Prologue

My father always says that the life of a scholar is more rewarding than that of a cook. When I asked him why, he told me it is better to have ink on your paws than flour on your nose. But then he grew serious and explained to me that to be a Recorder at Redwall Abbey is a great honor. He said that my writings will form part of our Abbey's history. They will remain there for all creatures to see, forever and ever. Then he laughed and said that no matter how much care goes into the making of a piecrust, it disappears in the space of a single meal. So I am serving my apprenticeship under that good old mouse, Brother Hoben, our senior Recorder. Old Hoben sleeps a lot these days, so I get lots of practice. I am finding more and more that I like to write. My mother thinks my writing shows a great talent. But mothers are like that, aren't they?

I have been working since last winter on the strange tale of the Taggerung. I have spoken to many Redwallers about it in the evenings, and spent my days writing it up. What a story it is! Brother Hoben says that every good tale should have the proper ingredients and they are all here, believe me. Sadness and joy, comedy and tragedy, with a little mystery sprinkled throughout and quite a good dose of rousing action. Sounds a bit like a cooking recipe to me. Be that as it may be, I have finished writing the account. This evening I am due to start reading my narrative to all the Redwallers, in Cavern Hole. Winter is the best time for stories: a good warm fire, some tasty food and drink, and an attentive audience. Who could ask for more? I can see the snow lying deep on the ground outside our gatehouse; icicles are hanging from the trees instead of leaves. Daylight is fading as night steals in early. All that remains for me to do is to wash this ink off my paws, get my scarf .. . oh, and wake Brother Hoben. The old fellow is in his armchair, snoozing by the embers of the fire. Then it's off to Cavern Hole to read the tale to my friends. I'm really looking forward to it.

Would you like to come and listen? I'm sure you'll be welcome. If you don't know the way, then follow me and Brother Hoben, though it will take a while, as he shuffles quite slowly and has to lean on me. By the way, don't forget to wipe your paws before entering the Abbey. Oh, and another thing, please compliment my dad on his Autumn Harvest soup; I know that will please him. Right then, away we go. Watch out for Dibbuns throwing snowballs. Come on, we don't want to be late. Silly me, how can we be late? They can't start without me. I'm the one who will be reading the tale of the Taggerung, you know. But I've already told you that. Sorry. Up you come, Brother Hoben, you can sleep by the fire in Cavern Hole. But don't snore too loud or my mother will wake you up and tell you not to interrupt her talented daughter's wonderful story. That's mothers for you, eh!

Sister Rosabel,

Assistant Recorder of Redwall Abbey.

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Book 1

The Babe at the Ford

Chapter 1

The clan of Sawney Rath could feel their fortunes changing, much for the better. Grissoul had predicted it would be thus, and the vixen was seldom wrong. Only that day the clan foragers had caught a huge load of mackerel that had strayed into the shallows of the incoming tide. Fires blazed in the scrubland beyond the dunes that evening, as the fish, skewered on green withes, blistered and popped over the flames. Sawney was not as big as other ferrets, but he was faster, smarter and far more savage than any stoat, rat, weasel, fox or ferret among his followers. Anybeast could lay claim to the clan leadership, providing they could defeat Sawney in combat, but for a long time none had dared to. Sawney Rath could fight with a ferocity that was unequaled, and he never spared the vanquished challengers. Sawney's clan were nomads, sixty all told, thieves, vagrants, vagabonds and tricksters who would murder and plunder without hesitation. They were Juska.

Many bands of Juska roamed the coasts, woodlands and byways, but they never formed a united force, each choosing to go its own way under a strong Chieftain. This leader always tacked his name on to the Juska title, so that Sawney's clan came to be known as the Juskarath. Though they were little more than dry-land pirates, Juska vermin had quite a strict code of conduct, which was governed by seers, omens and superstition.

Sawney sat beneath the awning of his tent, sipping a vile-tasting medication that his seer Grissoul had concocted to ease the stomach pains that constantly dogged him. He watched the clan, noting their free and easy mood. Sawney smiled as some of the rats struck up a song. Rats were easily pleased; once they had a full stomach and a flagon of nettle beer they would either sing or sleep. Sawney was only half watching the rats, his real attention focused upon the stoat Antigra. She lay nursing her newborn, a son called Zann. Sawney could tell Antigra was feigning slumber from the hate-laden glances she threw his way when she thought he was not looking. Sawney Rath's eyes missed very little of what went on around him. He pulled a face of disgust as he sniffed the mixture of feverfew and treacle mustard in the cup he held, and, spitting into the fire, he muttered the newborn stoatbabe's name.

"Hah, Zann!"

Grissoul the Seer stole up out of the gathering darkness and placed a steaming plate of food by his side. He glanced up at the vixen. She was an odd-looking fox, even for a seer. She wore a barkcloth cloak that she had covered in red and black symbols, and her brow, neck and limbs were almost invisible under bracelets of coral, brass and silver. About her waist she wore a belt from which hung a broad pouch and bones of all kinds. One of her eyes was never still.

Sawney tipped the plate with his footpaw. "Am I supposed to eat this mess?"

She smiled coaxingly. "Yar, 'tis the mackerel without skin or bone, stewed in milkweed and dock. Thy stomach'll favor it!"

The ferret drew from his belt a lethally beautiful knife, straight-bladed, razor sharp, with a brilliant blue sapphire set into its amber handle. Delicately he picked up a morsel of fish on the knifepoint, and tasted it.

"This is good. I like it!"

Grissoul sat down beside him. "None can cook for thee like I." She watched him eating awhile before speaking again.

"Th'art going to ask me about the Taggerung, I feel it."

Sawney picked a sliver of fish from between his teeth. "Aye. Have there been any more signs of the Taggerung?"

Antigra interrupted by leaping up and thrusting her baby forward at them. "Fools!" she shouted defiantly. "Can't you see, my Zann is the Taggerung!"

The entire camp fell silent. Creatures turned away from their cooking fires to see what would happen. Sawney stood up, one paw holding his stomach, the other pointing the knife at Antigra.

"If you were not a mother nursing a babe you would be dead where you stand. Nobeast calls Sawney Rath a fool!"

Antigra was shaking with rage. The baby stoat had set up a thin wail, but her voice drowned it out.

"I demand you recognize my son as Taggerung!"

Sawney gritted his teeth. Thrusting the dagger back into his belt he turned aside, snarling at Grissoul. "Tell that stoat why her brat cannot be called Taggerung!"

Grissoul stood between them, facing Antigra, and took a starling's skull, threaded on thin twine, from her belt. She swung it in a figure of eight until the air rushing through the eye and beak sockets made a shrieking whistle.

"Hearken, Antigra, even a long-dead bird can mock thee. Shout all thou like, 'twill not make thine offspring grow to be the Taggerung. You it is who are a fool! Can thou not see the omens are all wrong? Even though you call him Zann, which means Mighty One, he will never be the chosenbeast. I see all. Grissoul knows, take thou my word now. Go back to your fire and nurse the babe, and be silent, both of ye!"

Antigra held the newborn stoat up high, shaking the babe until it wailed even more loudly. "Never!" she cried.

Sawney winced as his stomach gave a sharp twinge. He turned upon the stoat mother, roaring dangerously, "Enough! You have heard my Seer: the omens are wrong. Zann can never be called Taggerung. Unless you want to challenge me for the leadership of the clan and change the Juskarath law to suit yourself, I command you to silence your scolding tongue and speak no more of the matter!"

He turned and went into his tent, but Antigra was not prepared to let the matter lie. Everybeast heard her shout after him: "Then you are challenged, Sawney Rath!"

His stomach pains immediately forgotten, the ferret Chieftain emerged from the tent, a half-smile hovering around his slitted eyes. Vermin who had seen that look before turned away. Only Antigra faced him as he asked quietly, "So, who challenges me?"

He saw the creature, even before Antigra replied, "Gruven, the father of Zann!"

Gruven stepped forth from the shadows. In one hefty paw he carried a small round shield, in the other a tall slim spear, its point shining in the firelight. He struck a fighting stance, his voice loud and clear.

"I challenge you, Sawney Rath. Arm yourself and face me!"

Sawney had always liked Gruven. He was a valuable asset to the clan. Big, strong, but not too intelligent. Sawney shook his head and smiled patronizingly.

"Don't do it, Gruven. Don't listen to your mate. Put the spear and shield down; live to see your son grow up."

Antigra whispered something to Gruven that seemed to embolden him. He circled away from her, jabbing the spear in Sawney's direction. "I'll live to see my son become Taggerung. Now fight like a Juska, or die like a coward!"

Sawney shrugged off the insult. "As you wish." He turned, as if to fetch his weapons from the tent, then half swung back, as though he had forgotten to say something to the challenger. "Oh, er, Gruven ..."

There was a deadly whirr as the knife left Sawney's paw. Gruven coughed slightly, a puzzled look on his face, then fell backward, the blade buried in his throat up to its decorative handle. Sawney finished what he had been saying. "Don't ever hold your shield low like that, it's a fatal mistake. Grissoul, I'll see you in my tent."

Ignoring Antigra's wails, Sawney beckoned the vixen to sit beside him. "What have you seen?"

Grissoul emptied her bag of stones, shells and bones on the ground, nodding sagely. "See thou, my omens have fallen the same since the end of the last rain. Our Taggerung is born at last. There are other Juska clans abroad in the land, and any of these would deem it a great honor to count him as one of them. Such a beast is a talisman of great power. The Taggerung can change the fortunes of a clan. Nobeast is mightier; none can stand before a Taggerung. Long seasons have passed since such a warrior lived. Who would know this better than thee, Sawney, for was not thine own father the chosen one? Ah, those were glorious days. Our clan was the largest and most feared then. Everybeast had to bow their heads to your father. Zann Juskarath Taggerung! Can you not remember the respect he commanded wherever we went"

Sawney cut the Seer off impatiently. "Cease your prattle about my father. I know how great he was, but he's long dead and gone. Tell me more of this new Taggerung. How do you know he's born, and where do we find him?"

The vixen studied a single speedwell flower, which she had picked earlier that day. It was pale pink, with three fat petals and one thinner than the others. She smiled slyly.

"My visions tell me a mark shaped like this little blossom will be upon him, or maybe her, for who can tell if Taggerung be male or female?"

Just then a weasel called Eefera entered and gave Sawney his knife back, cleaned of blood traces. Sawney dismissed Eefera and placed the blade lightly against the Seer's nose.

"You said any clan would deem it an honor to count him as one of them. The Taggerung will be a male creature. Stop playing your little games and get on with it!"

Grissoul turned the knife blade aside with one paw. "He will have the speedwell mark on him, where I know not. See thou these two bones, fallen next to each other, with this shell across the ends of both? That means a river, or a stream, and the shell is for a place where those who dwell not in the waters may cross the stream. Do thou see it also?"

Sawney nodded. "That means a ford. The long path from north to south has such a ford, where the stream crosses it in Mossflower country, a good five-day march from here."

Grissoul closed her eyes, swaying back and forth. "Today I saw a hawk strike a dove in the air. Their cries mingled, and they gave out together a bell-like sound."

Sawney gave a start. "You mean the old Abbey of Redwall! That's the only place that gives out bell sounds in all that region!"

The Seer kept her eyes shut. "Methinks that would be it."

Sawney grabbed Grissoul's shoulder so tightly that her eyes popped open. He pulled her close, his voice like a rasp. "Speak not to me of Redwall. I would not go within a mile of it. I have listened to the talk around the campfires since I was nought but a whelp. The place is accursed!"

He released the quivering vixen and gestured dramatically. "I am not stupid. The history of Redwall Abbey has taught me a lesson. I know how many warlords and conquerors, with vast hordes and mighty armies to back them, have been defeated by the woodlanders who dwell behind those walls. Even in the seasons long before our great-grandsires' ancestors were born. You've heard their names, everybeast has. Cluny the Scourge, Slagar the Cruel, Ferahgo the Assassin and many others. All of them defeated and slain. But I'll tell you one name that won't be added to the list. Sawney Rath, Chieftain of the Juskarath!"

Grissoul spoke soothingly to calm Sawney's rising ire. "Nay, fret thou not. The bell sound omen is a warning, telling thee not to go near yon red Abbey. Beware the sound of the bell!"

Sawney spat neatly into the fire. "Hah! I already knew that. I'm as wise as any omen. Just tell me what part Redwall Abbey plays in all this?"

Grissoul gathered up her paraphernalia and cast them a second time. She stared at them, then pointed. "See thou those bones that fell foursquare with that red piece of stone at their center? Watch!" She lifted the red stone slightly, and an ant crawled from beneath it and ran over the bones. The Seer smiled triumphantly. "It means that the Taggerung will be a creature from the Abbey!"

Sawney placed a paw on the ground, and the ant ran onto it. The ferret held the paw close to his eyes, watching the insect circling a claw. "What manner of creature will it be?"

Grissoul pursed her lips. "Who can tell?" She inspected the pawprint Sawney had left in the sandy ground. "Five days from here, at the ford where waters cross the path. Then will thou see what sort of beast the Taggerung will be."

Sawney stood up and patted his stomach. "I feel better. Tell them to break camp; we travel tonight. To have a Taggerung in my clan will be the greatest of honors. My Juskarath will make the journey in four days. I want to be there early, in case other clan Seers have had visions. I'll slay anybeast who comes near that ford. Tell the clan to hasten or I'll leave them behind . .. aye, the same way I'm leaving Gruven here."

Grissoul stared at him, almost fondly. "Th'art a wise Chieftain, and ruthless too!"

Sawney checked her as she went. "One other thing. Once we have the Taggerung we travel back this way fast, to the sea and shores. Nobeast at Redwall must know 'twas my clan that took him. If the tales about them are true, they must be fearsome warriors, with a long paw for vengeance. I need to avoid a conflict with such beasts."

He waved a paw, dismissing his Seer. As he did so, the ant was hurled from its perch and fell into a basin of water. Sawney failed to notice it, but the ant swam!

Chapter 2

"After spring's soft rain is done,

At waning of the moon,

Four dry solid days of sun,

Will bring forth growth and bloom."

Drogg Spearback, Cellarkeeper of Redwall Abbey, patted the soft headspikes of Egburt and Floburt, his little grandhogs. "Well said, young 'uns. You finally got it right!"

Squinching her snout and tugging at her grandfather's heavy cellar apron, Floburt, the inquisitive one, piped up. "But Granddad, we ain't growthed an' bloomed. I'm still only likkle, an' so is Egburt. Why is that?"

The stout old hedgehog winked knowingly at his grandson. "Cummon, Egburt, you tell 'er why."

Egburt sucked the tassel of the girdle cord that circled the waist of his smock, pondering the answer. "Hmm, er, 'cos us isn't veggibles, we 'edgehogs, not plants."

Drogg chuckled until his stomach wobbled. Rummaging two candied chestnuts from his apron pocket, he gave them one each. "You've got a brain 'neath those spikes, young 'og!"

The hogbabes sat either side of their grandfather, on an upturned wheelbarrow in the orchard, enjoying the late spring noontide sun. Drogg spread both paws, gesturing around and about.

"See all that? Well, that's growth an' bloom for you! Plants, grass, fruit'n'flowers, springin' up like wildfire after the rains. Come midsummer we'll be up to our spikes in apples, pears, plums, damsons, strawberries, blackberries an' all manner o' berries. Lookit the salad crop, o'er yonder by the redcurrant hedge: radish, cucumber, cress, scallions, lettuce. Ready for gatherin' in, those are. Remember this, my liddle 'uns, you be plantin' stuff in the earth an' it'll grow quicklike. Save for the great trees like those in Mossflower Wood. They grow slower, stronger, just like us creatures, though trees live much longer'n we do."

Both little hedgehogs sat listening as they munched candied chestnuts. Drogg expanded his lecture, telling them of their heritage, Redwall Abbey. He loved the place with a fierce pride, which he communicated to them. "Plants, trees an' creatures, they come'n'go sooner or later. Not this ole Abbey, though! Lookit all this wunnerful red sandstone. Shines like dusty pink roses in late-noon sun. Nobeast who comes wantin' trouble can pass those big rampart walls of the main gate with the liddle gate'ouse beside it. I couldn't even guess 'ow old our great Abbey buildin' is. Bell tower, gables, columns, Great Hall, Cavern 'Ole, kitchens, dormitories, an' my cellars too. They must've been 'ere forever an' a day!"

Floburt dug her tiny paw into his broad apron pocket, searching for more nuts. Her granddad usually carried a goodly supply. "Have you been 'ere forever'n'aday, Granddad?"

Smiling, he shook his great spiked head. "Dearie me no, though I been an Abbeybeast longer'n most, save for ole Cregga."

Egburt joined his sister in rummaging in the apron pocket. "Ole Cregga the Badgermum? 'Ow long's she been 'ere, Granddad?"

Drogg pondered the question, chewing the milky sap from a grass stalk. "Hmm, let me see. Cregga is wot they call the last of the old 'uns. I think she's older'n some o' the trees 'ereabouts. Great warrior she was, but blinded in some ancient battle. Brother Hoben, the Recorder, says that Cregga has outlived two Abbesses, Tansy an' Song, both long gone. He says that she knew Arven the Champion an' my great-grand'og, Gurgan Spearback, many seasons afore I was born. So figger it out yoreself. 'Ow old d'you think Cregga is?"

Egburt's eyes grew wide as he tried to calculate the answer in hedgehog manner, by counting on his head-spikes. "Phwaw! She mus' be eleventeen mousing seasons old!"

Drogg allowed them to find the rest of his candied chestnut supply before he rose slowly. "Aye, at least that much, I'd say. I got to go now an' broach a barrel of October Ale for the counselors' meetin' tonight. You Dibbuns stay out o' trouble, an' don't go gettin' those nice clean smocks muddied up, or yore mum'll dust yore spikes with an oven paddle. Why don't you go an' see if there be any news of Filorn ottermum's babe? But mind, don't make a nuisance of y'selves. See you anon."

Both Dibbuns giggled at the idea of their mother spanking them with an oven paddle. She was far too gentle. Being sent early to bed was the limit of punishment for Redwall babes. When Drogg had departed, they clambered from the wheelbarrow and ran squeaking and jumping into the orchard. A tiny mole was exploring a clump of bilberry stalks, searching among the pink globe-shaped blossoms. Waving a pudgy digging claw in greeting, he called out in the quaint mole accent, "Burr, goo' day to ee. They'm bilbeez ain't a growed yet. Taken ee toime they be's!"

"My mum sez you get tummy ache from eatin' bilberries afore midsummer," Floburt commented sagely.

Gundil, the Dibbun mole, flicked his stubby tail scornfully. "Moi mum sez ee same thing, but oi loikes bilbeez, h'even if'n oi do gets tumbly h'ache." He ambled out of the bilberry clump and shrugged. "Bain't none thurr, tho'. Whurr us'n's be a-goen?"

Egburt pointed toward the Abbey. "We goin' t'see if Filorn ottermum's new baby be a-borned yet. Cummon!"

The three little chums wandered off paw in paw toward the Abbey. Once inside, they stopped off at Great Hall to play a favorite Dibbuns game. Almost lost amid the vastness of stone and timber beams, they hopped about on the floor, in and out of harlequin hues of sunshafts from the stained glass windows far above them.

Gundil gave a deep bass giggle, holding a paw to his face. "Hurrhurrhurr. Luk ee! Oi be's all purkle!"

Floburt twirled about in a pool of amber light. "An' I'm all gold, a solid golden 'ogmaid!"

Egburt chose a shaft of aquamarine blue, floundering upon his back as though he were drowning. "Save me! I'm unner the deep deep water! 'Elp!"

Floburt and Gundil dutifully rescued Egburt and all three fled downstairs into Cavern Hole, where preparations were under way for the counselors' meeting. Friar Bobb, a stout old squirrel, shooed them out with a rush broom.

"Come on, out out. You'll get trodden on, wandering about under everybeast's paws. Go and play elsewhere, you rascals. Quick now. Scoot!"

He made as if to run after them. The little pals thought it was great fun to be chased, and trundled off helter-skelter. Halting on the dormitory landing above the first flight of stairs, Gundil stifled his chuckles and peeked down the spiral stairwell. He tapped a paw against his velvety snout.

"Ee Froyer woan't foind us'n's oop yurr. Hurr, boi 'okey ee woan't!"

Shaking with glee, Egburt pointed to a door. "Let's 'ide in there unner the beds!"

Gundil stood on Egburt's back in his effort to reach the latch, but it still proved too high. Floburt was trying to clamber up on top of them both when somebeast inside heard and opened the door.

The trio of Dibbuns fell tail over ears into the room. Filorn the ottermum stood holding the door, smiling down at them.

"Well, well. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Gundil tugged his snout respectfully. "Uz cummed to see if'n ee likkle h'otter was borned, marm."

Rillflag, Filorn's husband, their daughter, a pretty little ottermaid named Mhera, and the great Badgermum Cregga were standing around a woven rush cradle in one corner. Mhera, who was four seasons older than the three Dibbuns, beckoned them over.

"He was born this morning. Come and see. He's beautiful!"

Cregga looked so huge and intimidating that the trio backed away slightly. A deep rumbling laugh came from the blind badger as she sensed their trepidation. Turning her sightless eyes in their direction, she whispered gently, "Oh, do come and look at him. He won't bite you. Neither will I. It's Gundil and the two little Spearbacks, isn't it?"

Floburt trotted dutifully over to the crib, with the other two trailing behind, wondering how the blind badger knew who they were. Standing on tip-paw, they gazed at the tiny new otterbabe. The little fellow stared solemnly back through sleepy dark eyes. Soft infant fur fuzzed out from his chubby cheeks, and a small pink tongue-tip showed as he yawned contentedly.

Mhera stroked his fluffy paw. "Isn't he the prettiest little cub you ever saw?"

Egburt looked up at her inquiringly. "Is that 'is name, Cub?"

Rillflag stroked his son's downy head, smiling. "No, cub is just a word for a babe. His name is Deyna. My great-grandsire was a warrior called Deyna, and he carried a mark from birth just like this little fellow, see."

He turned the babe's paw pad upward. Instead of being all black like the other three, this one only had black edging. In the center was a pink mark, like a four-leaf clover, with one piece thinner than the others. Gundil touched it.

" 'Tis loike ee likkle flower. Can ee babby coom owt an' play with us'n's, zurr?"

Rillflag shook his head in amusement. "Not yet. Next season, maybe."

Filorn took a box from the mantelpiece and let them each choose a piece of preserved fruit from it. "I'm sure you'll make good friends for little Deyna when he's old enough to be up and about. Run along and play now."

