartips were half buried in the wide, rounded head of the mace. Only Sunflash had the skill and strength to wield such a formidable weapon.
Skarlath had seen the foxes, too. He landed out of their sight and crept silently up until he was at Sunflash’s side.
‘Friend Skarlath, what news of Swartt Sixclaw?’ said the badger, keeping his eyes on the foxes below.
The kestrel edged under Sunflash’s cloak, out of the rain. ‘Gone east three sunrises back, mayhap we were thinning his ranks too fine for him to follow us safely.’
Sunflash never once moved his eyes from the foxes. ‘I think you’re right, but he’ll be after us again someday, a little older, angrier, and with a lot more help. His ruined sixclaw won’t let him forget us. Maybe we’ll wait here for him.’
The kestrel’s keen eyes began watching the foxes closely. ‘They look like they’re all one brood, what are they up to?’
Sunflash pointed a huge paw at the cave entrance. ‘I think they’ve got some likely victims bottled up in there. I was waiting on your return. The foxes are just bullies, I would not feel justified in slaying them, but they must be taught a lesson. If they see me, they’ll be frightened off. Would you go down and speak to those foxes for me, my friend?’
The young vixen and her brothers were running out of patience, and they began hurling stones through the cave entrance and shouting, ‘Get out here, you stupid beasts!’
‘I’ll count to ten and then we’re coming in after you . . . One!’
Skarlath fluttered to earth between the cave and the foxes. ‘Kreeeeee! You must go from here!’
The old fox did not appear at all disturbed. ‘Who are you, bird, what d’yer want?’ he said, indignantly.
The kestrel treated him with lofty disdain. ‘Who I am matters not. I was sent here to tell you to go quickly and stop persecuting whoever lives in yonder cave.’
The hulking son and his vixen mother came dashing round from the rear entrance, and he picked up a stone and made to hurl it at the kestrel.
Skarlath spread his wings wide. ‘Throw the stone and you will not see nightfall!’
‘The bird’s bluffing,’ the vixen snarled nastily. ‘There’s only him! Come on, rush him!’
Before they could move the mace came hissing through the air and thudded upright in the wet ground. A voice like thunder froze the foxes in their tracks.
‘Be still or die! Eeulaliaaaaa!’
They watched astounded as a huge badger came bounding down the hillside. Taking a rock ledge in his stride, he gave a mighty leap and landed among them with a roar.
‘I am Sunflash the Mace!’
The vermin had heard the name; they crouched against the earth, trembling.
Sunflash nodded to Skarlath. ‘See who lives in the cave. Tell them they are safe.’
Peering through the barricade of furniture, Bruff’s wife Lully called out, ‘Yurr, ’tis an ’awkburd!’
Old Uncle Blunn roused himself from his noontide nap. ‘Did ee say an ’awkburd? Wait’ll oi gets moi gurt stick, oi’ll give’m billyoh!’
Tirry clambered to the top of the barricade, crying, ‘Lack a day, first foxes, then ’awks, wotever next? Well, my friend, d’you want to eat us too?’
Skarlath kept his voice gentle and tried a smile. ‘No, I don’t want to eat you, I am your friend. Do you know of one called Sunflash the Mace?’
Tirry’s wife Dearie poked her spiky head through a gap in the barricade. ‘Sunflash the Mace, d’you say? I’ve ’eard of that one – a great warrior, they say. Is he outside? I’d be ’onoured t’make his acquaintance!’
It took a great deal of fussing and persuading to get old Uncle Blunn and Auntie Ummer out, but the little ones had no fear at all of the majestic badger warrior. Tirry and Bruff were completely awestruck. The foxes lay face down in the dirt, Skarlath keeping a fierce eye upon them. When Uncle Blunn was eventually coaxed out, he brought his ‘gurt stick’ and began laying about at the foxes. Bruff took the stick from the old fellow, saying ‘Yurr, Nuncle, doan’t ee beat yon vurmin round, ee gurt zurr Sunflash moight want t’do that hisself, hurr!’
The badger warrior listened carefully as Tirry, acting the part of spokesbeast for both families, explained how the foxes had besieged and starved them. Sunflash listened, stifling a smile as he felt the two tiny molemaids licking rainwater from his paw. Then, grasping his club, he winked at Skarlath, and said, ‘Stand those vermin upright, friend! Let me look at their scurvy faces while I decide what to do with them!’