Cregga enveloped all three Dibbuns in her massive paws. "Not so fast there, rascals. I could hear you outside. You only came in here to hide from Friar Bobb, didn't you?"

Floburt shook her head vigorously. "Ho no, marm, 'onest we didn't. Us was comin' to see if Deyna was borned. Ole Friar Bobb chased us out o' Cavern 'Ole."

The blind badger tapped a paw against her forehead. "Of course, I'd almost forgotten, the counselors' meeting. Right, you three can help me manage those stairs. Slowly, now; my paws aren't as young as yours!"

"Hurr, doan't ee wurry, marm. Uz'll get ee thurr noicely!"

Hiding a smile, Cregga allowed the three to grasp her robe and guide her to the door. "Thank you. I'm sure you will!"

When they had gone, Mhera picked her new little brother up and walked around the room with him, talking softly to him as she had seen her mother doing.

"Who's going to grow up into a great big riverdog like his dad then, eh?"

Rillflag shook his head. "He ain't a real riverdog until his back's touched runnin' water."

Filorn took the baby from Mhera and held him close. "Don't you think he's a bit young for that?"

The big male otter shorted. "Not at all. My father took me to the river when I was his age, just as I took Mhera when she was born. Deyna will feel the running water on his back too!"

There was a note of pleading in Filorn's voice. "But he's so small. Perhaps you could wet his back in the Abbey pond, at the warm shallow edge?"

Rillflag was adamant. "The Abbey pond has no current; it doesn't run on to the sea. It's got to be running water. The ford, where the stream crosses the path, that's the place."

"I'll go with you, Father. I'll carry little Deyna."

Rillflag patted his daughter's shoulder. "No need for that. You stay here and help your mother. I can carry that little rogue, he weighs nothing. Me and Deyna will bring you back some fresh watershrimp and good long watercress. Maybe some hotroot too, if we spot any."

Filorn resigned herself to the fact that argument was useless. Her husband could be a very stubborn creature.

"Your father's right, Mhera. You'd only slow him down. We'll get a nice naming party organized while he and Deyna are away. Then, when he's made a real riverdog of our baby, we'll name him properly, like any other Redwaller."

Mhera took to the idea eagerly. "Yes! The moment you set off, Dad, we'll get organizing with Friar Bobb, Drogg Cellarhog, the Foremole and Sister Alkanet. I can start gathering mushrooms and scallions for pasties, Mama can get the ingredients ready for her fruit and honey cake, and we'll ask Drogg if he has a cask of strawberry fizz . . ."

Filorn held up both paws against her daughter's onslaught. "Enough, enough! I'm starting to feel worn out just listening to you. We'll make a start after your father's left. Er, when will you be setting off, dear?"

Rillflag took an old traveling cloak and fashioned it into a carrying sling across one shoulder. He selected a stout ash-handled spear, which would double as a traveling stave. "As soon as you've packed some food and drink for two warriors. Enough for three days should do. We don't plan on wasting time at the wayside, do we, Deyna?"

From his mother's arms, the baby otter gave a rough squeak. Rillflag nodded in his direction. "He said no."

All three burst out laughing.

Down in Cavern Hole the meeting of Redwall counselors was about to begin. A supper of spring vegetable soup, new-baked oatbread and wedges of white cheese studded with hazelnuts, with October Ale and apple flan, was being served to the counselors seated around the big table. Foremole Brull, Cregga Badgermum, Brother Hoben, Friar Bobb, Sister Alkanet and Drogg Cellarhog were present. Brother Hoben indicated an empty seat as he recorded the members' names.

"Where's Rillflag this evening? Anybeast seen him?"

Cregga leaned forward to accept a tankard of October Ale. "Otter business. I think he's got to take the little 'un for some ceremony or other. You know the way he is about otter rituals. Anyhow, I'll make his apologies for absence."

Friar Bob tapped the tabletop with his ladle. "On with the meeting, then. Sister Alkanet?"

The Sister was a thin, severe, no-nonsense type of mouse. She bowed formally to the others and began.

"Friends, this Abbey has been without Abbot or Abbess for far too long. I suggested this meeting so that the situation might be finally remedied. Have you any ideas?"

Foremole Brull held up a sizable digging claw. It was unusual for the moles to have a female leader, but Brull was solid as a rock and full of good common sense. She was liked by all.

"Yurr, oi doan't think et aportant. Ee Abbey be runnen noice'n'smooth unner Cregga Badgermum. Nowt amiss wi' urr; she'm gudd!"

A general murmur of agreement confirmed Brull's mole logic. Before Sister Alkanet could object, Cregga spoke for herself.

"You all know I'm not a real Abbess, never wanted to be. But when old Abbess Song went to her reward I took up the job of caretaker, in the absence of anybeast's being elected officially. I'm countless seasons older than the oldest among you, I'm blind, sometimes I ache all over and I sleep most of the day. However, as Brull says, the Abbey runs nice'n'smooth. I merely guide or advise. Redwallers are trusty, responsible creatures; they usually know what needs doing to keep the place up to the mark. I'm quite happy to leave things as they are, though even I won't last forever. If you're content with an ancient, blind badger sitting in as substitute, then I'll continue to do so. With your kind permission, of course."

Amid the applause from the counselors, Sister Alkanet, who was always the mouse to raise difficult issues, raised her paw. "Then what about a Champion? Redwall needs a defender like Martin the Warrior."

Friar Bobb's snort of impatience was heard by all, as he wagged his ladle at the Sister and gave vent to his feelings. "I've got four great plum puddings steaming in the kitchens, and I've also got a sleepy assistant. Young Broggle will probably let the puddings boil dry if I'm not there soon. Sister Alkanet, marm, you brought up this same question at this same meeting this time last season. I'll give you the same answer now as I gave you then. Redwall is strong. Tyrants and vermin warlords have broken their skulls against our walls. The Abbey is too hard a nut to crack, vermin everywhere know that. Only a fool would try to test our might. These days there is no need of perilous warriors and great swords"

Alkanet was up on her paws, pounding the table and objecting. "But what if there were, Friar? What if the day came when we woke to find the foe at our gates and no brave one to lead or defend us? What then, sir? What then?"

Cregga's big paw hit the tabletop, silencing further argument. "Enough! We are supposed to be responsible elders, not squabbling Dibbuns. Friar Bobb, you may return to your kitchens. I'm very fond of plum puddings; they mustn't boil dry. Now, Sister, in answer to your questions. Champions and Abbey Warriors have always arisen when the need is great. It would be presumptuous of us to appoint one; that is something nobeast save Martin the Warrior can do. Martin was the founder Warrior of Redwall. His sword hangs over the picture of him on the tapestry in Great Hall, and there it will stay until he chooses the next Warrior. When our Abbey is in danger, the spirit of Martin will enter some young Redwaller, and he or she will pick up the sword of Martin to defend us. So let us hear no more talk of electing a Champion. Sit down, friends, and let's do this good food justice. Brother Hoben, pass me the bread and cheese, if you please. Sister Alkanet, would you like to pour me some October Ale?"

As Alkanet leaned across to pour, Cregga whispered, "Come on, friend, smile. It doesn't hurt to look happy!"

The Sister was mystified as to how Cregga knew she was wearing a frown. She tried a smile as she filled the tankard. The blind badger smiled back and tapped her paw. "Thank you, Alkanet. That's much better!"

Soft perfumes of dog rose, vetchling, red clover and nightdewed grass lingered upon the still night air with hardly a breeze to disperse them. Rillflag strode energetically north on the old path, glancing up at the star-pierced vaults of the skies above. Slung upon his back was a bag of provisions; in one paw he held the spearstaff, the other rested beneath his cloak cradle, protecting the sleeping babe therein. He breathed deeply, listening to the distant tolling of Redwall Abbey's twin bells, Matthias and Methuselah, sounding the midnight hour.

Deyna moved slightly in slumber and gave a small growl. Rillflag felt a shudder of delight course through him, and he hummed an old otter tune to his son. Life was good. So good!

Chapter 3

Sawney Rath chose his spot carefully. Within a half-day's march of the ford, he camped the clan on the broad stream's north side. Morning sunlight filtered through the trees as the band of assorted vermin sat, weary and miserable after their forced march from the coastal scrublands. Clad in his usual plain leather tabard, belted by a strap fashioned from fine brass links into which was thrust his amber-hilted knife with the sapphire pommel stone, Sawney, however, looked vital and eager, ready for anything. The only decoration he had was the Juskarath clan mark, a black stripe of dye running from skull to nosetip with two lines of red dots running parallel on either side. These moved as his mobile face did while he issued his orders.

"Rawback, you stay here with the others. Grissoul, Eefera, Dagrab, Felch, Ribrow and Vallug Bowbeast, you come with me. Remember this, Rawback, for I'll hold you responsible. No fires, not even a wisp of smoke. Any food must be eaten as it is, no cooking. No tents or lean-to shelters, or sleeping either. Stay alert on your paws, everybeast. We'll be coming back this way fast when we do, so be ready to move. Antigra, Wherrul, I want no sign left that Juskarath have been here. You'll be in charge of cleaning up pawprints and tracks. When we return with the Taggerung we travel back west to the shores. I've no need to tell you what'll happen to anybeast who disobeys my commands, or tries to cross me. Understood?"

There followed a jangling of bracelets and earrings as the vermin touched their left ears in silence, the clan sign of understanding. Sawney's quick, vicious eyes roved back and forth over them, and then, without flinching, he drew his dagger and nicked the point against his own left ear in a challenging gesture.

"See how easily I shed my blood. I am Sawney Rath, and I can shed your blood far more easily. Keep that in mind!" He nodded to the six he had picked. "Come on, let's go and get a Taggerung for our clan!"

Rillflag was astounded. He was muttering to himself as he laid little Deyna down on a bed of soft mosses by the streambank.

"Hoho, what a river dog you're goin' t'be! Not only got that back wet in the runnin' water, but you nearly swam away from your ole dad. I never knew a cub your size that'd swim right off. Mhera wailed enough t'frighten the birds when her back was wetted, but nary a sound out o' you, Deyna!"

He tickled the otterbabe's stomach roughly. Deyna doubled over and bit his father's paw with tiny white milk teeth. Rillflag roared with laughter as he released his paw.

"Hahahahohoho! Proper liddle shark you are. Lucky there weren't any tasty fishes swimmin' in the water, or you'd 'ave ate 'em all, eh, son!"

He sat awhile, fondly watching the cub, trying to remember an otter streamsong as the babe's eyes began to close in the warm midday sun.

"Ho if I was a stream I'd chance to go,

A-racin' to the sea,

Yonder way fresh waters flow,

An' that's the way for me.

Leapin' an' boundin',

Splashin' an' soundin',

Rudder 'round rock an' log,

With pike an' trout,

I'd frisk about,

A good ole riverdog!

Through leafy glades the waters call,

Across the open meadow,

An' when I sight a waterfall,

Why down will go me head oh!"

Deyna's eyes flickered as he fought against the slumbers that threatened to overcome him and he yawned aloud, giving out a squeaking sound. Rillflag turned his attention to the shallows, where movement had caught his eye.

"Hah, I see watershrimp. What do you say, liddle matey? Shall we catch some to take back to Redwall? You stay there an' watch your ole dad. I'll show you the way 'tis done!"

Sawney crouched behind a broad elm trunk on the other side of the stream, Grissoul at his side. He pulled the Seer close, whispering in her ear, "That's no Taggerung, he's a full-grown otter. What do we do now?"

"That one is no part of my vision," the vixen Seer whispered back. "Thou canst do what thou likes with him; he is none of our concern."

Felch the fox, Dagrab the rat and Vallug Bowbeast were hiding on the other side of the stream, behind a high-banked bend. Sawney slid back toward them, staying on the opposite bank until he was out of the big otter's eyeline. Then he waved to Vallug, attracting his attention. Sawney pointed to Rillflag and made a gesture with both paws, as if firing a bow. Vallug nodded. It was a simple task for a skilled bowbeast.

Standing waist deep in the water, the otter straightened up with a double pawful of watershrimp. Too late he saw the ferret standing on top of the bank with bow drawn and a shaft notched onto the string. Vallug Bowbeast could hit a dragonfly on the wing; the big otter standing still in the stream presented an easy target. He fired and Rillflag lay dead in the water, an arrow in his heart.

Felch and Dagrab dashed along the bank toward Rillflag's body. The fox pulled up sharply, almost tripping over the otterbabe that lay on the mossy bankside. He grabbed at the little creature, scrabbling to pick it up, but Deyna growled and bit his paw, drawing blood. Felch yowled and grabbed for the axe he carried in a shoulder strap.

"Yowch! Yer liddle savage. Bite me, would yer?"

Sawney was crashing through the shallows on the far side of the ford when he saw Felch raise the axe. Quick as lightning Sawney threw his knife, and Felch lay screaming beside the otterbabe, his right paw fixed to the axe handle by Sawney's blade. The ferret Chieftain was across the ford in an instant. Stamping down on Felch's wrist, he pulled the knife free, hissing dangerously in the fox's agonized face, " 'Tis your lucky day, Felch. I let you live. But if you even look at that babe the wrong way again I'll carve you a new mouth, right across your stupid throat!"

Sawney picked up Rillflag's cloak from the bank and wrapped the otterbabe in it, chuckling as it snapped at his paws. "You're the one, all right!"

Vallug nodded at the slain Rillflag. "Warra you want doin' with 'im, Chief?"

Sawney was happy. He smiled at the bowbeast and winked. "Push him out into center stream. He'll float down to the sea and never be seen again. Good work, Vallug. Great shot!"

The ends of the cloak trailing in the water, Sawney waded across the ford to where his Seer was waiting.

"So then, Grissoul, is this what we came seeking? Tell me."

The Seer opened the cloak and inspected Deyna. She held up the infant's right paw, showing Sawney the marked pad. "See!"

The four-petal mark was pink and clear, like a tiny blossom. Sawney looked anxiously at Grissoul. "Well, is it really him?"

For answer the Seer took Sawney's paw and placed it against the otterbabe's footpaws. Then she spoke. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney recognized the ancient words, and translated them.

"Mighty warrior of our clan. Taggerung!"

Rawback the stoat climbed down from his lookout perch in an oak. "Break camp, Sawney's comin'. Get ready t'move fast!"

Swift and silent the clan began breaking camp, though there was not much for them to do other than pick up their belongings. Shortly thereafter Sawney and the six vermin came hurrying in. The ferret made it clear he was in no mood to linger or display the prize he had taken.

"Stir yourselves, come on, move! Move!"

He stood watching as they packed gear on their backs and hastened to obey. To add extra menace to his demands he embellished the facts a little.

"If you don't move sharpish there'll be a horde of Redwall warriors on your tails before noon, and I hear they don't take prisoners. 'Tis your own loss if you don't keep up!"

Checking the last ones from the deserted campsite, Sawney walked backward as he followed them, the better to observe the two who were bringing up the rear. Wherrul and Antigra bent to their task of clearing up the tracks, dusting over the ground with clumps of groundsel that they had twined with stalks of strong-smelling wild watermint to dispel the vermin odors. Antigra could sense Sawney's eyes upon her. She kept her gaze down and her back bent, one paw steadying the baby stoat who scrabbled about in the sling upon her back. Like Sawney, the pair walked backward, following the ferret Chieftain as he left the camp and took the trail in the wake of the Juskarath clan.

Half asleep on his back in the cloak hammock, Deyna gave a growl. Antigra heard it, and raised her eyes slightly. Sawney was staring at her, patting his precious bundle.

"Oh yes, I've got the Taggerung. Do you know how to greet him in the old Juska tongue? Zann Juskarath Taggerung, that's what you say. Let me hear you say it, Antigra."

Antigra's eyes blazed hate as she spat out the phrase. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

The smile on Sawney's face was far more fearsome than any hateful glance she could give. Antigra felt herself tremble as he drew the blade from his belt.

"Zann. Great warrior. That is one of our new Taggerung's titles by right. I won't have another creature taking the name. You will call your brat Gruven, after his foolish father. It's either that or I bury you both here. Take my word for it!"

Antigra lowered her eyes, bowing to Sawney Rath's will. "Gruven he shall be."

A moment later the camp lay deserted, the dust motes drifting down on to the sun-warmed ground. There was not a trace of anybeast in the silent glade. It was as if Sawney Rath and his Juskarath clan had never been there.

Ten times the sun had set over Redwall Abbey since Rillflag's ill-fated journey. Old Hoarg, the ancient dormouse Gatekeeper, held his lantern high. A brawny Skipper of Otters and eight of his crew entered. Hoarg pulled up the cowl of his habit as damp spots fell from the dark cloudbanked night sky.

"Hmm, that rain is goin' to get heavy. Wouldn't surprise me if a storm broke soon. Well, Skip, still no sign of 'em, eh?"

The big otter placed his tattooed paws against the gate and slammed it shut, knocking down the long wooden bar and locking it. He shouldered his javelin wearily and prepared to follow his crewbeasts up to the Abbey. "Not a trace, matey," he called back to Hoarg. "Not a single flippin' whisker. An' this rain ain't goin' to improve our chances tomorrow!"

As the crew seated themselves around a table in the kitchen a flash of lightning illuminated the stairway to Great Hall. Skipper waited until he heard a distant rumble of thunder. "Twill hit 'ere afore midnight, I reckon."

Friar Bobb hovered anxiously about a fat young squirrel who was pushing a food-laden trolley into the kitchen.

"Watch what you're doing, Broggle. You'll spill the watershrimp and hotroot soup. And mind that dip in the floor, you dozy beast!"

Skipper turned his gaze on the hapless Broggle, lowering his eyebrows and showing a row of clenched teeth in mock menace. "Is somebeast spillin' good watershrimp'n'hotroot soup?"

Broggle pushed the trolley to the table, trembling. "N-n-n-no, sir. I ai-ai-ain't spilled a drop, sir!"

Skipper's face broke into a huge grin as he hugged the young kitchen assistant to him. "Well done, bucko. Serve it up an' have some y'self!"

Broggle shook his head vigorously as Skipper released him. "N-n-no, sir, 'tis too 'o-'o-'ot for me. I m-made it jus' the w-way you like it!"

The soup was served, with onion bread to dip in it and special cold mint and dandelion tea to cool the otters' mouths. Friar Bobb placed another bowl on the table, this one containing extra hotroot essence, for those who liked their soup good and fiery, which the ottercrew did. When the soup was finished Broggle served dessert: an immense heavy fruitcake, with blackberry wine to wash it down.

Cregga and Foremole Brull joined them at the table. The Badgermum had only the usual question to ask.

"Still no trace of Rillflag and the little one?"

Skipper shook his big scarred head. "Sorry, marm. Ten days now, an' anybeast'd think they vanished off the face of the earth. Where's Filorn an' the liddle maid Mhera? They usually comes down t' see me."

Foremole drummed on the tabletop with her heavy claws. "They'm oop in ee room, zurr, a-grieven an' a-weepen sumthin' turrible, pore h'otters."

"They heard the main outer gate shutting, you see, Skip," Cregga explained. "Now if Rillflag and the babe were with you they would have come straight up to see Filorn and Mhera. So they know there's been no sign of them. No point in coming down just to hear bad news, is there?"

Skipper put aside his food. Blinking hard, he turned away and sniffed. "My 'eart an' paws goes out to 'em, marm. Nobeast could 'ave searched 'arder than me'n'the crew 'ere. I feel as if I knows every blade of grass 'twixt 'ere an' the ford, every rock'n'boulder. I'd give my rudder to find 'em alive an' well!"

Cregga put out a paw and touched the otter's craggy face. "I know you would, Skipper. You're a goodbeast and a true friend. 'Tis a sad thing to say, but perhaps we may never find them. Maybe someday ..."

Skipper nodded. "Aye, marm, I know what you mean. Maybe someday somebeast will come across their bones. Even then we won't know the full truth. Be that as it may, me'n'the crew'll be out searchin' on the morrow, storm or fair. Rillflag was a matey o' mine, an' if'n he is dead then I'll find his bones, just to give peace o' mind to pore Filorn an' young Mhera." Skipper's paw sought the javelin he had placed nearby, and his eyes grew hard as flint. "But if'n Rillflag and the babe was murdered, I'll find the scumbeast who did it, on my oath I will. There won't be enough of 'im to leave bones when I'm done with the coward. Nobeast I know could've bested that otter face-toface. He would've fought twice as fierce, protectin' the liddle cub. I wager you an acorn to an oak Rillflag was murdered by ambush!"

Sister Alkanet had been listening from the stairs of Great Hall. Now she entered the kitchen and came to the table.

"I've got an idea that might work. Why don't you stop searching for Rillflag and the babe? Concentrate on scouring Mossflower for any creature you find there. Bring them back to Redwall. We can question them here; somebeast surely must have seen or heard something!"

Broggle appeared with his trolley to clear the platters away. "Th-th-that's what I'd do, too. G-g-good idea, S-Sister!"

Skipper shrugged. "Well, we've tried everythin' else an' got nowheres. Maybe yore idea'll work, Sister."

Cregga rose from the table, politely stifling a yawn. "As you wish, then. Do you need any help from us, Skipper?"

The otter stroked his rudderlike tail reflectively. "If this storm's blowed itself out by dawn we'll start the search for anybeast roamin' Mossflower then. Aye, marm, we could do with some Abbeybeasts to lend a paw. I never refuse a willin' offer. Ifn they want to volunteer I won't refuse 'em!"

"S-sir, II'd like to vo-vo-volunteer!"

Friar Bobb shook his head. "Your job is here with me in the kitchens, Broggle, not scouring the woodlands."

The blind Badgermum reached out and ruffled Broggle's ears. "We can't refuse a willing heart, Friar. Let him go."

Skipper chuckled, pressing his big hardwood javelin into the young squirrel's chubby paw. "That's the spirit, matey. You'n'me between us, we'll be a right pair o' terrors!"

Broggle nearly overbalanced trying to lift the big javelin. "Any v-vermin'd better w-watch out for us, s-sir!"

Cregga began to feel her way to the door, smiling broadly. "Aye, Broggle, woe to the villains who run into you, but take good care of Skipper. He's not a Redwall Warrior like you."

Thunder exploded over Great Hall just as a vivid lightning flash illuminated the place in sudden white light. Cregga ran her paw along the walls, each stone familiar as she made her way toward the dormitory stairs. Over the din of the rain battering against the high windows, the badger's keen ears detected another noise. It was the sound of somebeast weeping aloud, over by the far wall, where the great Redwall tapestry hung. Silently the blind Badgermum moved in that direction, holding out her paw until it came into contact with the tear-wet face of a young ottermaid. Drawing her close, Cregga held her comfortingly.

"Mhera, my pretty, I thought you were upstairs with your mother. What are you doing down here all alone?"

Mhera allowed the Badgermum to stem the tears with her apron. "Mama knew there'd be no news of Dad and little Deyna. She cried herself to sleep, and I did too. But the thunder woke me, so I came down here to ask Martin the Warrior if he knew what had happened to my dad and the baby."

Cregga touched the tapestry, feeling the beautiful embroidery that countless paws had worked upon. Martin the Warrior mouse, Hero of Redwall, there had never been one braver than he. Martin was depicted standing in his armor, holding the great sword, whilst terror-stricken vermin fled from him in all directions. The Warrior had a strong but kindly face, and wherever anybeast stood in Great Hall he seemed to be looking at them, eternally watching over his beloved Abbey.

Cregga placed her paw on Mhera's head. "My poor little one. Did he tell you anything?"

Mhera wiped a paw across her eyes. "Not really. I just stood here waiting for an answer, but none came. Then I began to feel happy and sad just looking at him. I decided to cry all of my tears out for the last time. I felt determined not to spend my life weeping, but to comfort and help my mama as best I could. I think Martin was trying to tell me to be strong. Does that sound silly, marm?"

Cregga felt her spirit lift. Mentally she thanked Martin. "No, little one, it sounds good and brave. Well, seeing as you have the desire to help others, you can guide me up to my room."

Mhera managed a tiny smile. "Now that sounds silly, marm. Nobeast knows their way about the Abbey better than you. What need do you have of me?"

Cregga took Mhera's paw and patted it. "I don't tell this to every creature, but I'll let you in on a secret. I'm a very very old badger whom everybeast relies upon for advice, about all sorts of things, especially Abbey matters. So I try to help as much as I can, but nobeast ever seems to ask if I need anything. Old Cregga can take care of this and old Cregga can sort that out. But who is there to help old Cregga? I tell you, Mhera, the older I get the more I need a friend."

The ottermaid clasped the Badgermum's big paw tightly. "I'll be your friend, marm, forever."

Cregga opened the door to her room and ushered Mhera in. Rain pattered heavy and drumlike on the window. The badger found her massive overstuffed armchair and collapsed into it with a grateful sigh. There was lots of room on the arm for the young otter to perch upon.

Cregga put her footpaws up on a worn buffet. "This room once belonged to a great friend of mine, Abbess Song. She passed on seasons before even your mother was born. Ah me, the times Song and I spent together. She was a happy creature, always singing; that's why her name suited so well. If she were here now, looking at two miserable creatures like us, I know what she'd have to say."

"Go on then, marm, tell me what Abbess Song would say.

"She'd say, if that young otter's your friend, tell her to stop calling you marm and call you by your name, Cregga. Then she'd say that the way to stop feeling sad and sorry is to think up an excuse for a feast. One involving all the Redwallers. Get everybeast feeling happy and you'll feel happy yourself, that's what Song always said."

Mhera thought about this, but only for a second. "What a wonderful idea, Cregga! Let's have a great feast. It'll be summer's first day when the new moon appears, six days from tomorrow. Is that a good excuse for a feast?"

A lightning flash lit up the badger's silver-striped muzzle. "It's a marvelous excuse, young 'un. We always have a feast at change of season, so let's make this one an extra special feast. We'll call it... er ... what shall we call it?"

Mhera clapped her paws. "The Summer of Friendship feast!"

Cregga drummed her footpaws on the buffet. "Splendid! What a lovely idea, the Summer of Friendship feast. Now, besides the food we want lots of games, singing, dancing, poetry and musicians. We'll be in charge of that part, and leave the food and drink to those who know best, the Friar and Drogg Cellarhog. First thing tomorrow the preparations begin. We'll make this a feast to remember, eh, Mhera?"

The ottermaid agreed wholeheartedly. "We certainly will. My mama can help Friar Bobb; she's a great cook, you know. It'll help to take her mind off things."

Cregga could fight her weariness no longer. A huge yawn escaped her lips. "Oh, dear. Wish I was as young as you again!"

Mhera plumped the pillows behind her friend's head. "Sleep now, Cregga. You can get a lot of things done in dreams. Start planning our festivities. I'll see you in the morning."

Listening to the door close as Mhera crept back to her mother's room, Cregga mused to herself in a drowsy murmur, "Get a lot of things done in dreams. What a wise young creature my young friend is. Yes, just the type Redwall needs ... wise."

Thundersound grew more distant, the lightning less frequent. The volume of rain decreased to a drizzle as the storm moved east from Redwall and the green vastness of Mossflower Wood. Peace fell over the Abbey. Cregga in her armchair, Dibbuns in their dormitories, grown creatures in their beds, slept on through the night hours calm and undisturbed. New-baked bread, flat oatcakes, scones and turnovers lay on the warming shelves in the kitchens, ready for breakfast. Red embers glowed in the oven fires, casting flickering shadows in the silence. Friar Bobb, who never left his beloved kitchens, snored gently upon the truckle bed in the cool larder. Skipper and his crew snored uproariously in Cavern Hole, sprawled on forms, tables and makeshift mattresses. Broggle, the fat little assistant cook, lay on the first stair, still gripping Skipper's big javelin. He growled and showed his teeth in slumber, hunting evil foebeasts through the woodlands, and, of course, subduing and capturing every one of them.

You can get a lot of things done in dreams.

Chapter 4

Grissoul had a fire going in a small cave on the riverbank, a tiny island of light in the darkness. Outside, the clan huddled in their hastily erected shelters, mostly frayed pieces of canvas draped over branches and spearshafts. They ate what they had managed to forage that day on the journey westward. Squatting in any dry place, the vermin cursed the storm under their breath, hoping for fairer weather with the arrival of dawn.

Warm and dry inside the cave, Sawney Rath ate the remainder of a poached dace, which the Seer had caught to feed the otterbabe. Sawney watched the little creature with a fondness that was almost fatherly.

"Look at him, sleeping like a proper old riverdog. Did you see him tearing at the fish? Not much wrong with his appetite!"

Grissoul turned the babe's paw lightly, exposing the birthmark. "It is interesting that fortune chose an otterbeast to be Taggerung. An intriguing choice."

Sawney drew his knife. Holding it by the point, he placed the handle between the tiny paws. Deyna clasped it in his sleep. The Chieftain's fierce eyes turned to the vixen Seer.

"Aye, it's not usual, but otters grow big and tough, full of muscle and sinew. I'm sorry he wasn't a ferret like me, but an otter will serve the purpose just as well. We have to live by the prophecy and the omens. Thank your fortunes it wasn't a toad we found bearing the mark you foresaw!"

Grissoul agreed. "Aye, thank the fortunes!"

Sawney chuckled quietly, so as not to disturb his charge. "Look at him, holding the knife like a true assassin. This one will be a powerful force when he grows, mark my words."

Rain pattered on a canvas groundsheet that had been fixed to the riverbank side close to the cave. Beneath it Antigra lay nursing the babe she now had to call Gruven. Two other vermin shared the shelter, Wherrul the rat and Felch, the fox whose paw Sawney had crippled with his blade. Wherrul had his nose close to the fox's ear, complaining bitterly.

"It ain't right, cully. We've carried the tents from the scrublands to the ford, an' now we're carryin' them back the way we came. Where's the sense in it, if we ain't allowed to use them? Sittin' out 'ere in the rain under bits an' scraps o' canvas, while Sawney's got a dry cave, a fire an' good cooked vittles. My back's killin' me from bein' bent double all day, wipin' out tracks. It ain't right, I tell yer!"

Felch held up his injured paw, whispering a reply. "Lookit that. Me axe paw ruined for life. Sawney didn't even allow me t'stop an' bandage it. I 'ad to make do with a dollop of bankmud an' a dock leaf. All because I looked the wrong way at that otterbrat. Huh! Taggerung! I never 'eard of no otter becomin' a Taggerung. But I'll bide me time, Wherrul, wait'n'see. One day Sawney'll pay for what 'e did to me, I swear it!"

Hugging Gruven, Antigra closed her eyes, ignoring the whines and complaints of her companions. By listening hard she could hear Sawney and Grissoul's voices echoing from the cave. Sawney was speaking of the otterbabe's future.

"As he grows I'll teach him all I know; the use of the blade, the teeth, the claws. I'll teach him never to turn his back on an enemy, to be more tough and savage than anybeast. Vallug can instruct him in archery. Little Taggerungll be twice as fierce and fast as my father ever was. He's my lucky charm; since the time I found him my stomach hasn't troubled me."

Grissoul stared into the fire, trying to extract messages from the flame-shapes and the pattern of the ashes. "Aye, the fortunes of the Juskarath grow by the way. Thou did well to heed the omens, Sawney Rath. But the babe must be taught speed. Quickness of the paw is everything. Give him a short and fast name to remind him of this."

A thought caused Sawney's eyes to light up. "Tagg! That's what we'll call him. Tagg!"

Grissoul brought forth certain objects from her pouch. "Now is the time to speak the ancient words and confirm him. Cover thine eyes when I put my paws o'er the flames."

The Seer placed a hawk feather, a piece of flint and the gleaming skull of a small pike on the ground beside the otterbabe. Holding her clenched paw above the flames, she opened it suddenly. A blue flare rose from the fire for a brief moment, intense and bright, and Grissoul began to chant.

"Who can outrun the wind

Yet turn on a single leaf,

Stand silent as an amberfly

Or steal the breath from a thief?

The Taggerung!

Who can outswim a pike

Whose eyes are keen as the hawk's,

Who brings death in his wake

Yet leaves no mark where he walks?

Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney watched as the Seer painted the clan sign on the sleeping infant's face. A black stripe flanked by red dots, with a small added lightning flash of blue on his left cheek, to denote that he was no ordinary creature. The little one slept through it all. Sawney lay down beside him, sharing the cloak. Grissoul had never seen the ferret Chieftain show tenderness toward any living thing, so she was astonished when Sawney spoke gently to the babe.

"Zann Juskarath Taggerung. My son Tagg!"

Outside, under the sheltering canvas, Antigra bit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Take the life of my mate, take the name from my son. I am strong, I can bear it. One day I will take it all back and add the title Taggerung to my son's name. I hope you are strong then, Sawney Rath; strong enough to face a slow and painful death along with your new son Tagg. It will happen, I swear it on the memory of my mate Gruven!"

Within the hour following dawn over Mossflower Wood, mist tendrils rose from the treetops. Heralding a fine warm day, the sun stood high in a sky as blue as a kingfisher's tail plumes. Skipper took his javelin from Broggle's paws. Ears and whiskers twitching, the big otter signaled by waving the weapon at the searchers nearby.

"Down, mateys. Lie still'n'quiet!"

Broggle dropped to the damp grass, his eyes wide. "Wh-what is it, S-S-Skip?"

The otter threw a paw about Broggle's shoulder. "Ssshhh, an' listen!"

It was the strangest of sounds, like three or four creatures all playing instruments, jangling but tuneful. It sounded even odder when a wobbly voice warbled along with the music in an off-key tenor.

As whatever it was drew nearer, Skipper and Broggle had to stifle giggles at the ridiculous song.

"Collop a lee collop a loo,

Oh what I wouldn't give to

Be eating a filthy great plate o' salad,

Instead of composing this beautiful ballad.

A collop a lollop a lee oh loo,

Life's hard without scoff 'tis true,

You can always eat a lettuce, but

A lettuce can't eat you. Oooooohhhhhhh

Collop a lee a loo!

Hey ho for the life of a fool,

I recall my mater's wise rule,

Eat at least ten meals a day,

Or else you'll waste away she'd say,

Poor dear Mater so old and grey,

And fat as two bales of hay, hey ho. Oooooohhhh

Father said to me, 'M'lad, you know,

She's goin' to explode one day ... I saaaaaaay.'

So both of us ran away. Hey!"

Crashing and stumbling through the undergrowth came a hare. On his head he wore what had been a three-pointed jester's cap, but only the top point with its bell remained. The sides had been cut away, and in their place the hare's ears formed the other two points, each with a small round bell attached to it. His outfit defied any accurate description; it was a flowing, trailing ragbag of harlequin silk, with bits catching on the bushes and tearing off as he toppled and staggered through the woodlands. The reason for his awkward gait was apparent: he was carrying a gigantic musical instrument. The thing had strings and levers, bells, small bugles, flutes and even a drum attached to it. He finally tripped and fell flat on his back. It did not seem to put him out a bit. He lay there, struggling with the instrument and still composing his ridiculous song.

"Oh the saddest sight on earth,

I'll tell you for what it's worth,

Is the sight of a chap with an empty turn,

Laid low in the grass without a chum,

A jolly pal, who'd stay close by,

An' feed a poor fellow some apple pie,

Or perchance a slice of onion pastie ..."

He stopped and gazed up at the faces of Skipper's crew surrounding him. "I say, what rhymes with pastie?"

Broggle offered a suggestion without thinking. "Fastie?"

The hare looked thoughtful. "D'you think so? Let's give it a try. Or perchance a slice of onion pastie, with which to break my morning fastie.. . hmm. Many thanks, old scout, but it'll need a bit of workin' on, wot!"

Two of the ottercrew lifted the instrument from the hare. Skipper grabbed him and pulled him upright. "Tell me, how long've ye been in these woods? Have ye seen anythin' of a growed otter an' a newborn otterbabe? Or did ye cross the path of any vermin lurkin' 'ereabouts? Speak up!"

The hare blinked and flopped his long ears to either side. "Bit of a tall order, old lad, but here goes, wot! I'm merely a wayfarin' traveler, passin' through, y'might say. As for otters, big or small, haven't spotted any, aside from your goodself. Not a sign of a vermin either, lurkin' or disportin' their scummy hides t'me view. Sorry I can't help you, sah!"

Skipper eyed the odd creature up and down. "I think you'd best tell us yore name, matey, and what yore doin' 'round here."

Before he could stop him, the hare had seized Skipper's paw and was shaking it heartily. "Matey? Do I detect a nautical twang, sah? Well, me name ain't matey. Boorab the Fool at y'service, bound to take up an exalted position as Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer, Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. Without payment, of course. My services are rendered purely out of the kindness of my heart, y'know. The only remuneration I require is vittles. Food, sah. Grub, tucker, scoff, call it what y'will, as long as they're not stingy with the portions, eh, wot wot! By the bye, do any of you chaps know the way to an establishment known as Redwall Abbey?"

Skipper broke the furious paw-shaking grip of Boorab. "Yore goin' to Redwall Abbey?" He turned to Brother Hoben, who had volunteered for the search. "D'you know any thin' about this, Brother?"

Hoben, being Recorder, had his paw on all Abbey business. He shook his head in bewilderment. "First I've heard of it. Tell me, Mr. Boorab, who appointed you?"

Boorab waggled his ears nonchalantly. "Nobeast really. One hears these things, y'know. Did you treat a goose with a bashed-up wing pinion last summer, perchance?"

Hoben recalled the incident. "We did! He spent quite a bit of time with us until Sister Alkanet got him flying again. Why do you want to know?"

Boorab relieved Drogg Spearback of a candied chestnut he had taken from his apron pocket, and chewed on it reflectively. "That was the very chap. Big white feathery cove, honked a lot. It was him who told me that your jolly old Abbey hasn't got a hare, or a music master in residence there. So I thought I'd nip down an' fill the post, wot. Hope no other bally hare's beaten me to the blinkin' job. Got to keep the old eye out for cads an' rotters an' job pinchers these days, y'know, wot!"

Drogg drew Skipper to one side. "I thinks we'd best take 'im t'the Abbey," he murmured. "Cregga will decide what to do with 'im. What d'ye say, Skip?"

The brawny otter smiled as he shot a glance at the quaint beast. "Hmm. Hares are good mates, 'cept when yore sittin' next to one at dinner. I think we'll 'ave to take Boorab back with us, Drogg. Supposin' 'e fell over again. With that thing lyin' atop of 'im the pore creature might never get up. I couldn't 'ave that on me mind an' sleep easy. Makes y'feel responsible for 'im, don't he?"

Drogg turned back to Boorab and gave him the good news. The hare was delighted, but he changed mood swiftly. Facing the ottercrew, he puffed out his narrow chest and acted as though he were challenging them.

"Right, laddie bucks, any of you think you're stronger than me?"

Otters are fiercely proud of their agility and strength. Two hefty young ones sprang forward, a male and a female, and spoke together as one. "I am!"

Boorab clapped them on their backs. "Splendid. Two towerin' figures of otter muscle, wot! I'll wager you could lift that instrument with me jolly well sittin' atop of it, right?"

It was the otters' turn to swell their chests and flex their muscles. They chorused in agreement. "Right!"

Skipper knew what was coming, and he chuckled as Boorab answered, "Good, then I won't sit on the instrument. You two carry it an' I'll walk. I'm not lazy, y'know!"

Skipper walked alongside Boorab. He was developing a liking for the comical hare. "Boorab the Fool, eh? You ain't such a fool, matey, I can tell. That's the queerest ole instrument I've ever clapped eyes on. What d'ye call it?"

Boorab stumbled slightly, and gathered up his flapping robes. "That, sah, is a haredee gurdee. Made it m'self. Mandolin, drums, fiddle, flutes, bugles an' harp, all in one. With a space in the mandolin bowl to carry one's vittles. Empty now, as ill luck an' a healthy appetite would have it."

Broggle trundled along between Skipper and Boorab, carrying the big otter javelin. Boorab cast an eye over the fat little squirrel. "Ah, my friend the rhymester. What do they call you, young sir?"

"B-Broggle, M-Mr. Boorab s-sir!"

Boorab glanced across at Skipper. "How long has the little chap had that stammer, wot?"

Skipper shrugged. "Long as I've knowed 'im."

Boorab turned back to Broggle. "Say ah!"

"Ah!"

"Now longer. Say aaaaaahhh!"

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!"

"Excellent. Now sing out like this." The hare composed a small tune on the spot. "My name is Broggle, Mr. Boorab saaaaah!"

Skipper nodded at the young squirrel to do as he was bidden.

Broggle took a deep breath and sang forth. "My name is Broggle, Mr. Boorab saaaaaaaah!"

The hare smiled. "Very good. Did y'notice anything, Broggle?"

"N-no, s-sir?"

Boorab chucked him lightly under the chin. "You never stammered once when y'had to sing."

An expression of awe and delight framed the young squirrel's face. "I d-didn't, s-sir?"

"No, of course y'didn't, laddie buck. Try singin' instead of talkin'. It'll help, you'll see, wot!"

Suddenly Broggle brandished the javelin and sang out in a clear little voice.

"I didn't stammer once when I had to sing,

So now I'm going to sing everything!"

Boorab winked at Skipper. "Told you that chap was a good rhymester. We'll soon get rid of that stammer, wot wot!"

Skipper grinned from ear to ear. "I think ole Cregga Badgermum's goin' to like you, matey."

Broggle skipped ahead, waving the javelin and singing lustily.

"I work in Redwall kitchens, with old Friar Bobb,

'Cos I'm the cook's assistant, that's my job!"

The hare raised his eyebrows. "Assistant cook, wot? A tine chap t'know, I'd say. I think I'll give the little grubslinger his singin' lessons in the kitchen. Marvelous places, kitchens. Full of food, y'know."

Cregga was in the kitchens with Mhera, Filorn and Friar Bobb, beginning to work on a menu for the feast. Filorn realized that the others were trying to cheer her up, and to please them she joined in with the proceedings, her enthusiasm rising every time Mhera smiled at her.

"Oh, Mama, say you'll bake your apple and raspberry flan, with meadowcream and the pattern of mint leaves on top. Oh, please, we haven't had it for ages!"

Filorn fussed with her apron ties. "I'm not sure I can remember how to do it. The apples are very important. But it's the wrong season for apples, is it not, Friar?"

The fat Friar chuckled. "Not at all, marm. What sort o' Friar would I be if'n I didn't keep a good stock of last autumn's russet apples in my larders? Nothin' like a nice russet!"

"Oh yes there is. Two nice russets, wot, hawhawhaw!"

They were startled by the sudden appearance of the quaintly garbed hare. Friar Bobb grabbed his biggest ladle. "Who are you and what're you doin' in our Abbey?"

Broggle marched in and pointed at the hare with Skipper's lance.

"Boorab is my friend,

On that you may depend,

He's come to stay awhile,

Be nice to him and smile!"

Mhera went into a fit of chuckles. "Broggle, what are you singing like that for?"

The bells on the hare's cap and ears jingled as he did a hopskip toward the ottermaid and gave a low sweeping bow. "Why, my pretty one, well may you ask. But observe, when my pal Broggle sings he doesn't stammer. Simple, wot?"

Cregga's booming voice brought the hare to instant attention. "Stand up straight, sah, ears upright, whiskers t'the front, paws in position an' tail well fluffed. Identify y'self!"

The hare threw a smart salute and rattled off his reply. "Boorab the Fool, marm! That's B for Bellscut, O for Oglecrop, O for Obrathon, R for Ragglewaithe, A for Audube, B for Baggscut. Marm!"

Cregga beckoned the hare to her. She put out a paw and ran it over his face and ears, nodding sagely. "Hah! That's a Baggscut face all right. I should know, after commanding more than a thousand hares when I ruled the mountain of Salamandastron. Your grandfather, Pieface Baggscut, served under me as a leveret runner."

Boorab chuckled. "Stap m'whiskers, old Grandpa Pieface, eh wot? Now there was a beast who c'd lick his weight in salad, wot wot! I remember one time, I must've been no bigger'n young Broggle there ..." His voice faltered as the realization of whom he was addressing hit him. He gulped.

"Oh corks! Oh crumbs! Marm, oh, marm! You must be Lady Cregga Rose Eyes, Ruler of Salamandastron, the wild-eyed Warrior Queen, the Belle of the blinkin' Bloodwrath, the kill"

"Silence! That's enough of that, young Baggscut. And who told you to stand easy? Come to attention, sah!"

Skipper, who had been listening from the doorway, came forward. The otter Chieftain held a long whispered conversation with Cregga, who held a huge handkerchief to her face. To anybeast watching it looked as if she had been taken by a fit of coughing, but in fact Cregga was bravely striving to stop herself roaring out with laughter. Mhera felt sorry for the odd hare, standing nervously to attention, ear and cap bells tinkling faintly, awaiting the pronouncement of his fate, and whispered, "Don't worry, sir, it'll be all right."