The mudfaced foxes wept and shivered as they faced the scowling warrior.
‘So these are the tormentors of babes and old ones, these are the terrorizers of the defenceless. Well, what have you to say for yourselves?’
The father fox was about to speak when Skarlath’s wing buffeted him into silence. The kestrel knew the part he had to play. Scowling murderously, he strutted up and down, saying, ‘Lord Sunflash, these scum are not fit to speak. They are villains and foebeasts, I say we kill them!’
‘Whoooaaa no, please Lord, spare us, we meant them no harm!’ The entire fox family flopped down and grovelled on the wet earth, wailing piteously.
Skarlath winked at Sunflash, and the badger twirled his mace thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, if we slay them here it might upset these little ones, then there’s all that digging holes and burying carcasses . . .’ Sunflash winked at Tirry, who had caught on to the idea. ‘What do you think, sir? It was your family that suffered.’
Tirry Lingl paced pensively across the backs of the foxes’ necks, driving them face down into the earth as he ruminated. ‘You ’ave a point there, sir, but if you ’adn’t come along these blaggards would’ve slain us. P’raps you’d best take them somewhere out of sight and finish them off, they surely deserve no better. But I leave it up to you, Lord Sunflash.’
The foxes’ blubbering rose in a crescendo, and Sunflash had to shout aloud to be heard. ‘I think I’ll do it right here and now if this noise continues!’
The fox family were suddenly struck dumb, pressing their quaking bodies against the earth. Bruff Dubbo’s old Auntie Ummer shook a paw at them. ‘Burr, you’m villyuns, see ’ow you’m loikes a ladle of ee own medicine, hurr hurr, surve ee roight!’
Sunflash produced a good-sized lilac leaf and, making a slight split in it, he folded the leaf in two. Then he locked it between both paws, put it to his lips and blew.
‘Phweeeeeeeerrrrrr!’
He passed the leaf to Tirry Lingl, saying, ‘Can you make a noise like that?’
The hedgehog did, making an even louder noise than Sunflash. ‘Makin’ leaf whistles an’ blowin’ on ’em, that was one of my favourite pastimes as a young un, why d’you ask?’
Sunflash turned to the foxes, his voice stern. ‘All of these good creatures are going to learn that noise, and then they will always carry a leaf with them, night and day. The kestrel can hear it almost a day’s flight away, and if he does not, then other birds will hear it and tell him. Now listen carefully, foxes, because your lives depend on it. You must leave here and travel north. Never, I say never, must you return. Should you ignore my words and come back to these woods, the creatures you threaten will signal and I, Sunflash, swear a solemn oath upon my mace, that I will seek you out and destroy you. Understood?’
Thoroughly cowed, the foxes bobbed their heads up and down, nodding furiously, too scared even to speak. Then Sunflash began spinning the deadly hornbeam mace from paw to paw, his voice rising menacingly to a full-throated roar.
‘I have given you your unworthy lives, but if you are still standing here by the time I have finished speaking I am certain I will regret my decision. So I want to see how fast you can run, due north. Now!’
Wet earth, pebbles and grass flew as the five former bullies scrabbled into a headlong takeoff. In a very short time the sound of their speeding paws was gone. Silence reigned outside the Dubbo-Lingl cave, and then suddenly all present broke out into hearty laughter.
There followed a round of introductions, congratulations and thanks from both families. The four baby hogs and the two little molemaids had never seen anything as big and furry as Sunflash. They clambered all over him, smiling into his face and stroking the broad golden stripe on his muzzle.
‘Ee’m be a mounting wid furr on!’
‘Big wunnerful aminal!’
The badger stood stock still, fearing to move lest he upset the tiny creatures or trod on them. His huge face was wreathed in a pleased grin; he had never encountered beasts so small and affectionate. Tirry’s wife Dearie and her friend Lully the molewife fussed about, throwing their aprons over their faces in embarrassment as they chided the babes.
‘Do come away now, leave the gennelbeast alone. Lack a day, sir, wot must you think o’ us all?’
‘Hurr aye, you an’ ee ’awkburd be welcome to rest awhoil in our dwellin’ cave. Us’n’s be back at eventoide with vittles aplenty, then us’ll all make ee well fed, bo urr aye!’