It took Cregga a considerable time to get her mirth under control, but at last she wiped her eyes and cleared her throat portentously.

"I am informed that you are applying for the post of Redwall Abbey's Master of Music, Occasional Entertainer, Composer, Melodic Tutor and Instructor in all things lyrical. I understand that you have come on the recommendation of a goose that was treated here some while back. Is that correct?"

Boorab the Fool brightened up instantly. "You've got it in one, marm! Y'won't regret it, I promise you. Why, I'll have the whole flippin' Abbey singin' an' dancin' from dawn to bally nightfall, just you wait'n'see, wot!"

Cregga shut him up with a wave of her paw. "But you haven't got the job yet. I'm not too sure we are in need of your services. Tell me, what would you want in return?"

Boorab sucked his stomach in, trying to look like a beast who ate virtually nothing. "Want in return, marm? Merely a place to rest the old head an' the odd pawful o' fodder. I'm more of a dedicated artist of m'trade. The thought of food makes me sick sometimes. Why, a butterfly with no appetite eats more'n I jolly well do."

Cregga turned her face to Filorn and Mhera. "Hmm. What do you think? Shall I hire the hare?"

Mhera was surprised her opinion had been asked. "Oh, please do, Cregga marm. Look at the way Mr. Boorab is helping Broggle. Mama, say you want him to have the job."

Filorn could not help smiling at the look of noble dedication that Boorab was radiating in her direction. "I'll go along with my daughter. I think you should let Boorab have the position, Cregga."

The badger sat stroking her chin until the tension grew unbearable for Boorab, and he flung himself at her footpaws. "Merciful marm, say y'will, I bally well beg you. Don't leave a benighted Baggscut blunderin' about in the storm an' snow without a kindly crust to keep fur an' ears together! Oh, me little furry friend Broggle, sing a line on my behalf!"

The young squirrel obliged.

"He wants to work in the kitchens,

With me an' Friar Bobb,

So please Cregga Badgermum,

Give him the blinkin' job!"

Cregga drummed her paws on the tabletop, then nodded. "Here's my decision. I'll put you on one season's probation, Boorab, under the supervision of Filorn, Mhera, Broggle and Friar Bobb. Now, you four, keep your eyes on this hare. His meals must be the same size as any other Redwaller's, no secret snacks or midnight feasts. If he is reported just once for raiding the larders, out of the gate he goes! Also, he will sleep and rise at the same time as everybeast. Unless he is ill, there will be no lying late abed, or nipping off to shady spots for a snooze. We will see how he behaves throughout this coming summer season. Do you agree with our terms, Boorab? That's the offer, take it or leave it."

For answer, Boorab bowed formally, did a somersault of joy and began serenading them on his haredee gurdee, which two of Skipper's crew had just brought in. It jangled and booped wildly as Boorab made up the words as he went along.

"Derry cum day foll deeh,

I pray you listen to me.

I'll compose this ditty upon the spot,

To say you're a jolly decent lot,

Then you can judge for yourself or not,

What an Abbey asset I'll be,

Derry cum day foll deeh!

You lot won't know you're born,

I'll be up before each dawn,

To serve you crumpets'n'tea in bed,

To wake you gently I'll stroke your head,

I'll warble sweetly until you're fed,

And you'll never feel forlorn,

'Cos I'll do this every morn!

Sing derry cum de all day,

What a splendid hare you'll say,

He's handsome, happy an' modest too,

An' what a cook, why I'll tell you,

There's nought this super chap can't do,

Let's never send him away,

Yes, I'll wager that's what you'll say!"

Boorab finished his song with a winning smile, made an elegant leg, bowed, picked up his haredee gurdee and overbalanced. He fell amidst a discordant crash of bugles, drums and twanging strings. Foremole Brull covered her eyes with a huge digging claw, patting Cregga sympathetically with the other.

"Hurr, marm, oi bets ee be deloighted we'm gotten uz ee hurrbeast. Yurr, Skip, lend oi ee paw to 'elp 'im oop."

Boorab struggled from under the mammoth instrument. "Soup? Did somebeast mention soup? I say, you chaps, it must be time for dinner, wot?"

Friar Bobb placed his head mournfully on Filorn's shoulder. "My ole dad used t'say that feedin' a hare was like chuckin' pebbles down a deep well. You never fill it in a thousand long seasons!"

Chapter 5

Though it was still only early summer, hot noontide sun beat down on the shore. Below the flotsam-wreathed tideline clear turquoise shallows gave way to a bright blue sea. A mild southerly breeze chased the creamy spray atop swelling wavebanks as they rolled in to break noisily amidst rockpools and sandy coves. Juskarath tents had been pitched on the beach, where dunes met the strand. Sitting on a blanket, the otterbabe waited hungrily for the next mouthful of food, which Grissoul was feeding him from a large scallop shell. Sawney hovered around them like an old mother hen, watching anxiously.

"Be careful there's no fish bones in that concoction!"

The Seer used a mussel shell to transfer food to the babe's mouth. "Fret thou not, there is nought in this but goodness, the white flesh of sole and young seaweed, cooked with a pinch of sea salt. I made it myself. See how he likes it?"

Sawney tweaked the otterbabe's stomach. The infant growled at him for disturbing its feed, and the ferret Chieftain chuckled. "Hoho. Did you hear that? My little Tagg has a temper. Eat it all up and grow strong, my son. Did they bring in some fresh young scallops for his supper?"

Grissoul shrugged. "They say the tide is strong yet. When it ebbs they will search for some among the rocks."

Sawney's mood changed. He whirled on a group lounging nearby. "Juskarath clanbeasts frightened of a few waves? Up, up off your idle backs and get foraging. Our Taggerung needs only the youngest, most tender scallops for his evening meal. You, Felch, take Antigra and the rest of your lazy crew. Get out of my sight, and I warn you, don't come back with empty paws!"

They hurried to obey. Sawney turned his back on them, to face four rats who came stumbling hot and tired down a steep dune. "Well, did you cut any sign of creatures tracking us?"

Shaking his head, the lead rat hunkered down in the sand. "Nah, nary a pawmark or a bruised leaf. 'Tis more than twoscore days now. If they was comin' after us we'd 'ave spotted 'em long since, Chief."

Sawney drew his blade and pointed it at the rat. "I asked for your report, not your opinion, Grobait. How far back did you search? Tell me the truth!"

Grobait cringed visibly under Sawney's ruthless eyes. "Close on a day back upstream, Chief. There wasn't a sign of anybeast, I swear it on me oath!"

Sawney toyed with the trackers as they nodded agreement with Grobait and sat waiting on their clan leader's word. He turned, as if dismissing them.

"A day upstream, eh? Well, let's see you try a little further afield this time. Say two days upstream. Get going!" He tossed his knife, catching it by the point, ready to throw. "Now go!"

Allowing himself a humorless smile, Sawney strode off, listening to the labored grunts of the rats as they clambered wearily back through the shifting sand to the dunetops.

Standing shoulder-deep in a rockpool, Antigra shielded her eyes as a wave cascaded over the stones. The other vermin who had been sent with her and Felch to gather scallops coughed and spluttered seawater. Antigra kept her gaze riveted on the ferret Chieftain, who was swaggering about among the tents, issuing orders. The stoat mother gritted her teeth.

"Look at him, Sawney Rath the high and mighty clan chief, giving out commands like the warlord of a battlehorde. Run here, run there, fetch me this and give me that, bring the best of scallops. And what for? The supper of an otterbrat!"

A weasel named Milkeye tossed a scallop into the bag slung about Wherrul's neck and turned his one good eye on Antigra. "Better not let him 'ear yer talkin' like that!"

Antigra hurled a scallop against the rock, smashing the shell. "An ottercub, a mewling puking little riverdog, lying on a blanket in the shade, getting the choicest vittles specially cooked and fed to it. Look at my babe Gruven. I had to leave him lying there alone, out in the sun, while I forage for the next meal of a so-called Taggerung!"

Milkeye rescued the broken scallop and sucked the contents from its smashed shell. " 'Tis agin the clan law to speak like that about a Taggerung."

Antigra curled her lip in contempt. "You'll see who the real Taggerung is when my son grows. He'll be ten times tougher and faster than that spoilt little ruddertail, you wait and see. Since Sawney brought that creature to our clan he's changed. Treading roughshod over us, killing and injuring his own tribe."

Felch held up his useless paw. "Aye, Antigra's right, but who's goin' to challenge Sawney? He's like lightnin' with that blade of his."

Antigra flattened her back against the rocks, avoiding another shower from a breaking wave. "Sawney Rath's father was even harder and swifter, but time caught up with him. I remember him being the Taggerung when I was a young 'un. He lived on his legend. Sawney is older than us, growing out of his prime, more every season. We can wait. The time will arrive when his paw isn't so strong, nor his eye so keen. That's when I'll take my revenge, aye, me and my son against him and his parentless brat!"

Wherrul nudged Antigra. "Hush. 'Ere comes the vixen!"

Grissoul came to the pool's edge, calling to them over the booming surf. "Bring enough scallops for Sawney Rath too, and don't be all day about it. I want thee to forage for wild celery and onion in the dunelands. Bring any fresh herbs ye see growin' there also!"

Wherrul hauled himself from the water, the bag of scallops clacking against his chest. "Young scallops cooked in wild celery'n'onion an' herbs," he muttered under his breath. "I wouldn't mind a bowlful o' that meself."

Milkeye elbowed the rat aside. "Huh! You'll git wot yore given, like the rest of us, a lick of Sawney's temper an' leftover scraps!"

Antigra reached out a paw and helped Felch ashore. "Don't fret. It may take seasons yet, but we can wait. One day the tables will be turned, and then 'twill be us eating off the fat of the land!"

At Redwall Abbey there was no shortage of good food. That same evening Redwallers shared the best of everything as they sat in a lantern-lit orchard to celebrate the Summer of Friendship feast.

Before the food was served, the elders, counselors and parents took their places. Smiling and nodding to one another, they watched as the newly formed Dibbuns' choir filed in and stood in order of height, tallest standing at the rear, a line kneeling in front of them, and the front row, of the smallest, sitting cross-legged. All were holding tiny lanterns, and their clean robes and well-scrubbed faces were bright in the soft reflected light.

Boorab strode majestically to the rostrum, which was the old upturned wheelbarrow decked out in summer blossoms. The hare made a dignified bow to the elders, and then, taking out a bulrush baton, he coughed formally.

"Lady Cregga, respected elders, good creatures all, may I present tonight for your delight an' delectation"

"Wot's a dite of lectation?" little Floburt piped up, much to everybeast's amusement. Boorab silenced her with a severe twitch of his nose.

"Without further ado the Jolly Dibbuns Choir of Redwall will render for you, under my expert direction, a recently composed masterpiece, written by m'goodself, wot wot..."

"Wot wot!" several Dibbuns chorused together. The hare waggled his ears fiercely at them before continuing.

"... entitled, 'Welcome to the Feast'."

Boorab produced a small reed pitch flute and blew upon it, then attempted to get the key right. "Fahfahfah . . . Sooooooodomeelah . . . Lalalalahhhhh. One two . .. !"

The little ones made a ragged start but soon picked up the air.

"Welcome to the feast, the feast,

Oh welcome one and all.

Good creatures that you are, la la la,

Who dwell within Redwall.

The lark descends unto its nest,

The sun has sunk into the west,

And we are left all evening long,

To bring you light and song.

Sing out sing out each joyous beast,

Oh welcome to the feast, the feast,

We wish you happy seasons long,

And hope you liked our soooooong!"

Applause broke out as the final note drifted clear upon the summer night air. Boorab took a hasty bow and turned back to his Jolly Dibbuns Choir.

"Well done, chaps an' chapesses. Dismiss to your seats now. Not you, young Egburt. Come here, sir, this very instant!"

The little hedgehog quailed under his hare conductor's gaze. "Er, heehee, I sorry, sir. I sing d'right words nex' time."

Boorab held the quivering baton under Egburt's snout. "Fiend! Lyric wrecker! What were those words y'were singing? C'mon, spit it out. Recite 'em back t'me, sah!"

Egburt remained silent until his Grandpa Drogg growled, "You do as Mr. Boorab sez, young 'un, or 'tis straight up t'bed for ye. Go on, what were you singin'? Tell the truth!"

Egburt was left with no choice. Raising his spikes, he boomed out in a fine baby baritone:

"Ho welcome to the feast, you beast,

I hopes you trip an' fall,

I've got a fat grandpa, ha ha ha,

Who'll prob'ly eat it all.

The lark defends his feathery chest,

The sun has sunk into his vest,

If he don't bathe before too long,

There'll be an awful pong ..."

Boorab snapped the baton and covered his eyes. "Enough! Enough I say, you small spiked song destroyer!" The outraged hare turned abruptly to Drogg Spearback. "Well, sir, what the deuce d'you think of your grandson, wot?"

Stroking his grey headquills, Drogg eyed Egburt pensively. "Hmmm. If'n you ask me I think the liddle 'un shows a rare talent for rhymin' words together."

Boorab pondered Drogg's answer a moment, then he laughed. "Hawhawhaw! Well, frizzle m'whiskers, sah, y'could be right there. The rogue does have a certain turn of phrase, wot?"

Drogg patted his ample stomach proudly. "I reckon he gets it from me. Us Spearbacks was always good poets, fine singers too. Comes nat'ral to us!"

Brother Hoben, the old Recorder, had a wry sense of humor, despite his serious and learned look. Not averse to a bit of mischievous fun, he tapped Boorab.

"Excuse me, sir, but if I were you, being the official Abbey poet and musician, I'd say that Drogg was issuing a challenge!"

Cregga and several others caught on to Hoben's idea. They pounded on the tables, calling out, "A contest! Let's have a contest!"

Drogg shrugged." 'Tis fair enough wi' me. I don't mind."

Bells tinkled on Boorab the Fool's ears as they stood erect. "I accept the challenge, sah. A contest it is, an' may the best creature win, wot wot!"

Hoarg the dormouse piped up. "A contest then, but what's the subject to be?"

Cregga's keen ears detected the creaking of trolley wheels. "They're bringing the food to serve for our feast. Let's make that the subject. A musical verse praising our cooks' efforts!"

Boorab waggled his ears confidently. "Ask me t'sing about scoff? Pish tush, sah, a piece of cake. You're on a loser, me old pincushion. Like to go first?"

Drogg waved a paw airily. "Nay, sir, if'n yore so good, don't let me stop ye!"

Boorab stood to one side, striking a fine dramatic pose, one leg behind the other, ears laid soulfully back, paws bent at chest height in true hare singing fashion. Casting his eyes over the contents of the carts as the servers trundled them up to the tables, he coughed politely and launched into a speedily delivered verse.

"How can one count the praises of the vittles at Redwall?

Oh pure delight, oh wondrous night, I'll sing to one and all.

Thaaaaaaat blackberry pudden looks such a good 'un,

All covered in meadowcream.

And the hazelnut cake, well for goodness' sake,

I hope it's no jolly old dream.

That huge apple pie, oh me oh my, the crust is pipin' hot,

Good creatures be nice, an' save me a slice,

Or I'm sure I'll die, wot wot!"

Foremole Brull nudged a cart with her footpaw. It rolled gently to rest, right under Boorab's nose. The hare tried bravely to carry on singing with a hot mushroom pastie, dripping onion gravy, simmering under his nose.

"What rhymes with pastie, I'll try to sing fastly,

My nose tells me 'tis wrong,

This soon will grow cold, if I may make so bold,

Pray excuse a chap endin' his song!"

Unable to stand it any longer and disregarding cutlery, the gluttonous hare hurled himself barepawed upon the pastie. "Grmmff, I say, sninch grrmm, rotten ole mole cad, grmmff grrawff, put me off my ditty completely, grrmff snch, bounder!"

Drogg the Cellarhog fell off his chair laughing. "Ohohoho! Nobeast could follow that. Mr. Boorab, take a tankard o' my finest October Ale an' wet yore whistle. You win!"

Sister Alkanet helped herself to a plate of summerfruit salad and a mint wafer spread with soft white cheese. Looking prim and severe, she remarked to Brother Hoben, "That hare! What a bad example he's setting to the young ones!"

On the Dibbuns' table many Abbeybabes were imitating Boorab. Little Gundil was practically washing his face in a portion of deeper'n ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, the moles' favorite dish. A tiny squirrel and an infant mousemaid were feeding each other pawfuls of summer vegetable soup. It looked as if they were trying to paint one another. Egburt and Floburt were at either end of an applecream flan, munching away, eager to see who would got to the center first. Table manners, spoons, forks and serviettes were completely ignored as each Dibbun went at it paw and snout, enjoying the fun and the food.

Sister Alkanet was about to rise and deal with them, but brother Hoben pressed her gently back into her seat. "Please, Sister, let them be. Dibbuns don't remain babes forever. To them 'tis all a game. Let them play it and have a good time."

Alkanet picked daintily at her salad and fumed. "It's not good manners. Look at the mess they're making. Look at those smocks, clean on this evening. Who'll get the job of washing them? Certainly not me!"

A fat kindly mole called Wummple poured a beaker of dandelion cordial and passed it to the Sister, chuckling. "Hurrhurrhurr. Doan't ee fret, marm, oi'll be ee washerbeast. You'm let they likkle h'infants be. They'm full of 'arpiness. Oi wishes oi cudd join 'em, burr aye!"

Cregga sat back, sipping at a small cup of elderberry wine, letting the festive feeling wash over her. Everybeast tried to press different delicacies upon the Badgermum, and she acknowledged them all pleasantly.

"Yurr, marm, oi saved ee summ turnip'n'tater'n' beetroot poi. Foremole Brull sez et makes ee grow big'n'strong!"

"Thank you, Gundil. I hope it makes me grow big and strong as you."

"Try some o' my best October Ale, marm. It's a new barrel."

"Put it down there, Drogg, I'll sample it later, thank you.

"Cregga, I saved you a slice of plumcake, it's delicious!"

"I'm sure it is, Friar. I was hoping you'd save some for me."

The big badger accepted everything graciously, knowing that her friends thought she did not know what was on the tables because of her blindness. Cregga, however, had extra-keen hearing and an amazing sense of smell and touch. Hot scones she could detect by their aroma, even before they were brought to the festive board. Cheese, ale, salads, bread, trifles, cakes and puddings: she could place them all in position uncannily, at their exact location in relation to where she sat.

Somebeast touched her paw, and without thinking she identified who it was. "Enjoying yourself, Skipper?"

The otter shook his head in amazement. "Aye, marm, 'tis a grand ould party. I brought you some o' the watershrimp an' 'otroot soup wot Mhera an' Filorn made. Stripe me rudder, I never tasted better in all me life, marm!"

Cregga mentally chided herself. She had not heard the voices of the ottermum and her daughter at table for a considerable time. She patted an empty space on the tabletop, indicating where Skipper should place the bowl of soup.

"Tell me, Skip, have you seen Mhera and Filorn anywhere?"

"In the kitchens last time I clapped eyes on 'em, marm. Why?"

Cregga rose from her seat carefully. "Sit in my chair and keep it warm for me, Skip. I'll not be gone for too long."

Cregga merged back into the orchard trees, not wanting anybeast to offer a paw to guide her. Silently, her paws touching familiar objects, she made her way back to the Abbey building. Like a great moonshadow she drifted noiselessly through Great Hall and down to the kitchens. Filorn and Mhera did not hear her enter. They were hugging each other, seeking comfort as their bodies shook with grief. No sooner did Cregga hear them weeping than she was at their side, holding them in her huge embrace.

"There, there, now, my good friends, what's brought all this about?"

Mhera turned her tearstained face up to the sightless eyes. "Oh, Cregga, I tried my best, I really did . . . but we miss Dad and little Deyna so much ..."

Sobs overcame the ottermaid's voice. Filorn continued haltingly where her daughter had left off.

"I knew that Mhera was trying to cheer me up after our loss, so I tried to be brave and not think about it. We busied ourselves and helped to organize the feast, and it worked for a while. But Skipper was so pleased with our freshwater shrimp and hotroot soup that he reminded us of poor Rillflag. It was my husband's special favorite, you see. So we couldn't help ... oh, dear!" A fresh burst of tears overflowed from Filorn.

Cregga herded them both into a corner. Sitting them down on a bundle of empty sacks, she whispered, "Stay there. I'll be back in a tick." She returned shortly with a flask and three tiny pottery cups, and sat down with the two otters. "This is very old strong damson wine, so sip it carefully."

The Badgermum filled the three cups, then waited until they had taken a couple of sips and dried their eyes.

"Tastes like sweet fire, doesn't it? I usually have a drop on winter mornings, just to get me up and about. There, that's better. I've seen lots of winters, you know, far more than anybeast I know. Every grey hair on my black stripes is a winter. Aye, I've seen friends too, good companions, die and pass over to the silent streams and sunlit glades. Oh, I'm not the hard old blind warrior everybeast thinks I am. I've grieved and shed tears, long and loud, for my departed loved ones. Don't be ashamed to weep; 'tis right to grieve. Tears are only water, and flowers, trees and fruit cannot grow without water. But there must be sunlight also. A wounded heart will heal in time, and when it does, the memory and love of our lost ones is sealed inside to comfort us."

Filorn clasped the badger's paw. "Thank you for your kind words, Cregga."

The Badgermum could not resist pouring them another small tot of the damson wine. "Oh, don't thank me, I'm speaking for all our Redwallers. 'Tis they who want to thank you for arranging and cooking most of this feast. Friar Bobb and young Broggle had almost the entire evening off because of your splendid efforts. As for me, well, I don't want to see you both hiding in these kitchens, and neither would your dad if he was here, Mhera. Isn't that right, Filorn?"

Drinking her wine off in one draft, the otter mother lost her breath for a moment, then stood up, nodding. "Whooh! Yes, that's right. Rillflag always used to say that time heals everything and life must go on."

Skipper was standing on a chair. He spotted the lantern Mhera was carrying and called out in a hoarse whisper, "Belay, mates, 'ere they come. Are ye ready?"

Loud cheers resounded as the trio entered the orchard. Redwallers gathered around to thank Filorn and Mhera.

"Many many thanks for the wonderful spread, ladies!"

"Hurr aye, missus, et wurr greatly impreciated boi all!"

"Never had a blinkin' scoff like it in me jolly old life, wot!"

While a molemaid presented each of the otters with a bouquet of flowers, Drogg tipped the wink to Boorab, who had the Jolly Dibbuns Choir ready with a song. Giving Egburt a swift warning glance, Boorab tapped his baton against the upturned wheelbarrow and started them off on the background harmony.

"Rum be diddle dee dum, be diddle dee dum, dee diddledy dum..."

The hare pointed an ear at his soloist. Broggle stepped to the front and sang out beautifully into the lantern-lit orchard.

"Ladies dear oh ho we thank you,

For this evening's wondrous feast,

Every Dibbun every elder,

From the greatest to the least.

We can say with paw on heart,

That your efforts did you proud,

So in tribute to your art,

Let us sing with joy aloud.

Ladies dear oh how we thank you,

And in truth we always will,

Knowing that your gracious beauty,

Is in keeping with your skill!"

Amid the applause, Foremole Brull pounded Broggle's back. "Gurtly dunn, young maister. Ee doan't be a-stammeren when ee singen. 'Tis ee marvel!"

The young squirrel flicked his bushy tail triumphantly. " No, marm, an' I don't stammer when I speak anymore, as you can see. Completely cured, thanks to my good friend Mr. Boorab. I sang the words in my mind as I spoke them at first, but now I don't even have to do that anymore. I just speak as I like an' out it comes, without a stammer or a stumble or a trip. Talk? It's the simplest thing on earth! Would you like to hear me recite the alphabet, forward, backward or sideways as you please? 'Tis quite simple, listen. . ."

Broggle was forestalled by Boorab's thrusting a honeyed hazelnut slice into his mouth. The hare pulled Brull to one side.

"Confounded young bounder found his voice earlier this evenin', an' now I can't shut him up. Lackaday, he's babblin' like a bally brook. There's no stoppin' him. Humph. Wonder if I did the right thing, givin' him my special lessons, wot?"

Brull poured the hare a tankard of strawberry fizz. "Nay, zurr, you'm can't teach ee young Broggler to stammer agin. Us'n's ull 'ave to put up wi' et. Hurr hurr hurr!"

Broggle buttonholed Mhera and Filorn. He had decided to practice his newfound speech powers on anybeast who would listen.

"Ahah, a very pleasant evening to you both. What a magnificent and sumptuous feast, or as my friend Mr. Boorab would say, super scoff, wot wot? Sumptuous. Now, there's a word I could never say when I stammered, but now it's sumptuous, superior, superlative, splendid! What a splendid word splendid is, just like the food you made for us and this smashing summer evening in our Abbey's awesome orchard. It's all too splendiferous for words, ladies!"

Filorn put a paw around Broggle's shoulder and laughed. "It certainly is, young squirrel, and all the better for hearing you speak properly for the first time. Congratulations!"

"Huh, easy for your mum to say," Friar Bobb muttered to Mhera out of the corner of his mouth. "She doesn't have a bedspace near Broggle in the kitchen larder. I'm going to kip down on the Abbey roof if he starts talking in his sleep. What are you laughing at, missie? It's not funny, y'know!"

Mhera took a drink of strawberry fizz from Boorab's tankard. "Oh, hahaha. Sorry, Friar, I'm not laughing at you. Hahaha. It's just that I feel happy all of a sudden!"

Boorab cast a jaundiced eye into his near-empty tankard. "Er, excuse me, my pretty young gel, but next flippin' time you start feelin' happy would you mind standin' next to some other chap's drink, wot!"

Little Gundil offered his beaker to Mhera. "Yurr, miz, you'm can taken ee drink o' mine."

The ottermaid was about to accept the offer when the hare neatly relieved the molebabe of his beaker.

"My turn to pinch somebeast's drink, old chap, wot!"

He swigged down a good mouthful, swallowed it and clapped a paw to his throat. A look of horror spread across his face. He charged off toward the Abbey pond, roaring, "Yaaaagh! It's 'orrible! I'm poisoned! I'm on fire! Whoooaah!"

Gundil stuck out a bottom lip as he inspected the empty beaker. "Hurr, et wurr only summ 'otroot zoop'n'dannyline wine an' 'ot minty tea wi' roasted chesknutters a-floaten in et. 'Tis moi fayvert drink. Vurry tasty, hurr aye!"

Mhera, Filorn, Friar Bobb, Cregga and Foremole Brull fell about laughing helplessly. Broggle wandered amongst them, waving a paw in the air and declaiming airily, "Taken aback was my unfortunate instructor, stricken by a cunning concoction, whilst about him many mingled in mirthful merriment. Truly the Summer of Happiness and Friendship was off to a memorable start, or should that be splendiferous start? I like that word, it's splendiferous!"

Book 2

Fifteen Seasons On

Chapter 6

Felch the fox had run, taking the blade of Sawney Rath with him. Trees, shrubs, bushes and grass merged into a green blur in the dawn rain as the fox staggered along on leaden paws. Felch had been running since midnight. He was glad of the rain, hoping that it would obliterate his tracks and throw his pursuer off the scent. Instinctively he knew that Sawney would send only one creature to hunt him down. The Taggerung. Blundering into nettlebeds and crashing through groves of fern, Felch felt a numbing terror constrict his aching chest. Who could escape the Taggerung? Now the weariness was pressing upon him; he could feel himself making stupid errors. Rain or no rain, he was leaving a trail that a one-eyed toad could follow. But the sound of a river in the distance drove him onward through north Mossflower. It was the only place where he could possibly stand a chance. Rainwater dropped from his nosetip onto his parched tongue, and he blinked away the raindrops that broke against his slitted eyelids. A fat woodpigeon, which had been feeding on the ground, whirred up in front of him. The startled fox let out a ragged yelp and tripped over an elm root. Ignoring the blood seeping from an injured footpad, he struggled upright and continued a crazily weaving course. River noise grew loud in his ears as he skirted a yew thicket, his heart rising at the sight in front of him: a high riverbank with alder and willows overhanging it. There were rocks sticking up from the water, which was deep with no shallows. Felch grabbed a leafy bough and scrabbled down. Cold swirling currents took his breath away for a moment as he landed shoulder-deep in front of a rock ledge. Pushing through the overhanging willow foliage, he wedged himself safely under the bank, out of the main current. Rain dappled the river surface, its noise making hearing difficult. The fox was bone weary, hungry, wet and miserable, but at least he was alive. His eyes flickered from side to side as he watched for any unusual movement around him, some inner sense suddenly telling him there was another creature nearby. From above, small fragments of rock and earth splashed into the water, and overhanging willow branches swayed, dipping downward into the current.

Felch held his breath, one paw inching underwater to the knife thrust in his belt. He could not see the banktop because of the jutting ledge he was hiding under, but he knew somebeast was up there, casting about in the rain for signs of him. It had to be the Taggerung! The fox brought Sawney's blade slowly out of the water, and with his good paw held it ready for an upward thrust. Felch had never been so afraid, but he was desperate. Taggerung or not, he was prepared to sell his life dearly, rather than be dragged back to the Juska camp to face Sawney Rath's vengeance.

His eyes flickered upward. On the bank above he could hear movement over the rain noise. A shower of pebbles hit the water, along to his right, then he caught the sound of a dead twig breaking underpaw further away. Felch, his heart pounding, remained motionless beneath the ledge for a long time, his vulpine sense stretched to the limit as he listened and watched. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally knew. The Taggerung had gone, he was sure of it. Shuddering with a mixture of relief, cold and exhilaration, Felch relaxed. He had escaped the Taggerung!

However, he knew that he would have to stay hidden until night. If the Taggerung was hiding somewhere nearby, waiting for his quarry to break cover and run, he would be disappointed. Felch was no fool. Having got this far, he was not going to betray himself with any sudden silly moves. Lowering the dagger until it was level with his face, the fox saw his breath misting the bright blade. He cursed inwardly. Maybe if Sawney's blade had not been in question the Juska Chieftain might not have sent the Taggerung to hunt him down. Perhaps he might have let Felch desert the clan, not thinking the fox of any great importance, merely an old follower with a useless paw.

The fox's eyes hardened as he recalled how mercilessly Sawney had ruined his paw with that same blade. A fierce determination swept over him, and he thrust the knife back into his belt. It belonged to him now! If he was no longer one of the Juskarath, he would take something with him, for all the long seasons of unrewarded service to Sawney Rath. Aye, the ferret would remember Felch the fox, every time he looked at the space in his belt where the blade used to be.

Since late spring Sawney had been harassing Antigra and her companions, as if expecting some sort of mutiny within the clan. He had come down hard on Felch, abusing and humiliating the fox at every possible opportunity. It had come to a head on the previous evening. Felch had been out foraging in the north sector of Mossflower's sprawling woodlands, and was returning to camp with a meager offering, a small trout he had found floating dead in a stream. Sawney stood watching him trying to slink into camp unnoticed. The Juska Chieftain was tossing his knife idly, catching it by the blade, just below its tip. He looked to be in a foul mood.

Sawney's rasping voice had stopped the fox in his tracks. "What's that dirty piece of rubbish you're sneaking back with?"

Felch avoided the ferret's irate stare. "It's a fish, a young trout I caught."

Sawney sniggered nastily, pointing with his knife. "You must've had a hard battle bringing in a monster like that. Hold it up so we can all see it. Go on, hold it up."

Felch raised the small dead fish halfheartedly, his eyes fixed on the knife Sawney was toying with. He could guess what was coming by the tone of Sawney's voice.

"I told you to bring a bird back, a big fat woodpigeon. I know an idiot like you has trouble telling the difference between a bird and a fish. But maybe I'm wrong, perhaps you didn't hear me right, Felch. Is it your ears?"

The fox didn't answer. Sawney, who was more than thirty pawsteps away, raised his blade, ready to throw. "Aye, I think it must be your ears. Let's take a look at one. Stand still, now. This shouldn't hurt. .. much!"

Felch ducked as the blade flashed from Sawney's paw. Even as fast as he moved, the fox could not avoid the blade's nicking his left eartip. Zipping past him, the knife disappeared into the woodland foliage.

Grissoul, who was squatting at a nearby campfire, cackled. "A goodly throw, but thou gave him too much warning. Felch did well to avoid thy blade. Let him live."

Sawney ran across to the cringing fox and kicked him. "If you don't find my blade, you'll die slowly, for 'twas you who lost it by moving when I told you not to. Find the knife, Felch, and I'll let you live. Though I'll still take that ear as a punishment for disobedience. Now get searching, addlebrain!" Another savage kick sent the fox scurrying off into the bushes on all fours.

It was not until nearly midnight that he discovered it, a fair distance from the camp. Rain had started to fall when the fox glimpsed a shaft of moonlight glimmering off the wet sapphire pommel stone. Felch tugged on the knife, which had buried its point deep in a sycamore trunk. He pulled it free, falling over backward in the process. Behind him the camp lay still, firelight gleaming hazily through the closed tents. Sawney and his clan lay sleeping. Felch knew his prospects were bleak. Sawney Rath would take his ear if he returned. Without thinking further, he thrust the blade into his belt and ran.

Beneath the bank ledge, with rainwater beating constantly on the river surface, Felch wedged himself tighter in. Weariness and fatigue overcame him, and despite the water's cold embrace he fell asleep.

Throughout the day the rainfall began to slacken from downpour to drizzle. By midafternoon the skies had cleared, giving way to warm sunlight. Steam rose from the banksides, wreathing around trailing willow fronds. Small flies began hovering close to the bank where the current ran more slowly. It was one such gnat, wandering around on the fox's nosetip, that wakened him. The first thing Felch saw was a tail rudder, decorated with two white fishbone tailrings. Fearfully he raised his eyes. Standing on a rock not a whisker-length out from the bank was a barbaric-looking young otter. His only clothing was a short barkcloth kilt, girdled by a broad eelskin belt. He wore two patterned flax wristbands and a single hooped gold earring. The eyes, piercingly dark, stared back at Felch from behind the face tattoos of the Juskarath clan. The otter carried no weapons, save for the knife, which he had removed silently from the sleeping fox's belt. Felch did not notice when the gnat stung his nosetip. He was not even aware that the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The young otter reached out gracefully and took hold of the fox's shoulder with his sinewy paw. Felch tried to shrink further back against the ledge. But the tremendous pawstrength wrenched him savagely forward, almost completely out of the water. He was dragged up onto the rock, his ear right next to the hunter's mouth. The voice he heard was a gentle whisper that chilled his blood more than any river cold.

"Nobeast escapes from me. I am the Taggerung!"

Chapter 7

Rainwater drummed against the high stained glass windows of Redwall Abbey. It had poured down since midnight of the previous day. Even the hardiest of workbeasts had left their outdoor tasks for dry ones indoors. Mhera and her faithful friend Gundil emerged from the kitchens to sit upon the cool stone steps to Great Hall. Brushing a paw across her brow, the ottermaid blew a sigh of relief. "Whooh, goodness me, it's hot in there, Gundil!"

The mole undid his apron and wiped the back of his neck. "Yuss, marm. If'n oi'd stayed thurr ee moment longer they'm be 'avin' ee roastified mole furr dinner. Hoo aye!"

Filorn's call reached them from the kitchens. "Mhera, Gundil, come and take this tray, please."

She met them just inside the kitchen entrance. Filorn was no longer a young ottermum. Her face was lined and she stooped slightly, but to her daughter she still looked beautiful. Mhera, who was now much taller than Filorn, touched her mother's workworn paw gently.

"Why don't you finish in there for the day? Go to the gatehouse and take a nap with old Hoarg in one of his big chairs."

Filorn dismissed the suggestion with a dry chuckle. "Food doesn't cook itself, you know. I'm well able for a day's labor. Huh! I can still work the paws from under either of you two young cubs!"

Gundil tugged his nose in courteous mole fashion. "Hurr, you'm surpintly can, marm. Boi 'okey, you'm a gurt cooker, all roight. But whoi doan't ee take a likkle doze?"

Filorn presented them with the tray she was carrying. "If I listened to you two I'd never get out of bed. Now take this luncheon up to Cregga Badgermum, and be careful you don't trip on the stairs. Gundil, you carry the flagon and Mhera can take the tray."

Cregga was dozing in her chair when she heard the approaching pawsteps. "Come right in, friends," she called. "Gundil, you get the door. Put the flagon down in case you drop it!"

They entered, shaking their heads in wonder. Cregga patted the top of the table next to her overstuffed armchair. "Put the tray down here, Mhera. Mmmm, is that mushroom and celery broth I can smell? Filorn has put a sprinkle of hotroot pepper on it, just the way I like it."

She checked Gundil. "Don't balance that beaker on the chair arm. Put it there, where I can reach it easily."

The mole wrinkled his snout. "Burr, 'ow do ee knoaw, Creggum? Anybeast'd think you'm 'ad ten eyes, 'stead o' bein' bloinded."

She patted his digging claw as he replaced the beaker. "Never you mind how I know. Hmph! That door has swung closed again. Open it for me, please, Mhera my dear. This room can get dreadfully stuffy on a rainy summer's day."

Mhera opened the door, but it would not stay open. "Warped old door. It's starting to close again, Cregga."

The badger blew on her broth to cool it. "Have a look in the corner cupboard. I think there's an old doorstop in there, on the bottom shelf."

Mhera did as she was bidden, finding the object immediately. "Oh, look, it's a little carved squirrel, made from stone, I think. No, it's made from heavy dark wood. Where's it from?"

Cregga dipped a barley farl in her broth and took a bite. "It belonged to Abbess Song. Her father, Janglur Swifteye, carved it from a piece of wood he found on the seashore. That was longer ago than I care to remember. Though I do recall that when Song was old she used it as a doorstop too. She gave it to me before she passed on. Why don't you take it, Mhera? When Song was young she was a lot like you in many ways. I was going to leave it to you when my time comes, but you might as well have it now."

Mhera took the carved statuette to the window and turned it this way and that, admiring it. "Thank you, Cregga, it's lovely. Abbess Song's dad must have been a very skilled carver, it looks so alive. What a pity it ended up as just a doorstop. Here, Gundil, take a look."

The mole took hold of the carved squirrel and inspected it closely, sniffing and tapping it with his digging claws. "Burr, wunnerful h'objeck. 'Tain't no doorstopper, tho'. This 'un's a bokkle."

Mhera looked at her molefriend curiously. "A bottle? You mean a sort of flagon?"

Gundil nodded sagely. "Ho urr. Oi see'd one afore. Moi ole granfer 'ad one shapened loike ee moler. Kep' beer in et ee did."

Cregga poured herself cold mint tea. "Tell us then, Gundil, how can a statue be a bottle? How would you get anything into it? Where's the top, where's the neck?"

The mole grinned from ear to ear with delight. "Hurrhurr, marm, see, you'm doan't be a knowen everythin' arfter all. Ee top is ee head an' you'm turn ee neck. Lukkee!" He twisted the statuette's head, and it came away from the neck. Inside had been cunningly carved out to form a bottlelike container.

Gundil passed it to the badger, and Cregga felt it all over with her huge paws. The Badgermum's voice went hoarse with excitement. "Mhera, your paws are daintier than mine. There's something inside. Can you reach in and get it out?"

Mhera's paw fitted easily into the cavity. She brought forth a scroll, held by a ribbon with a red wax seal. "It's an old barkcloth parchment with a ribbon and seal!"

Cregga abandoned her lunch and sat up straight. "Is there a mark upon the seal?"

Mhera inspected the seal. "Yes, Cregga, there's a letter S with lots of wavy lines going through it. I wonder what it means?"

The Badgermum knew. "The Abbess's real name was Songbreeze. Her sign was the S with breezes blowing through it. Can you see properly, Mhera? The light in here means nothing to me. Gundil, run and fetch a lantern, please. Hurry!"

Clearing the tray from the table, they placed both lantern and scroll upon it. Cregga felt the seal with her sensitive paws. It had stuck to both scroll and ribbon.

"What a pity to break this lovely thing. I would have liked to keep it, as a memento of my old friend Abbess Songbreeze."

"Yurr, you'm leaven et to oi, marm, oi'll get et furr ee!" From his belt pouch, Gundil took a tiny flat-bladed knife, which he used for special tasks in the kitchen. It was as sharp as a freshly broken crystal shard. Skillfully he slit the faded ribbon of cream-colored silk and slid the blade under the wax, cleverly lifting it away from the scroll in one undamaged piece.

Mhera held it up admiringly. "Good work, Gundil. It looks like a scarlet medallion hanging from its ribbon. Here you are, Cregga."

Taking it carefully, the Badgermum smiled with pleasure. "I'll treasure this. Thank you, Gundil. I'm sure nobeast but you could have performed such a delicate operation!"

Gundil scratched the floor with his footpaws, wiggling his stubby tail furiously, which moles will often do when embarrassed by a compliment. "Hurr, et wurrn't nuthin', marm, on'y a likkle tarsk!"

Mhera was practically hopping with eagerness. "Can we open the scroll now, Cregga!"

The blind badger pulled a face of comic indifference. "Oh, I'm feeling a bit sleepy. Let's leave it until tomorrow." She waited until she heard her friend's sighs of frustration. "Ho ho ho! Go on then, open it. But be sure vou read anything that's written down there loud and clear. I wouldn't miss this for another feast. Well, carry on, Mhera!"

The barkcloth had remained supple, and Mhera unrolled it with meticulous care. There were two pieces. A dried oak leaf fell out from between them, and she picked it up.

"There's two pages of writing. It's very neat; Abbess Song must have been really good with a quill pen. A leaf, too."

Cregga held out her paw. "Give me the leaf." Holding it to her face, she traced the leaf's outline with her nosetip. "Hmm, an oak leaf. I wonder if it's got any special meaning? What does Song have to say? Come on, miz otter, read to me!"

Mhera began to read the beautifully written message.

"Fortunate are the good creatures,

Dwelling within these walls,

Content in peaceful harmony,

As each new season falls.

Guided in wisdom by leaders,

One living, the other long dead,

Martin the Warrior in spirit,

And our chosen Abbey Head.

'Tis Martin who chooses our Champion,

Should peril or dangers befall,

But who selects the Abbess,

Or Abbot to rule Redwall?

I was once your Abbess,

A task not like any other,

To follow a path in duty bound,

I took on the title of Mother.

Mother Abbess, Father Abbot,

They look to you alone,

For sympathy, aid, and counsel,

You must give up the life you've known.

To take on the mantle of guidance,

As leaders before you have done,

Upholding our Abbey's traditions,

For you alone are the One."

There was a brief silence, then Cregga repeated the last line. "For you alone are the One!"

Mhera looked perplexed. "Me?"

Gundil climbed up and sat on the arm of Cregga's chair. "Wull, et surrpintly bain't oi. This yurr moler wurrn't cutted owt t'be no h'Abbess, no miz, nor a h'Abbot noither!"

Cregga chuckled, stroking the mole's furry head. "You've got a point there, friend. I couldn't imagine you in the robes of an Abbot."

Gundil folded his digging claws over his plump stomach. "Nor cudd oi, marm, gurt long flowen garmunts, oi'd trip o'er an' bump moi 'ead!"

Mhera held up a paw for quiet. "There's writing on this other page too, that's if you want to hear me read it?"

Gundil spoke out of the side of his mouth to Cregga. "Yurr, she'm a h'Abbess awready, bossen uz pore beasters abowt. We'm best lissen to miz h'otter!"

Mhera gave them a look of mock severity and coughed politely. "Ahem, thank you. Now, there are several things written down here. First of all it says this. Oak Leaf O.L."

Cregga passed her the leaf. "Here's the oak leaf. Take a close look at it, Mhera."

The ottermaid inspected it. "O.L. It's a bit faded, but Abbess Song wrote those two letters here on the leaf."

Gundil cast his eye over the two carefully inked letters. "Ho urr. O.L. Stan's furr h'oak leaf. Wurr ee h'Abbess a-tryen to tell us'n's sum think?"

Cregga gave his back a hearty pat. "That's sound mole logic, my friend. Read on, Mhera!"

The next lines Mhera read affirmed what Gundil had guessed.

"Though I am no longer here,

I beg, pay heed to me,

O.L. stands for Oak Leaf,

A.S. leaves you her key.

A.S."

Cregga caught on fast. "A.S. Abbess Song! It's simple really."

Mhera interrupted her. "Not as simple as you think. I .isten to the second verse.

"If you would rule this Abbey,

G.H. is the place to be,

At the T.O.M.T.W.

Look to the L.H.C."

Gundil scratched his snout in puzzlement. "Hoo urr, they'm a gurt lot o' letters!"

Mhera smiled confidently. "Let's go down to the gatehouse and find out, shall we!"

Cregga eased herself from the big armchair. "C latehouse?"

Mhera took her friend's paw. "Of course. G.H., gatehouse. Lend a paw here, Gundil."

Even with their help, the Badgermum had great difficulty managing the stairs. When they reached the bottom step Cregga sat down, shaking her huge striped head.