Both families fled into the surrounding woodland to forage for food, leaving Sunflash and Skarlath the hospitality of their cave. The two friends shifted the barricade and took their ease on thick woven rush mats. Surrounded by the peace and quiet of the homely atmosphere they were soon deep in slumber.
In his dreams, Sunflash could hear waves lapping against the shore; he saw pale sand, sea, and the mountain. A great feeling of longing swept over him, and he wanted so badly to be there, yet it seemed distant and intangible. Somewhere a deep voice, that of a grown male badger, was chanting:
‘Find me one day ’neath the sun,
Guarding the land and the seas.
Streams to the rivers must run,
Telling their tales to the breeze.
You are Lord, by the blood of your sires,
From dawn ’til the daylight dies,
As the sun burns the sea with its fires,
And stars pin night’s cloak to the skies.
Find me whenever you will,
Seek me wherever you may.
All of your dreams fulfil,
’Ere time like the mist rolls away . . .’
Reality seeped back slowly: a warm glowing fire, tantalizing odours and the mole and hogbabes stroking his headstripe and tickling Skarlath’s wing feathers.
‘Wake ee upp, zurrs!’
‘Vittles be yurr aplenty.’
‘Mum says you two’n’s will take some feedin’!’
Tirry shooed the babes off. ‘Come away, you liddle rogues, let the pore creatures up now.’
Around the fire in the cave’s centre various concoctions were cooling on flat rock slabs. Bruff Dubbo presented them with beakers which he filled from a pottery jug. ‘Yurr, friends, ’tis on’y dandelion an’ burdock cordial, but et be noice an’ cool t’drink, ho aye!’
It was dark, sweet and delicious, and the two friends slaked their thirst. Dearie Lingl pushed two of her brood forward, saying, ‘Standee up straight, ’oglets, an’ say your piece. C’mon now, stop suckin’ those quills or they’ll never ’arden. Speak out!’
Both the small hedgehogs shuffled about, tugging their headspikes respectfully as they recited:
‘Thankee sir ’awk an’ sir badger . . .’
‘For savin’ all in this cave . . .’
‘From the naughty foxes . . .’
‘Aye, naughty, naughty foxes!’
‘Bad verminy foxes!’
‘Rotten uckypaw stinky ole foxes!’
Dearie wagged a paw at her little ones. ‘Tut tut! That’s quite enough thankee!’ She turned to the two friends, who were hiding smiles by burying their faces in the beakers, and said, ‘Wot my liddle ones was sayin’ is that our families would like to thank you for rescuin’ us from the vermin. You must stay ’ere as long as you wish, our cave is yours. Come now, friends, enough talkin’, ’elp yourselves to food.’
Sunflash and Skarlath had never tasted such good cooking. There was young onion and leek soup, hot brown bread spread with a paste made from beechnuts, a woodland salad and a huge apple and greengage crumble. The crumble was a great favourite with the little ones, who spread it thick with honey.
Old Uncle Blunn sipped piping hot soup from a wooden bowl gratefully. ‘Oi wurr feared oi’d waste away to an ole shadow. Gurr! Vittles do taste gudd arter all that ’unger!’
Sunflash had an enormous appetite, but the good-wives of Tirry and Bruff would not hear of him stinting himself.
‘Allus plenty more, zurr, thurr be an ’ole woodland full o’ vittles for us’n’s to choose from now ee’ve set uz free!’
And so Sunflash the Mace did full justice to the spread.
It was late into the night when he and the kestrel sprawled by the fire, warm, rested and, for the first time in many a season, unable to eat another mouthful. The old mole, Auntie Ummer, hunted out a curious-looking instrument, a stout pole with bells, two strings and a pawdrum attached to its base. She plucked the strings, jangled the bells and tapped the drum with a footpaw. The babes, who were far too excited to sleep, began jigging and hopping around the fire, clapping their paws.
‘Whurrhoo! Play ee gurdelstick! Whurrhoo!’
Old Uncle Blunn began tapping his paws and chanting:
‘Willy Nilly Nilly, Pod Pod Pod!
All you’m ’oglets stamp ee ground,
Moi ole paws b’ain’t young loike yores,
Show us ’ow ee darnce around!’