"You two carry on to the gatehouse. I'll wait here. I'm not as spry as I once was. Don't get that parchment wet with rain."

Mhera tucked the scroll carefully into her apron pocket. "But Cregga, don't you want to come with us and find out what it all means?"

The blind badger sighed wearily. "I'll only slow you down. You can let me know what you found out when you come back. Go on now, you two."

When they had gone, Boorab, who had been banished from the kitchens, sauntered by. The gluttonous hare was munching on a minted potato and leek turnover, which he hid hastily as he caught sight of Cregga.

"Er, how dee do, marm? Bit of inclement weather, wot wot?"

She held out her paw. "Help me up, please." As the badger was hauled upright, she sniffed the air. "I smell mint. Have you been plundering in the kitchens again?"

The hare's look of injured innocence was wasted on a blind badger. His earbells tinkled as he shook his head stoutly. "Shame on you, marm. I haven't been within a league of your confounded kitchens. I was down in Cavern Hole, composing a poem to your wisdom an' beauty an' so forth. But I'll bally well scrap the whole thing now. Hmph! Accusin' a chap of my honest nature of pinchin' pastries, wot!"

Cregga shrugged. "But I can still smell mint and I know that Friar Bobb is baking minted potato and leek turnovers for dinner tonight."

Boorab sniffed airily. "Well, of course you can jolly well smell mint. I always put a dab or two of mint essence behind each ear after my mornin' bath. Gives a chap a clean fresh smell, doncha know?"

Cregga inclined her head in a small bow. "Then forgive me. I apologize heartily. We'll share a turnover or two at dinner this evening. I like them best when the crust is dark brown and the potatoes have melted into the leeks."

Boorab fell into the trap unthinkingly. "Well, they're not quite at that stage yet, marm. The potato is still a bit lumpy and the crust is only light brown."

As he bit his lip, the badger patted Boorab's pocket, squashing the turnover against his stomach. "Aye, I'd leave them to cook properly, if I were you," she growled. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still on probation at Redwall."

The hare watched her lurch slowly off. Dipping his paw into the mess inside his pocket, he sucked it resentfully. "Fifteen blinkin' seasons' probation. Bit much for any chap, wot!"

Grass squelched underpaw in the rain as Mhera and Gundil hurried across the front lawns to the little gatehouse by the Abbey's main outer wall entrance. Gundil was about to knock when old Hoarg opened the door.

"What're you two doin' out in this? Yore wetter'n fishes in water. Come in, come in!" He tossed them a big towel to dry their faces. "So then, what brings ye here, Miz Mhera?"

Taking the parchment from her pocket, Mhera spread it on the table and told the ancient dormouse gatekeeper the whole story to date. Placing small rock crystal spectacles on the end of his nose, Hoarg inspected the document, staring at it for what seemed an age. The two friends maintained a respectful silence. Hoarg sat in an armchair and mused awhile. "Well then, you've come to my gatehouse to search for clues?"

Gundil sounded a trifle impatient. "Yurr, uz 'ave, zurr. May'aps you'm 'elp us'n's?"

The old dormouse nodded sagely. "Oh, I'll help ye all right. But first tell me, Mhera, do you think wisdom, patience, an' the ability not to rush at things would be good qualities in an Abbess?"

Mhera was very fond of the old gatekeeper. "Oh, I do, sir. Why d'you ask?"

Pursing his lips, Hoarg stared out of the window at the rain. "Hmm. Learning, too, I wouldn't wonder. Gatehouse is one single word, you know, not two separate ones. So this place would only be referred to as a single G on your scroll. Now I want you to take your time and think. Name me a place at Redwall Abbey that starts with the two letters G and H."

Mhera slammed her paw down on the table as realization hit her. "Great Hall, of course. Come on, Gundil!"

Hoarg's voice checked them as they dashed for the door. "There you go, rushin' off without thinking. I never make a move before I think anythin' out. I've solved the next bit of that puzzle. I know what T.O.M.T.W. means."

Mhera grabbed the scroll and stuffed it in her apron pocket, her paws aquiver with excitement. "Oh, tell us what it is, sir, please please tell us!"

"Only if you promise to go a bit slower in the future and stop to reason things out, instead of hurtlin' 'round like madbeasts."

"You'm roight, zurr. Us'n's be loike woise snailers frumm naow on, oi swurr to ee!"

Hoarg removed his spectacles and put them away slowly. "I could be wrong at such short notice, but I think that T.O.M.T.W. means Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior."

With his cheek still damp from the kiss Mhera had planted on it, Hoarg sat back in his armchair. He heard the door slam and the two sets of footpaws pounding away over the drenched lawn toward the Abbey building. The dormouse chuckled. "Ah, the speed and energy of younger ones. I'm glad I lost it a long time ago."

Closing his eyes, he went into a comfortable doze.

On entering the Abbey, wet and panting, the two friends spied Cregga. She was sitting on the floor of Great Hall, gazing up at the tapestry. Mhera skidded to a halt beside her.

"Cregga, how could you! Listen to that rain out there. You let us run all the way to the gatehouse and back!"

The Badgermum turned her sightless eyes toward them. "It came to me while I was sitting on the stairs, but you two had already charged off. What did Hoarg have to say?"

Gundil flopped on the floor and began drying his face on Cregga's habit sleeve. "Lots o' things abowt gooin' slow an' payin' 'tenshun an' lurrnen t'be woisebeasts, marm."

The badger dried Mhera's face on her other sleeve. "Good old Hoarg. I remember he was slow and methodical even when he was a Dibbun. Well, here we are. G.H. Great Hall, and there it is, T.O.M.T.W., the Tapestry Of Martin The Warrior. But I haven't the foggiest notion of what L.H.C. means, have you?"

Mhera stared up at the likeness of Redwall's greatest hero, armor-clad and armed with a sword. "No, I'm afraid not. There's one other thing that puzzles me also. What are we supposed to be searching for?"

Cregga put out a paw and touched the tapestry. "Wisdom maybe, knowledge perhaps, L.H.C. certainly, but where do we find it?"

"Hurr, marm, mebbe us'n's jus' sit 'ere an' arsk Marthen ee Wurrier. Thurr wurr never ee woiserbeast than 'im."

Mole logic won the day again. They sat staring at the mouse warrior, each with their own thoughts.

L.H.C.

Lower Hall Cavern?

Little Hot Cakes?

Lessons Have Commenced?

Let Him Choose?

The image of Martin began to swim and shimmer in -front of Mhera's eyes. It had been a long hard day, working in the kitchens, dashing about with trays, helping Cregga downstairs, rushing to and from the gatehouse. Cregga was already dozing as Mhera leaned her head against the badger's lap and fell into slumber, still pondering the puzzle.

Chapter 8

Sawney Rath had not slept well. He was awake long before dawn, wincing and rubbing at his stomach. Taking a beaker of boiling water from the cauldron that bubbled over the glowing embers of his fire, the Juskarath Chieftain sat down outside. Stars still studded the aquamarine sky, and the camp lay still and silent. Sipping at the steaming water, which seemed to relieve his aching gut slightly, Sawney mulled over the past fifteen seasons.

In many ways, Tagg was a puzzle to him. Maybe it was because Redwall Abbey had spawned his adopted son. Perhaps things might have been different if he had taken a wife from his own clan and fathered the future Taggerung. However, the omens were not to be denied, so he had done his best with the otterbabe from the ford bank, the one whose father he had ordered to be slain. While Tagg was small, Sawney had been enormously fond of him. The little otter showed all the physical signs of a Taggerung, swift as lightning and frighteningly strong. He was obedient too, not only to Juska laws and customs, but always to Sawney's wishes. Then he began to grow and think for himself. At first, Sawney admired Tagg's independence. However, gradually it began to cause a rift between them as the otter grew up. The seasons had been good and relatively peaceful, with hardly any killing raids or tribal strife. Then Sawney began noticing things he did not like in Tagg's nature. With a natural talent for weaponry, the knife in particular, the young otter could outfight, outrun or outthink any clanbeast, but in the few quarrels and fights he had he was always merciful at the end. Despite Sawney's urging, he would merely defeat his opponent and release him without punishing him further. Sawney often took him to task about this. Why had he not slain his adversary, or at least crippled him? It was not the way of a Juska, particularly a Taggerung, to show leniency to anybeast he had conquered. Tagg would smile oddly at Sawney and shrug, saying that there was no need for such actions once the challenger was beaten. The Juska Chieftain wanted to see his adopted son become a complete Taggerung, with the same truly barbaric nature he had seen in his own father. What if the clan had to go into battle, or on a killing raid? Sawney had never seen Tagg take a life. Would the young otter prove himself to be a true Taggerung when the moment came? Sawney still felt very close to Tagg, but he felt it was high time his adopted son learned the lesson that would gain him respect through fear. Tagg had to prove himself by slaying somebeast. When he brought Felch back, which Sawney did not doubt for a moment he would, the ferret decided that Tagg would be the fox's executioner. He tossed the remaining hot water away, his stomach suddenly feeling a lot better.

Felch could not believe he was still alive. He sat wet and shivering on the banktop where the Taggerung had hauled him. Soon the strange otter had a fire going. He tossed Felch a small traveling sack.

"Sit there," he ordered curtly. "Warm yourself by the fire, and take a drink. I'm not going to tie you up. Go on, drink. You'll not get far the state you're in. I'll go and get us some food." The fox nodded dumbly as Tagg strode off, calling back. "I won't be long. Keep that fire going."

He dived off the banktop. Felch did not hear a splash as the sleek hunter hit the water. The fox waited a moment, then, shouldering the bag, he crept carefully away from the fire and forced his water-stiffened limbs into a run. As he sped through the bushes, his mind was racing also. Had the Taggerung missed him earlier that day, when he passed along the banktop, above the hideout under the ledge? Maybe the Taggerung was not as skillful as everybeast said, perhaps he had found his quarry through a lucky accident. Felch rushed onward, assuring himself that he would not let himself be captured a second time.

Something flew by him at shoulder level, and the thwack of a hefty rudder laid the fox flat on his stomach. He tried to rise, but the breath was knocked from him as the Taggerung landed upon his back. A paw cuffed his ears soundly, then seized them and dragged his head backward. Felch felt Sawney's blade tickle his throat.

"You don't have much sense for a fox, do you?" the powerful otter snarled menacingly into his ear. "Now tell me, would you like to go on living, or do I slay you right here?"

"Mercy!" Felch managed to gasp hoarsely. "Don't kill me!"

Tagg pulled Felch upright, leading him by one ear like a naughty youngster back to the fire, where he sat him down. The fox cowered fearfully, but the Taggerung merely winked at him. "Right, mate, we'll start again. You stay here, I'll go and get us something decent to eat. Understood?"

The fox groaned as he rubbed the side of his face. "Understood!" Like a flickering sunshadow, the otter disappeared.

Unshouldering the sack, Felch tugged its drawstrings open with his teeth. Inside were four pears and a flask of nettle beer. He drank gratefully and began chewing on a pear. Then he threw some pine twigs on the fire and hunched up close to it, aching all over as life seeped back into his bruised body. Miserably he began to ponder his fate.

The fox's thoughts were interrupted when two nice-sized vendace, slung together by their gills on a reedstalk, landed slap next to the fire. With Sawney's blade, the otter cut two green willow twigs and passed them to Felch.

"Well, come on, do something for your keep. Spit those fish and cook 'em. Plenty there for two. I like vendace." He sat on the other side of the fire, watching the fox. "There's something on your mind, I can tell."

Felch set the fish to sizzling over the fire. "Why didn't you capture me this morning, when you passed by on the banktop? You must've known I was there."

The barbaric-looking otter took a pull at the flask. "Hah! That wasn't me, it was Gruven the stoat. You know, Antigra's son. He's the clumsiest tracker I ever saw. I was watching him from the other side of the bank. Nice soft moss there. I'd been tracking you all night and I was tired, so when I found you I took a nap. You weren't going anywhere. I knew Gruven wanted to make a name for himself by being first to nab you, so I left him a nice false trail. I saw him pass by in the rain. I could see you too, shaking like a leaf under the bank ledge opposite me. Aye, I'll wager Gruven's still tracking away somewhere. He's tough and nasty enough, but slow-witted."

The fish was delicious, and they shared the remaining pears and the last of the nettle beer. Felch felt his nerves returning to normal as he conversed with the Taggerung, aware of the fierce eyes behind the painted face, gleaming in the flames.

"You could've slain me. Why didn't you?"

The otter felt pity for his wretched captive, knowing that Sawney would have some terrible punishment in store for him, but he kept his heavily tattooed face immobile and shrugged, replying as if it were an everyday matter. "Sawney Rath told me to return to camp with two things, his fine blade and you, or your head as proof I found you."

Felch gulped visibly. "My head!"

Tagg twirled the knife in the air and caught it deftly. "I didn't want to mess my supply bag up and have to carry extra weight, so I'm returning you to Sawney alive."

The fox's whole body slumped. There was pleading in his eyes. "If you take me back Sawney will kill me himself."

The otter stared at the amber-handled knife. "I don't make the rules, Felch. You are Juskarath, you know our clan laws. You shouldn't have run."

Felch was about to stand up and reply, but he thought better of it and remained seated. "But Sawney was going to kill me anyway if I hadn't found the knife he had thrown at me. I had no choice, don't you see? There was nothing left for me but to run!"

Tagg pointed the blade at his captive. "You should be dead now, by rights. If Gruven had found you he'd have beheaded you on the spot. Be thankful you are alive, fox."

Felch leaned forward eagerly. "You spared my life. I'll always be gra"

The otter cut him short. "Save your breath, we've got a fast journey at dawn. Get some sleep, you'll need it. Don't forget, though: one false move and I'll make you wish that Gruven had captured you!"

The Taggerung threw more branches on the fire. He watched the fox until he was sure that Felch was deep in sleep, then he lay down himself and drifted into a light slumber, the blade still held relaxed but ready.

It was the dream that had visited his mind many times over the last fifteen seasons. A beautiful otter face, gentle and kind, and a soft voice murmuring things he could not quite make out. A younger face also, bright-eyed, pretty, repeating the same comforting noises. Soft clean linen against his cheek, aromas of the late spring and delicious food baking. A big male otter standing proudly close by, and the presence of a huge motherly beast hovering in the background. Then there were the walls, old, warm, red stone, everywhere about. Sunlight shafting through a window, turning them to the hue of dusty pink roses. It was a feeling of peace, happiness and safety he had never known running wild outdoors with the Juskarath clan. Tears coursed from under the lids of his closed eyes, dripping down onto the paw that held the knife. Suddenly he was awake, swiftly wiping his eyes and peering out into the still summer night. Behind him he could hear the slow swirl of riverwater. He stayed still as a stone, sensing everything about him, even a wood beetle, trundling by on some nocturnal errand. After a while he relaxed and checked on Felch. The fox was lying on his side, snoring lightly. The Taggerung lay down again, letting slumber wash over him, seeking again those visions he longed to see.

But this time it was a mouse standing in the corridors of his mind. A mouse? Instinctively he knew it to be no ordinary mouse. It was a male, a warrior, clad in battle armor, bearing a sword that was as beautiful as it was fearsome. He knew that if ever he stood against this mouse, he would meet his match. A warrior indeed! But for all that, the mouse smiled upon him, like a father meeting a beloved son. The mouse warrior spoke but a single word.

"Deyna!"

Then he was gone, faded into the dusty citadel of dreams.

Blue-grey woodsmoke from campfires drifted between the sun and shade of woodland trees. Covering his eyes with a paw, Sawney Rath noted the position of the sun standing in the sky at high noon. He turned his gaze onto the two creatures entering the clearing and spoke to the stoat Antigra without even deigning to look at her.

"You see, I told you. Here comes Tagg, my son, right on time!"

Antigra left off plucking the feathers from a dead dove, and threw a hate-laden glance at the Taggerung and his prisoner. Sawney continued to gloat and mock her.

"Nobeast living can hunt like my Taggerung. He was born of the storm and fathered by lightning on a moonless night! Hah! The food you are preparing for your sluggard son will have rotted in the cooking pot by the time he returns. Where do you suppose your precious Gruven is? Chasing butterflies ten leagues from here, I'll wager. Huh! He couldn't hunt on his own tail!"

The clan vermin crowded around the Taggerung and his prize, staring at their icon in awe and admiration. Shoving Felch ahead of him, the lithe otter strode through the crowd, like a pike through a minnow shoal. Grissoul stood smiling in front of Sawney's tent. She bowed fawningly.

"Thou did well! Zann Juskarath Taggerung!"

Sawney pushed the Seer aside and embraced his adopted son. "You did it! I knew you would, I said you'd return at high noon with both Felch and my blade, and here you are!"

The otter threw a paw about Sawney's shoulder. "That's the duty of a Taggerung, not to disappoint his Chief. Any food around? I'm famished!"

Sawney gave Grissoul a shove. "Go and get that roasted woodpigeon for my Tagg. Shift yourself, vixen, he's hungry!"

Eefera, one of Sawney's most trusted weasels, had Felch down on the ground, binding his paws with thongs. He pulled the fox upright. "One runaway, Chief, bound an' delivered!"

Sawney brought his face close to the fox, smiling dangerously through slitted eyes, his voice dripping menace. "Last night was your last night, Felch. Enjoy the rest of the day!"

The Taggerung whispered in Sawney's ear. "Punish him good, but don't kill him. That fox is still a useful beast. I think he's learned his lesson."

The ferret Chieftain patted the otter's cheek, still smiling. "Eat now, Tagg, and rest in my tent. Leave this to me. Our clan still carries the name of Rath; I make the rules here."

Tagg was halfway through his meal when Gruven came storming back into camp, thornstung and muddied. The stoat dashed past Antigra without even acknowledging her. Everybeast watched as he confronted the otter, sitting on the ground eating. Gruven pointed at Tagg and yelled, "A false trail! You sent me off on a false trail!"

The Taggerung rose slowly, wiping a paw across his mouth. "And you were clever enough to follow it. Well done, Gruven!"

The stoat was shaking from ear to paw with rage. "If you hadn't laid that trail I'd have taken the fox's head an hour after dawn!"

Grissoul was about to step in and remind Gruven of his lowly position in the clan when Sawney pulled her back. "Let them be. I want to see this."

Tagg shook his head. "An hour after dawn? Really? I don't think so. I'd already spotted Felch before that. Remember this, too. I was the one sent out to bring him back, not you, my foolish friend."

Gruven always carried a sword. Now he drew it in the blink of an eye. "I'm no friend of yours and I'm not foolish either. Huh, Zann Taggerung, you don't even have the guts to carry a weapon. So, who's the fool now, eh?"

The otter moved like chain lightning. He dealt Gruven an awful blow, just below the shoulder. It paralyzed his sword paw. Tagg's rudderlike tail thudded into his opponent's stomach, bending him double. The sword, which was still held loosely in the stoat's paw, its point against the ground, bent too, like a bow. A stunning crack from Tagg's paw to his adversary's chin sent the stoat crashing backward. The sword made a twanging noise as it left his grip and sailed off into the trees behind the clearing. Gruven lay flat on his back. The otter drew Sawney's blade from the back of his belt and threw. It buried itself alongside the stoat's face, clipping off several whiskers in the process. The Taggerung turned away.

Sawney put his footpaw in Gruven's face as he tugged the knife free from the ground. He held it out to the otter. "Take it and kill him, Tagg. He just tried to kill you!"

Tagg shook his head. "Gruven's probably killed me a thousand times in dreams, but he'll never get the chance to do it while he's awake. Why should I kill him? He amuses me. Besides, I'm still hungry."

He went back to his food. Sawney raised the knife to slit Gruven's throat, but suddenly burst out laughing. "Hahahahaha! He amuses you, that's a good one, hahahahaha! What a Taggerung our clan has, and he's still hungry? Hahaha!"

He took his footpaw from the stoat's face, leaving him to crawl off defeated but still alive. Sawney sat down beside Tagg. "I've never known a beast like you, my son, but you should learn to obey me, you impudent riverdog. When are you going to do as I say, eh?"

Tagg tore a leg from the roasted bird and gave it to Sawney. "Next time you give me an order, I promise. Tell me, though, have we ever been inside a building, I mean a real big place, built of reddish stone, with other otters in it, like me?"

Sawney stared at him oddly. "Never! No, we've never been in such a place!"

Tagg sat back, his food forgotten. "What about a mouse warrior, a real tough-looking beast, wearing armor and carrying a great sword, said his name was Deyna? Did we ever meet a creature like that?"

Sawney felt a twinge of his old pain griping in his stomach. His previous good mood began to dissolve. "An armored sword-carrying mouse named Deyna? What's the matter with you, son? Are you losing your mind?"

Tagg lay down and yawned. He gazed up at the sky. "No, it was just a dream I've been having."

Sawney hurled the roast woodpigeon leg into the fire. "A dream? I had a dream the other night, I dreamt I jumped off a cliff and flew, aye, flew like a bird! Who can say what rubbish and nonsense comes into a beast's mind when he's weary and sleeping? You're tired, Tagg. Go into my tent and get yourself a proper sleep, one without stupid dreams!"

Antigra sat watching her son eat. She was angry, but scared and relieved that neither Sawney nor the Taggerung had killed Gruven, who seemed to be taking the whole episode with sullen indifference. Antigra served him mint tea, sweetened with honey.

"You did wrong shouting out like that, my son. The same blade that took your father's life nearly slew you too."

Gruven spat gristle into the cooking fire. "What d'you expect me t'do, go an' thank them for sparing me?"

Antigra put a paw about his shoulder. "We must wait and bide our time until the right moment."

"You've been sayin' that for as long as I can remember," Gruven snarled, pushing aside his mother's paw. "I'm sick of waitin'. The right moment is now!"

"Wouldst thou tell me what moment that would be, Gruven?"

Mother and son glanced up, startled to see Grissoul the Seer standing close by. Guilt was all over Antigra's face, but Gruven replied with a surly scowl, "None o' your business, slybrush. What are you sneakin' around for? Did Sawney send you to spy on us?"

Shaking her numerous bracelets of coral, bone and silver, the vixen rolled her unstable eye in what she imagined was a friendly smile. She sat down between them. "Bold words for one who almost lost his life today. Did thou not teach thy son any sense, Antigra?"

The stoat mother smiled ingratiatingly. "All I could, but wisdom only comes with age. Mayhap you'd like to give Gruven some advice. Who knows, he might listen to one as wise as you, Grissoul. I will pay you for it. Wait!" Antigra went to her tent and brought out four dove eggs in a clay bowl, which she gave to the Seer. "I know you are very partial to these. They are fresh. My son is dining on the one that laid them."

The vixen pierced one with her tooth and sucked its contents down. She stowed the other three in her pouch. "Thou knows my weakness, stoat. The eggs are good. Hearken now, both of ye, an' listen to me. I saw ants this morning, fighting among themselves on their own anthill. I have seen other things of late. The omens are not good for the Juskarath. If I were thee, Gruven, I'd do nought to anger Sawney. His stomach is troubling him again; 'tis a dangerous sign. Make thy peace with Sawney Rath, be one of those in his favor. Mark my words, it could save both thy lives."

Gruven sniffed contemptuously, but his mother jabbed him with a stick of firewood. "Listen to the Seer's advice. What should we do, Grissoul?"

The vixen pointed to the remains of the roast dove. "Take thou a sling an' stones, Gruven, go out into the woodlands an' slay a pair of doves. I'll take them to Sawney as thy peace offering, an' praise thee to him as a good hunter an' a loyal clanbeast. He'll listen to me. Heed my advice, both of ye!" Grissoul rose to take her leave.

Gruven snorted. "Why should you care about us? You only came 'round here to see what you could get. Four dove eggs just for a pile of mumbo jumbo about ants an' the state o' Sawney's gut. Not bad, eh?"

The Seer gathered her painted cloak about her, staring down at the stoat and shaking her head pityingly. "Thou art a bigger fool than I thought thee to be, Gruven. I care for this Juska clan, not just two stoats. I can tell what is in thy heart, but if thou try to take vengeance on Sawney or the Taggerung, 'twill be the death of thee an' thy mother. My task is to stop our Juskarath being torn apart by strife. Sawney's moods, thy bad temper, they affect all. Where would I go if there were no clan to protect me? Get some sense into thy stubborn head an' heed my words!"

When the vixen had departed, Antigra brought a throwing sling and pouch of stones from the tent. "Do as she says, son. It's good advice."

Gruven spat into the fire and listened to the sizzle it made. "I'm not crawlin' back beggin' for Sawney Rath's favor, or that otter who thinks he's a Taggerung. Leave me alone. I'm tired, wanderin' Mossflower all night an' half the day."

Antigra lost her temper. She lashed the empty sling across Gruven's back. He winced but did not stir.

"As lazy as your father, that's what you are! I'll go and kill two doves myself, you bone-idle beast!"

Gruven called after her as she strode angrily off into the woodlands north of the camp. "Then go. I'm not scared of Grissoul, Sawney or anybeast!"

Cool shades of early evening fell upon the tent as Grissoul shook Tagg gently into wakefulness. "Come. Thy father wishes thee to attend him."

The otter sat up and stretched, flexing his lean sinewy frame. Taking a dipper of water from a nearby pail, he drank some and poured the remainder over his head. A good dreamless sleep had refreshed the Taggerung.

"What's that old ferret up to now, Grissoul?"

"He is about to deal with the runaway, an' he wants thee to witness the punishment."

Felch had his paws upstretched, bound to the thick bough of a beech tree. All the Juskarath vermin were assembled there on their Chieftain's command. Sawney stood impatiently twirling his favorite blade, the knife with the amber handle. He watched as the crowd parted to allow his Seer and the Taggerung through.

"Ah. So, did you have a good sleep, my son?"

Tagg noted the curious gleam in Sawney's eye. "Good enough, thankee. What are you going to do to Felch?"

Sawney licked the knife blade, tasting its cold steel. "I think I'll skin him alive. He'd make a nice tent flap, eh?"

A stricken silence fell upon the clan. Nobeast had ever imagined such cruelty, but they all knew their Chieftain was capable of it. Felch moaned pitifully. Though Tagg was horrified at the suggestion, he knew enough not to show it. Sawney watched him closely, waiting for a reaction.

A careless smile showed on the otter's face. He nodded toward Felch, remarking, "A stringy old worthless hide like this? I don't think it'd be worth your time and trouble."

Sawney laughed. "Haha, you're a cool one, Tagg!"

The otter shrugged. "No point getting excited over some mangy old runaway fox. Cut him down and let him go, I say. Make him clean up the camp on all fours for a season, starve him a bit to slow him down. That's what I'd do."

Sawney winced and rubbed his stomach with a paw. "But you're not me, are you? I'm the one who gives the orders and makes the decisions in this clan. Right?"

Tagg tried keeping the mood light. He nodded. "Right!"

To his surprise, Sawney grinned and hugged him fondly. "Zann Juskarath Taggerung! My strong right paw. No, I won't skin Felch alive. Remember when we last spoke, just before you took your nap this afternoon?"

Tagg disengaged himself from the ferret's hug. "Aye."

Sawney tossed his blade up and caught it neatly. "You do, good! Because I recall exactly what you said to me. You promised that you'd obey me next time I gave you an order."

Tagg was forced to agree. "That's what I said right enough."

Quick as a flash, Sawney Rath's eyes hardened. "Then I'm ordering you to skin Felch alive!" He took the otter's paw, closing it over the knife handle. "Obey me!"

The crowded clearing became as silent as a tomb. All eyes were upon the Taggerung, awaiting his reaction to the order.

Tagg turned his back on Sawney and strode to the side of the fox strung up to the beech bough. He raised the blade. Felch shut his eyes tight, his head shaking back and forth as his nerves quivered uncontrollably. With a sudden slash Tagg severed the thongs that bound him. Felch slumped to the ground in a shaking heap. Tagg's voice was flat and hard as he turned to face Sawney.

"I'm sorry to disobey your order. The fox is a sorry thief, but I will not take the life of a helpless beast."

Sawney's paw shot to his belt, forgetting that Tagg was holding his blade. Spittle sprayed from the ferret's mouth as he roared, "You'll do as I say! Don't try to give me excuses! Carry out my command! Do it! Do it now!"

Tagg sliced through the bonds that still held the fox's paws together. He spoke only one word. "No!"

Sawney was beside himself with fury. His voice rose to a scream. "Your promise was a lie! Do it, or I'll make you obey me!"

Tagg ignored him. He lifted Felch upright and rubbed life back into his numbed paws, whispering, "You may as well run for it again, wretched creature."

Felch dashed off into the trees. Sawney rapped out an order to the ferret, Vallug Bowbeast. "Kill him!"

Felch was still visible as he dodged between the trunks. Vallug ran forward a few steps. Keeping the fox in sight, he notched an arrow onto his bowstring and drew the weapon back. Tagg leaped in, a single swipe of his blade parting the string. Vallug saw the look in his eyes and backed off.

Sawney's face screwed up in pain as shafts of agony ran like lightning bolts through his stomach. He waved Grissoul away as the Seer ran to help him. Glowering at Tagg, he pointed an accusing paw.

"Traitor! You are not a true Taggerung to the Juskarath. I made a bad mistake when I took you in and called you my son!"

Tagg gave vent to his feelings. "Look around you, Sawney. Rats, stoats, ferrets, weasels and foxes. I'm the only otter in the whole clan. How can a ferret be father to me? I've never called you father, but I respected you as Chieftain until now. Did you think I am the sort of beast to skin a living creature alive? Well, the fox has run and I won't be the one to bring him back. You can't make me obey what your temper dictates. That isn't true Juska law!"

Sawney curled his lip in contempt. "What do you know of Juska law? This clan is mine! I make the law here. Eefera, Vallug, seize that otter. I'll teach him to defy me. Somebeast bring me a whip!"

Tagg had the blade in front of him. "First beast who tries to lay paws on me dies!"

Vermin who had chanced a pace forward froze. They had seen the otter growing up and knew his awesome strength and skill. Nobeast was prepared to tangle with the Taggerung. Tagg backed toward the trees, his blade still menacing.

"I no longer want to be with you or your clan, Sawney. You've become too dangerous for your own good. I've watched you change over the seasons from a clan chief to a bad old beast. I go my own way now. Our paths will never cross again, so I wish you better times and hope you learn to treat others more wisely!"

Tagg moved so swiftly that the trees soon swallowed him up. "Our paths will cross, otter," Sawney called after him, "oh yes they will. I'm going to track you down and slay you myself!" He wrenched a spear from the grasp of Eefera. "Nobeast leaves this camp. I'll bring him back myself, dead or alive. Well, what are you all staring at, eh? He's old, you're thinking, he's not as fast as that otter. Well, you just wait and see. I've got a brain. I'm smart, smarter than he'll ever be. He's not a Taggerung anymore. But I'm still Sawney Rath!"

They watched in silence as he loped off into the dense fastness of north Mossflower woodlands, hard on the trail of his new enemy. Grissoul sat on the ground and tossed her bones and pebbles. She stared at the way they fell, noting the position of each one. Wordlessly, the Seer shook her head and covered her eyes.

Chapter 9

The rain stopped somewhere between late afternoon and early evening. Friar Bobb fought his way through a small pack of Dibbuns to open the main Abbey door and let them out to play. They tugged impatiently at his robes and apron.

"Us wanna go out'n'play!"

"Open a door. 'Urry up, Firebobb!"

He swung the doors wide and was almost knocked flat by Abbeybabes stampeding out onto the wet sunlit lawn. Shaking his ladle at them in mock anger, the fat old squirrelcook roared aloud, "Anybeast's late back for dinner an' I'll make soup out o' their tails!"

The fresh breeze from the open door, combined with a broad band of sunlight and the ensuing noise, roused Mhera and her friends from their slumbers. Cregga sat up straight, causing Gundil and Mhera to fall over. The ottermaid rubbed at her eyes as she struggled upright.

"What... where... oh, dear, we must've slept for ages!"

Gundil shook his head ruefully. "Hurr, an' uz never solved ee probberlem."

Cregga scratched her stripes thoughtfully. "I think I did. L.H.C. could mean the Left High Corner of the Warrior's tapestry. I think we'll need a ladder to reach it."

Suddenly the dream she had been having tumbled in on Mhera. "No, no, it's the Lantern Holder Column. Martin told me!"

"Martin told you?" Cregga sounded incredulous.

Mhera fidgeted with her girdle, slightly embarrassed. "I'm not sure it was him and I don't really know if I was properly asleep. I saw his picture, just like the one there on the tapestry, and a lovely gentle voice echoed in my mind. Lantern Holder Column, that was all it said."

There were two fluted half-columns, flat against the wall, one either side of the tapestry. Both had small iron lanterns hanging from them, to illuminate the image of the Warrior at night. It was still daylight, so they were unlit. Mhera looked from one lantern to the other. "Lantern Holder Columns, but which one?"

She took down the lanterns from their hooked iron holders and examined them with Gundil, whilst the blind badger went carefully up and down each column, sniffing and running her paws over the stonework. It was not a successful exercise.

Brother Hoben the Recorder came toward them, pulling a little cart containing oil, candles, wicks and cleaning equipment. He watched their activities curiously. "What are you doing there, may I ask?"

Cregga immediately recognized the mouse Recorder's voice. "Ah, Brother Hoben. Come to refill the lanterns, I suppose."

Hoben took a pitcher of lilac-scented vegetable oil from his cart and went about his task. " 'Tis the Recorder's job, always has been. To shed the light of knowledge and learning by keeping our Abbey's records, and to shed illumination where it is needed. Every sixth day I come 'round, replacing candles, collecting old beeswax and trimming each lantern and lamp wick. As you can see, I make sure each one is topped up with fresh oil. Why do you ask? Is there something amiss?"

Taking him by the paw, the Badgermum led Hoben to the column on the left of the tapestry. She guided his paw-to a gap between the carved stones, where the cement pointing had been hacked out, leaving a slot. "Did you ever remove anything from here, a piece of paper, a slat of wood, perhaps a flat piece of slate?"

"Indeed I did, marm," Hoben answered immediately. "A flat piece of slate, just as you said. Though it was a while back now, let me see, eight, no nine seasons ago, or perhaps it was nearer ten, let me see"

Mhera interrupted him. "Pardon me, Brother, but it's not important how long ago you removed the slate. Have you still got it?"

The Recorder responded to her question in his most dignified manner. "Do I look like a mouse who throws things away willy-nilly, miz? As Recorder to Redwall Abbey it is my solemn duty to preserve anything at all that has writing on it in any form!"

"Hurr, then beggin' ee parden agin, zurr, wudd ee koindly take us'n's to whurr et be?"

Hoben directed one of his rare dry smiles at the mole. "Why, certainly. Follow me, please."

They followed him, Mhera wriggling and skipping, all agog. "It's got writing on it, Brother Hoben said so!"

Gundil grabbed her paw and leaned heavily on it. "Stop thoi jumpen an' frulliken abowt. 'Member wot oi said abowt h'Abbesses fallin' o'er on they'm 'eads!"

Old Hoarg stood at the gatehouse door, enjoying the sunny evening. He winked at Mhera and the mole. "Back agin, mates? Two visits in a single day; makes an old dormouse feel honored. What is it now?"

Hoben nodded to him and entered the gatehouse. "Some old records I want to dig out from the archives."

Hoarg held a paw to his lips. "Then dig 'em out quietly, Brother. Mhera's mama is takin' a nap in my big ole chair. Looks like she deserves it, too."

A feather from one of the cushions had lodged itself close to Filorn's mouth. It fluttered up and down as she breathed in and out. Gundil chuckled fondly. "Bless yore mum's 'eart, miz, she'm ee 'ardest wurrken creetur in all ee h'Abbey. Better cooker'n Froyer Bobb, too, hurr aye, but doan't ee tell 'im oi sedd so!"

Cregga stood with Gundil and Mhera in the doorway, watching Brother Hoben chunnering his way through dusty volumes.

"Hmm, autumn of the weeping willow . . . no, 'tis further back than that. Summer of the singing skylark, spring of the swooping swallows . . . ah, here it is. Winter of the ceaseless snows." He brought the book out into the open and dusted it off.

They sat on the lower walltop steps as Hoben flicked through the pages. He produced a wafer-thin oblong-shaped slate of a bluey grey hue and passed it to Mhera. "Is that the thing you're looking for?"

Mhera recognized Abbess Song's precise and well-formed script. She read aloud what it said.

"My first is third, like the sound of the sea,

My second's the center of you, not me,

My third is the end of him but not you,

My fourth starts a picture, not a view,

My fifth is in bean though not in been,

My sixth and seventh start seldom seen.

Sunrise and sunset, warmth and cold,

Put them together a sign will unfold."

Gundil lay flat on his back, holding his head in both paws. "Whoo urr, whutt be a pore molechoild t'make uv thatt? Et be's more'n moi likkle brain cudd stand!"

Mhera smiled at her molefriend. "Wait until you hear the rest. Listen to this.

"The strangest thing you've ever heard,

A point that makes a noisy word,

The other three make quieter pleas,

Let me start you off with 'teas'."

Cregga lay alongside Gundil, she too holding her head. "Move over, friend. That's more than my brain can stand too!"

Mhera tapped her tail on the step in frustration. "That's the second time I've been interrupted. There's another two separate lines to go yet. Will you two sit up and listen!"

Gundil sat up quickly, folding his paws and looking attentive. "Yurr, Creggum marm, us'n's better pay 'tenshun, or ee gurt h'Abbess'll make uz wash pots in ee kitchen."

The badger sat up, folding her paws primly. "Oops, sorry, Mother Abbess. Carry on, we're all ears!"

Mhera stifled a grin. "Stop calling me Abbess, you two, and listen. Here's the last two lines.

" 'Twixt water and stone I stand alone,

Sounding burnt but alive I survive!"

Brother Hoben preened his straggly whiskers thoughtfully. "Well, what do you think of that?"

Filorn had wakened and emerged from the gatehouse. She stood on the path below them and called up, "I think it's dinnertime, but you can sit on those damp steps all night if you like!"

Old Hoarg left the gatehouse and accompanied them across the lawn. "Minted potato'n'leek turnover, now there's a dish to set the ole mouth waterin'. Mmmmm!"

Helping their elders, Mhera and Gundil wended their way slowly over the rainwashed grass in the warm evening sunlight.

"What's for afters, Mama?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if Broggle and Friar Bobb have made a woodland trifle. They said they were going to."

"With flaked almonds and meadowcream, marm?" "Friar Bobb always says that's the way a woodland trifle should be, Brother."

"Hurr, be thurr any zoop furr starters, mum? Oi loikes I .oop!"

"Well, you should know, Gundil. You and my Mhera chopped the celery and carrots this morning."

"So us'n's did, mum. Oi'd furgotten to amember that, hurr hurr!"

"Cregga, you ole stripedog, can't you move any faster? By the sound of that dinner we'll be lucky to get any if Boorab gets to the tables first!"

"You're right, Hoarg. Come on, let's run!"

They entered the Cavern Hole breathless and laughing. Boorab was already seated next to his friend Drogg Cellarhog. The hare raised an eyebrow as he saw them taking their places.

"Late for dinner an' laughin' like frogs at a fry-up, wot? Not the sort o' thing one does in the mess. Very serious business, eatin'. Only time I laughed at table was one suppertime long ago when my big fat auntie's chair collapsed. She bumped her blinkin' head on the table an' passed out. Only laughed then because I got her bally share. Hawhawhaw, er, beg y'pardon!"

Redwallers were a bit surprised that Cregga had not taken the big chair at the main table, which was the customary place for anybeast acting as leader. Instead, she chose to sit among the younger element, creatures like Gundil, Egburt and Floburt, many seasons out of Dibbunhood but not yet considered adults. At the badger's request, Brother Hoben and Mhera, who was actually regarded as a proper young adult, sat down with Cregga. The big chair remained empty. Gossip hummed about freely. Redwallers liked to discuss the day's events over dinner. As the servers arrived with their trolleys, Cregga tapped the tabletop with a spoon. A respectful silence fell over all. Broggle, who was still called young Broggle for all his size, was selected by the Badgermum to say the grace. However, the squirrel had developed such a fine tenor voice that he always chose to sing it.

"When the day's work is done,

Then gather we all,

To dine in good company,

Here at Redwall,

On the fruits of our labors,

We harvest and tend,

Each helping the other,

As neighbor and friend.

May the seasons' fine fortune,

Roll on without cease,

And grant us fair weather,

In plenty and peace."

The blind badger shook her head in admiration. "Thank you, young Broggle. That was beautifully sung!"

Boorab dipped fresh crusty bread into a bowl of soft cheese and chives, commenting airily, "Indeed it jolly well was. Of course, he had an expert music tutor. Mustn't forget that, wot wot?" Then he abandoned further self-praise to concentrate on his life's greatest interest. Food.

Cregga addressed Brother Hoben so that all at table could hear her. "Tell me, Brother, you taught most of these young 'uns at Abbey School. Would you say they're a pretty bright lot?"

Hoben put aside his soup spoon and looked around. "Hmm. They may be bright now, but most of them were fat-headed dozy little Dibbuns when I taught them."

Mhera silenced the young ones' indignant squeaks and growls by throwing out a challenge. "Right then, let's see, shall we? The creature who can solve most lines of a riddle we have here can sit in the big chair at breakfast tomorrow. Also, with Cregga Badgermum's permission, they can have the entire day off, to do as they please."

The announcement caused a sensation among the young creatures.

"What's the riddle? Bet I can solve it!"

"Go on, go on, tell us what it is, Mhera!"

"Burr, oi'm ee gurtest riggle solverer as ever lived!"

"Oh no you're not, I am!"

Brother Hoben raised his voice. "Then stop chattering and listen to Mhera. Carry on, miz!"

" 'My first is third, like the sound of the sea.' That's the first line. Any ideas as to what it means?"

They stared blankly at Mhera until Floburt inquired, "Are there other lines? Perhaps you could read us one. They may connect up to give a meaning."

Drogg Cellarhog called across from another table. "She's right, miz. Read the lot out, 'tis only fair!"

Mhera had started her dinner. She slid the slate across to Hoben. "I'm famished. You carry on, Brother."

Hoben read the first eight-line poem, slowly and clearly. Immediately they began raising their paws, as if they were still at Abbey School, jigging up and down and calling, "Brother! Brother!"

Hoben pointed at Egburt with a small baton loaf. "You first!"

The young hedgehog scratched his spikes. "I still don't know what the first line means, but the answer to the second line is the letter O. 'My second's the center of you, not me.' O is in the center of the word you, Brother."

As Recorder, Hoben always carried a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stick. He produced them and began writing. "Very good, Egburt. Any more answers, please?"

A mousemaid named Birrel spoke up. "Third line, Brother. 'My third is the end of him but not you.' That's the letter M. It comes at the end of the word him."

Suddenly Mhera had solved the first line, but she was beaten to the answer by young Broggle.

"I've solved the first line! 'My first is third, like the sound of the sea.' Third letter of the alphabet is C. That sounds like the word sea, doesn't it?"

Mhera shook Broggle's paw. "Very clever, mate. That first line had me really baffled. Well done!"

Brother Hoben looked up from his writing. "Floburt, have you got an answer for us?"

The hogmaid fiddled shyly with her apron strings. "Aye, Brother, that line which goes, 'My sixth and seventh start seldom seen.' That's two letters. S and S. 'Seldom seen' starts with them. Er .. . is that right?"

Boorab's earbells tinkled as he applauded. " 'Course it's right, m'gel. I say, can I take a look at your funny old rhyme, wot?"

Hoben passed him the slate. The hare scanned it studiously.

"Ahah! Here's one you'd have to read to flippin' well come up with a solution, this fifth line. 'My fifth is in bean though not in been.' First bean's the bally bean you eat, second one's the been where you've jolly well been, wot. Anyhow, the answer's the letter A. Bit of a swizz, that one, if y'have to listen to it."

Boorab sat down and began tucking into his minted leek'n'potato turnover, nodding at Cregga. "You were right, marm, does taste better when the taters cook down into the leeks, all nice'n'mushy, eh wot!"

"Yurr, this 'un be ee letter P. Moi fourth starts ee pitcher but not ee view. Hurr aye, 'tis ee P all roight."

Brother Hoben chuckled at Gundil's great grin of triumph. "There you are, it wasn't more than your little brain could stand." He held up his paws to stop any further discussion. "Well done, class! I'll let you see what I've written down so far."

Hoben placed his notes in the center of the table. Like everything he did, they were perfectly numbered and laid out. Thus:

1 My first is third, like the sound of the sea C

2 My second's the center of you, not me O

3 My third is the end of him but not you M

4 My fourth starts a picture, not a view P

5 My fifth is in bean though not in been A

6 My sixth and seventh start seldom seen S S

Floburt could hardly contain herself. "It's a compass! The next two lines make it even clearer. Listen.