The gurdelstick music speeded up and the little ones whirled and leaped, jigged and tumbled until they collapsed in a giggling heap, yelling for dandelion and burdock cordial. Tirry invited the friends to sing, but his guests declined, Skarlath being too shy and Sunflash explaining that he had never learned a song, being in captivity most of his young life.
The homely hedgehog patted Sunflash’s massive paw. ‘By me spikes, that is a shame! No matter, my Dearie ’as a voice like a lark at morn in a meadow, she’ll cheer you up!’
Dearie Lingl had a jolly, clear voice, and she sang happily.
‘I once ’ad a cattypillar come t’live with me,
We was both the best of friends as ever there c’d be,
He’d wiggle round upon the ground, he’d smile an’ Shake my paw,
An’ every time that I went out, stop in an’ guard my door.
But then one time when I returned I cried out “Lack a day!”
My little cattypillar he had left an’ gone away,
An’ there upon my mantelpiece, a butterfly I saw,
Far too proud to speak to me, he flew right out the door.
Coloured bright in warm sunlight, that creature winged away,
I’ve never found my cattypillar to this very day,
Which makes me say unto myself, now I am old and wise,
I do like cattypillars, but I can’t stand butterflies!’
Laughter and applause greeted Dearie’s song. The two families were used to entertaining themselves, and there followed a whole repertoire of songs, poems and dances. Then, as the fire was allowed to fall into embers, they took their rest in the warm, dim cave.
Sunflash had never been so happy and contented in his life. He hummed along as one of the small hedgehogs sang herself to sleep drowsily with a curious little chant:
‘Arm not alas sand, ’way south in the west,
So star land a mat, there’s where I love best,
Sand not as alarm, lone seabirds do wing,
And alas most ran, list’ to me whilst I sing.’
Each time the babe reached the end of this strange ditty she went back to the beginning and sang it again, her voice growing drowsier and drowsier until it was silenced by sleep. Something about the jumbled, meaningless words and the sad tune kept going round in Sunflash’s mind. Finally, he shook Tirry gently, and said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, are you awake?’
‘Hm, mm, just about, friend, d’you need ought?’
‘That song your little daughter was singing, what is it?’
‘Oh, you mean the one with all the funny mixed-up words and the nice tune. It’s an old thing that my Dearie learned from her mother, she prob’ly learned it from her mother and so on, way back. All our hoglets know it, pretty tune, silly verse.’
Sunflash gazed into the glowing embers through half closed eyes, and said, ‘I don’t know why, but I’d like to learn it.’
Tirry smiled as he settled into a comfortable ball. ‘I’ll tell the babes tomorrow, they’ll be only too happy to oblige ye, sir.’
4
The seasons turned through spring and summer to a mellow autumn. In the highlands of the far east, Bowfleg’s drums beat out their message of warning, whilst Swartt and his ragged band of vermin traversed over tor and scrubland. The pounding drums sent word to three rat runners from Bowfleg’s camp, who took off at a swift lope, heading for a long cliffrange which puckered the land like an old scar.
At the foot of the cliffs, bunched close like dirty thunderclouds, lay the tents of Bowfleg the Warlord. The runners halted beneath the purple pavilion awning of the sprawling tent at the hub of it all, and prostrated themselves in front of the circular dais. Bowfleg lolled on his throne, peering at the messengers through the puffy eyelids of his swollen features. The old ferret grunted as he leaned his gargantuan bulk forward, and asked, ‘H’wodd do de dromms say?’
At the sound of the Warlord’s strange accent the senior rat looked up and made his report. ‘Mighty One, the drums tell of Swartt Sixclaw coming hither with a band numbering not more than twoscore.’
Bowfleg dismissed them with a snort. ‘Chah! Dadd one, de runaway, met’ink ’e be longdead!’
A stoat Captain standing nearby leaned close to Bowfleg. ‘Sixclaw was always spoken of as a wildbeast, a strong fighter, even when he was very young. I would watch that one, Lord.’
Bowfleg grabbed a roasted thrush from a side table and wrenched off a mouthful. ‘H’Swartt, ’e can join my ’orderanks, de gudd fighter iss always of use. If nodd, I crosh ’im, like dis!’ The Warlord flattened the thrush carcass against his throne with a single blow of his clenched paw. ‘Bring ’im ’ere when ’e arrive!’
The stoat Captain, whose name was Greenclaw, saluted smartly and marched off.