"Sunrise and sunset, warmth and cold,

Put them together a sign will unfold.

"The sun sets in the west and rises in the east. South is the warm country, north is the cold lands. I've put it together. The compass points: north, south, east and west!"

The Redwallers cheered as Drogg Cellarhog bowed and shifted the big chair back from the head of the table for his granddaughter.

"Sit ye down, my lovely. I'd say you was the winner, paws down!"

Foremole Brull confirmed Drogg's proclamation. "She'm wurr allus gurtly clever, h'even when she'm wurr ee h'infant!"

Boorab dragged his haredee gurdee forward and announced, "In honor of our fair winner I will now render the Ballad of the Brainy Duck. Thank you!"

Sister Alkanet pushed her plate away. "That's completely ruined my appetite!"

The hare shot her a haughty glance. "I heard that remark, marm!" Notwithstanding, he tugged levers and wound wheels until the instrument groaned into action. Much to everybeast's hilarity it kept making noises like a duck. Boorab launched into his song.

"Some said his head was full of stones,

Some said 'twas full of muck,

But I tell you, that wasn't true,

Oh Dingle was a brainy duck!

He knew history and geography,

Read books from front to back,

But the poor little fellow with his webs so yellow

All he could say was Quack!

Oh geese go honk and sparrows tweet,

I suppose jackdaws shout Jack,

But the cleverest bird you've ever heard,

Was the duck who just went Quack!

One day there came a cunning fox,

Who said 'I'm Doctor Black,

And all the ducks believed he was,

'Til Dingle called him Quack!

Oh Quack Quack Quack! Quack Quack Quack!

Brave Dingle Quacked and raved,

So the ducks jumped Quackly in the pond,

And from that fox were saved.

If ever you meet dear Dingle,

Good manners he won't lack,

Just shake his wing, you'll hear him sing,

Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack!"

Midst rousing cheers, Boorab took his bow and, as usual, tripped over the haredee gurdee, rolling under the table with it. Filorn peered down. It was difficult to tell what was hare and what was haredee gurdee, the two were so enmeshed.

"Oh, you poor creature. Are you all right, Mr. Boorab sir?"

His head emerged from between a set of accordion bellows. "Er, hawhaw, quite well, thankee, marm, just makin' a minor adjustment, wot. Me quackin' mechanism overheated, doncha know!"

The friends made their escape to the comparative peace of Cregga's room, where they confronted the remainder of the puzzle. Brother Hoben read it aloud.

"The strangest thing you've ever heard,

A point that makes a noisy word,

The other three make quieter pleas,

Let me start you off with 'teas.'"

Cregga settled into her armchair. "This gets odder by the moment. What's teas supposed to mean?"

Hoben took on a teacherlike air. "Quite simple, really. Teas is just the letters of east messed around a bit, right, Mhera?"

"Yes, Brother, like north makes, er, er . . . thorn!"

Cregga caught on quickly. "And west makes, let me see ... stew!"

Hoben nodded. "It's an old trick, but it will fool you easily if you don't look out for it. So, that leaves south, the point that makes the word shout. That's a noisy word, I'd say. Oh, then there's these two final lines. Listen carefully.

" 'Twixt water and stone I stand alone,

Sounding burnt but alive I survive!"

Hoben tapped his paw on the slate. "And that is the important part, friends. That is what we are searching for."

Gundil scrambled down from Cregga's chair arm, where he had been perching. "Boi 'okey, coom on, we'm a goen south'ard!"

The Badgermum's huge paws lifted him back onto the armchair. "It's nearly dark out. No use searching in that."

Mhera stared at the badger's sightless eyes. "How do you know it's dark, Cregga? You can't see."

Cregga chuckled and held a paw in the direction of her window. "I can feel the heat of the stars, it's almost an hour since dinner, and I'm feeling more tired than I do in daytime. Is that explanation good enough for you, Miz Mhera?"

Mhera sat by the chair, resting her head on Cregga's footpaws. "I don't believe the first bit, about feeling the heat of the stars. That's a dreadful fib for an acting Abbess."

Cregga reached down and stroked her friend's head. "Come on, this old beast's weary for sleep. It's been a long day. We'll continue our search straight after breakfast tomorrow."

Mhera jumped up. "Breakfast tomorrow? Oh dear, Gundil, we promised Mama and Friar Bobb we'd give some help kneading the oatmeal scones for the morning. Come on, mate!"

Brother Hoben stretched out on the bed, which Cregga never used, preferring her big armchair, which was easier to get up from. The Recorder settled himself comfortably.

"Oh for the energy of the young. The speed those two dashed out with, eh, Cregga?"

The Badgermum grunted dozily. "Glad I can't run that fast anymore. Makes me feel exhausted just thinking about it. Nighty night, Brother."

Filorn shooed Mhera and Gundil off as they ran into the kitchens.

"Off to bed, the pair of you. The scones are in the oven. Drogg Spearback and two of Skipper's crew lent a paw. I hardly did anything, so I don't feel a bit tired after that nap in the gatehouse. Go on, you two go up. I'll wait until the scones are baked and help the Friar take them from the ovens."

Broggle poked his head around the pantry door. "Scone pullin' is my job, marm. No need for you to wait about down here. Good night, marm!"

Filorn accompanied Mhera and Gundil upstairs. "Young Broggle is such a nice creature, isn't he, Gundil?"

"Oh, ee'm passen furr, marm, but miz Mhera, she'm the noicest creetur in ee h'entire h'Abbey!"

Mhera shook her head. "No, no. The nicest, most sweet-natured, politest beast in all of Redwall is . . . Gundil!"

Twirling his tail and ducking his head, the mole shuffled about on the top stair. "Burr, miz, you'm gotten oi all uv a tizzy naow!"

Filorn laughed heartily, throwing her paws about them both. "Why don't you two get off to your beds and dream of fresh compliments to pay each other tomorrow. Nicest, most sweet-natured, huh? That little soilwhumper?"

Gundil grinned. "Thankee, marm, an' gudd noight to ee!"

Chapter 10

Antigra went north into Mossflower Wood, to the place where she knew that doves nested among the oak and beech trees. It was soft and mossy underpaw, dappled with sunlight and shadow, fern beds reflecting that calm translucent greenish light often found in deep woodlands. Nature's beauties were lost upon the stoat, as crouching low in the ferns she loaded a small hard pebble into her sling. Two doves were feeding on the ground, picking among last autumn's rotted acorns. Slowly, carefully, Antigra stood, her eye fixed upon the fatter of the pair as she began to twirl her sling. The pebble pouch she carried stuffed into her belt slipped loose and stones clacked noisily as they spilled out. The doves flew off to their nest, high up in an old oak. Still twirling the sling, Antigra cursed her bad fortune. Just then the fatter of the doves poked its head out of the nest, and she whipped the pebble off at it. The random throw was unlucky for the dove. Antigra immediately knew she had slain the bird, by the way its head flopped as the pebble struck it. Then it was her turn to have the bad luck. Instead of tumbling to the ground, the dove fell back into its nest, and its partner flew off in fright.

The stoat told herself there was nothing for it but to climb the tree and retrieve her kill. Fixing the pebble pouch firmly into her belt, she looped the sling about her neck and began climbing. It was very difficult at first, but as she went higher and the branches became more close growing her progress was easier. She reached the nest, and found two eggs in it with the dead dove. Her climb had not been in vain. Straddling the bough, Antigra settled her back against the trunk. The eggs were her bonus. The stoat sat sucking them and gazing about her, interested at how the land looked from a high vantage point. She could not see the Juskarath camp, but far over to the north a glimpse of snow-peaked mountaintops showed beyond the woodlands, bathed in early-evening sunlight. Antigra turned her attention to looking for other nests, but she saw none. She began climbing down, halting when her keen eyes spotted movement below on the woodland floor. She watched from her hiding place in the foliage. A shadow slipped from tree to tree, pausing a moment amid some ferns before hastening silently off northward. It was the Taggerung!

Antigra had no knowledge of what had taken place back at the camp. Instantly a plan formed in her cunning mind. She would climb down and track him. Her aim with a sling was good. Nobeast would know it was she who had slain the Taggerung. If she was careful and accurate, her son Gruven would soon become Taggerung of the Juska. She was almost halfway down when another movement below caused her to freeze. Sawney Rath came loping along, halting momentarily to inspect a bruised fern frond. He smiled grimly, pleased to have picked up the trail of his quarry. Antigra seized the moment. Fitting a large pebble to her sling, she changed her plans.

Whirring the loaded sling until it was a blur, she yelled sharply, "Sawney Rath, I'm up here!"

The Juska Chieftain looked upward, shock stamped upon his face as the stone struck him between his eyes, slaying him on the spot. With the dead dove lying forgotten halfway up the tree, Antigra scrambled down out of the boughs and dropped to the ground. Sawney lay still, one paw still gripping the spear he had been carrying, eyes open wide, staring at the sky. She circled him apprehensively, as if expecting her feared enemy to leap up at any moment. Without warning, sounds of some otherbeast traveling toward the scene reached Antigra. But this was no stealthy tracker or hunter she could hear. It was the labored, staggering noise of some wearybeast, unwittingly heading her way.

Antigra slipped quietly behind the oak tree and waited. Felch came stumbling along, gasping for breath. He ground to a halt in front of the Juskarath Chieftain's body. Like the stoat, he too circled it warily. Antigra stepped out from behind the oak.

"He's dead. 'Twas I who slew him," she said flatly.

Felch exhaled loudly with relief. He knelt at the ferret's side and inspected the wound, then looked at Antigra's weapon. "Aye, so ye did. A slingstone took his life. The Taggerung carried only a knife when I last saw him. I was much slower than either of 'em. I hid myself an' let 'em pass by me, first the Taggerung, then Sawney tracking him." He broke the dead Chieftain's grasp upon the spear and stood up. "You said you'd wait an' get Sawney one day. Hah! The 'igh an' mighty Sawney Rath, eh? You won't be slingin' yer orders 'round no more. You don't look so tough now, ferret-faced scum!"

Felch stabbed the body with the spear. He grinned at Antigra. "Long seasons I dreamed of doin' that. I wager you did, too."

The stoat grinned back. "Aye. Tell me, what happened back at the camp? Why was Sawney hunting the otter?"

As the fox explained, a crafty gleam entered Antigra's eyes. "So, we're rid of them both, Sawney and his pet otter."

Felch brandished the spear. "No more worries, eh? We'll rule the clan together now, just you'n'me. Chieftains together!"

Antigra pounded the fox's back. "Give me that spear. I want to stab him too!"

Giggling like a naughty Dibbun, Felch passed the spear over. He was still giggling as Antigra whirled and ran him through. A look of pained surprise crossed the fox's face as he stood swaying, grasping the spear shaft with both paws. Antigra stared back at him, her eyes hard and bright as flint.

"My son will rule the clan. There's no room anymore for you, Felch. You've seen and heard too much!"

Fresh wood had been heaped on the campfires. Grissoul sat beside the one outside Sawney's tent, gazing into the night. She felt the spearpoint touch her back, and heard the whisper issuing from the darkness behind her.

"Sawney Rath is dead!"

Without attempting to turn, Grissoul answered, "The omens have already told me this, Antigra."

The stoat's breath felt hot on the back of the vixen's neck. "And did your omens tell you who slew him? Think carefully if you wish to continue living."

Grissoul reached behind her and pushed the spear gently aside. "My omens told me that thou would know the answer to that question. They said no more; it is not for me to guess at the answer."

Antigra kept to the shadows where she could not be seen. "You are a wise beast, old one. I've had a vision that my son Gruven is Taggerung now. Do you agree? Answer me!"

Grissoul shook her head. "It cannot be. Nay, Antigra, put down thy spear and listen. I have had no vision of the Taggerung's death. Juska law says that only he who slays a Taggerung can be called Taggerung in his place. Thy son cannot be Taggerung while the chosen one lives. But a new Chieftain can always take the place of a Chieftain who is slain. I will help thee to have thy son named Gruven Zann Juskazann, leader of this clan. Does my new vision sound fitting to thy desires?"

Antigra liked the idea immediately. "Your vision is good. Tell me what to do, Grissoul!"

The Seer closed her eyes. "Wait awhile before entering camp. Then tell thy story to all. I'll agree with it; the Juska will not doubt my word. I will send thy son off with strong warriors to hunt down and slay the Taggerung, and together you and I will rule the clan until the day of his return."

Antigra nodded. "It is a bargain." She slid back into the darkness.

A short time later, Antigra roused the clan vermin. She staggered into camp, shrieking, "Sawney Rath is dead, murdered by the Taggerung!"

The crowd followed her up to the fire outside Sawney's tent, where Grissoul was still sitting. The Seer got immediate silence by throwing a pawful of something into the flames, which caused them to send up a blue flame.

"I saw the death of Sawney Rath in my omens when he left camp today. Some of you saw me cast the stones and bones."

The stoat Rawback spoke up. "Aye, I saw her. She clasped her head in her paws!"

Gruven sneaked up to his mother's side and whispered, "What's happened? Did you see Sawney get killed?"

Antigra pinched his side between her claws sharply. "Do as I say," she muttered. "Stay out of this and keep your mouth shut until I tell you. Big things are at stake here tonight."

Other vermin were backing Rawback up.

"Grissoul looked as though the omens were bad."

"I saw 'er too. She looked like a creature who'd seen death!"

The Seer leapt up, her painted face taking on a blue tinge from the flames, and swirled her cloak back and forth dramatically. "Let Antigra speak! Tell thy clanbeasts what took place, Antigra!"

All eyes turned on the stoat.

"I was up a tree after birds' eggs and I heard noises. First came Felch, then Sawney, following him. He shouted the fox's name, Felch turned and Sawney slew him with a spear cast. I did not know that the traitor Taggerung was hiding nearby. He saw Sawney unarmed and threw the very blade that was once Sawney's. It did not fly true, but the stone at its handletop struck Sawney 'twixt the eyes and laid him out, unconscious I think. The Taggerung could not see me, so I started climbing down from the tree to defend our Chieftain. But alas, before I reached the ground, the otter had pulled the spear from the body of Felch and murdered Sawney with it. He ran off, north toward the mountains. I could do nought but hurry back here to bring you the bad tidings. It was a treacherous and horrible sight, I'll never forget it!" Antigra slumped on the ground, covering her eyes. "Vengeance upon the traitorous Taggerung," she wailed. "The spirit of Sawney Rath cries for vengeance from the gates of Dark Forest!"

Grissoul's sudden scream rent the night. She began a shuffling dance, holding both paws forth. Vermin shrank from her touch. They feared what they could not understand; it was a night of omens. The Seer's paws finally touched Gruven's face. He looked to his mother, and she nodded at him to stay still. Grissoul cast herself down in front of him, her voice rising to an eerie pitch.

"Is this the one to do thy will, O Sawney Rath?" A great sigh escaped her, and she touched her head to Gruven's footpaws.

"Gruven Zann! Juskazann!

Take our name, rule our clan,

Heed the voice of the Chieftain now dead,

Bring back to this Seer the traitor's head!"

A roar of approval came from the tribe, caught up in the hypnotic ritual. Grissoul led Gruven to the fire, where even his slightly puzzled features looked impressive in the changing hue of the flames. The Seer cast pawfuls of different powders into the blaze. Antigra, who had darted into Sawney's tent a moment before, came dashing out to drape the dead ferret's best cloak about her son's shoulders. She pressed his sword into his paw, hissing in his ear, "Try to look less like a befuddled frog and more like a clan chief, can't you? Say something to them, stir them up. Speak!" She mingled in with the crowd and yelled hoarsely, "Gruven Zann Juskazann!"

Others took up the cry until it became a deafening chant. "Gruven Zann Juskazann! Gruven Zann Juskazann!"

Gruven held up his sword and they fell silent as if by magic. He repeated every word that Grissoul, who was standing behind him, whispered in his ear.

"Warriors of the Juskazann, fear not. The coward Taggerung cannot run far or fast enough from my wrath. I vow upon this sword that the otter will pay for his treachery. Aye, I will choose from our best to accompany me, and I'll bring back his head. We leave at dawn. I will make the name of our clan feared throughout the land. Tell me, you brave ones, what are you called?"

The clanbeasts roared, waving their weapons high. "Juskazann! Juskazann! Gruven Zann Juskazann!"

Grissoul knew then that her plan was working. The clanbeasts were in a frenzy. The Seer sprang up in front of Gruven and flung more powders into the fire. Blue, red, green, silver and purple smoke wreathed her as she cast her bones and shells on the ground. Everybeast was awed by the sight of her, an eerie multihued apparition, howling like a demon.

"Sawney Rath calls to me from beyond the Hellgates! The otter is a traitor Taggerung, a Chieftain murderer and a cowardly runaway! He is not fit to be Taggerung! Shame will fall on our clan if he lives! Gruven Zann Juskazann must slay him and take his title. My omens say that the one who slays a traitor Taggerung can then be called Taggerung by right! Go now, Gruven Zann Juskazann, bring honor to your new-named clan, avenge our fallen Chieftain, bring death to the fleeing coward and take on the name of Gruven Zann Taggerung!"

Even through the flames and smoke, Grissoul could see the fanatical burning light of satisfaction in Antigra's eyes.

Far north in Mossflower Wood, Tagg surfaced from a broad stream. Shaking himself dry he sat on the bank, t tying to define his present mood. He was banished from t he company of the only beasts he could remember living with, a loner, an outcast from the clan. Yet he felt light-hearted, free and happy. Sometimes he had admired Sawney, his strength, leadership and determination, but he had never really liked the ferret, never called him lather, never loved him. Tagg was not bothered that Sawney was hunting him. He had grown old, slower, and more prone to making mistakes because of his quicktempered mood changes. The otter felt a shudder of joy pass through his entire body from ear to rudder. He was glad to be rid of the whole Juskarath. Life was his, to do with as he pleased. Exactly where he was going and what he intended to do had not occurred to him. Then he remembered the mountain.

Several times that day Tagg had glimpsed it as he traveled north through the woodlands, its pure white craggy cone standing out against the clear blue sky. He moved further along the bank to a higher point, and standing on tip-paw he saw it again, mysterious and cool, its snows turned soft grey by the starry night. Suddenly Tagg wanted to be there. He had never been on a mountain. Fired by the prospect, he leaped high in the air and shouted at the object of his desire. "I'm coming to see you, mountain!"

As he jumped, his head struck something in the overhanging foliage of a tree. Tagg reached up among the leaves and discovered it was a pear. The fruit was not quite ready; it was still hard, but sweet and slightly juicy. Tagg laughed aloud, shouting through a half-full mouth as he plucked another one. "Aye, you stay there, mountain, I'm coming!"

"Yeek! 'Tis a mad riverdog! Stay 'way from 'im, Krobzy!"

"Yarr, don't fret yore snout, Prethil, I kin deal wid 'im!"

Tagg stood still, instantly alert, looking about to see where the voices were coming from. Two bankvoles were standing at the water's edge below him. He smiled politely at them. "Hello!"

The male was a small fat fellow, clad in a homespun nightshirt. He brandished a club and stood protectively in front of the female, wiggling his nose aggressively, as bankvoles do when they are ready to fight. He pointed the club at Tagg. "Donchew 'ello me, ruddertail, or I'll boff ye a good 'un. Wot's yore name an' wot's yore business on our midden, eh, eh?"

Tagg leaned his paw against the dagger in his belt. "I wouldn't chance trying to boff me if I were you."

The bankvole started up the hill toward Tagg, with the female trying to pull him back. The otter's words had roused his temper. "Hohoh, wouldn't ye now? Lissen, streamwalloper, I've boffed bigger'n you many a time, don't fret yore snout about that!"

Tagg did not want to hurt the bankvole. He tried reasoning. "Now now, what are you getting so carried away about, friend?"

Snaking the female off, the bankvole hopped excitedly about. "Carried away, me? Hoho, that's a good 'un! Yore stannin' up there, bawlin' an' shoutin' an' wakin' the babies. Stealin' an' pinchin' an' scoffin' away at our pears. Wotjer expeck me t'do, come out an' give ye a big kiss, eh, eh?"

He hurled himself at Tagg, who moved swiftly to one side. As the bankvole went sprawling, Tagg disabled him by placing a footpaw on the back of his head and pinning his clubpaw to the ground with his strong rudderlike tail. Facedown and helpless, the angry creature snuffled his snout against the earth.

The female sat down, weeping into her nightie. "Ahoohoo hoo! I tole ye the riverdog wiz mad. Now 'e'll murdify both of us an' eat us all up. Oh, 'elp us, somebeast. Ahoohoohoo!"

Taking the club away from the male, Tagg picked him up and sat him down next to his blubbering partner. "Hush now, marm, I'm not going to murder or eat either of you. I wouldn't hurt you, I'm a friend. Come on now, dry your eyes."

She pushed his comforting paw aside. "Go 'way an' don't even speak t'me, ye villigan!"

The male seemed to compose his temper rapidly. He winked at Tagg before throwing a sympathetic paw around the female. "Yarr, cummon, muther, turn the waterfall off. 'E ain't goin' to 'urt us, are ye, sunshine? I'm Krobzy an' this is me missus, Prethil. Wot's yore name?"

Tagg held out his paw. "Oh, just call me Tagg. Pleased to meet you."

Prethil scrubbed at her eyes with the nightie hem. "Pleased to meechew like . . . ler . . . hic! Ler hic! Hic! . . . wise. Hic!"

Krobzy hugged his little fat wife. "Lookit, ye've gone an' gived yoreself 'iccups now wid all that cryin'. Grab 'old of yore snout an' bang yer tail aginst the floor, that always stops the 'iccups. Are you 'ungry, Tagg? Is that why yore scoffin' our pears, eh, eh?"

The otter helped them both up onto their paws. "Sorry, I didn't know the pears were yours. Yes, I am hungry. I haven't eaten since midday."

Krobzy dusted Prethil down before attending to himself. "Well, why didn't ye say so, ye great rudderwhacker? Come on back to the 'omestead. We'll feed yore big famine-stricken gob!"

The homestead was actually built under the hill Tagg had been standing on, with a tunnel leading to it from a secret entrance on the bank. It was a big comfortable place with pear tree roots tracing their way across the ceiling and down the walls. There were other bankvoles living within, alongside a big family of watervoles and another family of fieldvoles. They gathered around the otter, touching the amber-hilted knife with its blue pommel-stone. Little ones rode Tagg's tail by sitting on it, others felt his paws and strong limbs admiringly.

"Big feller, ain't 'e!"

"Aye, fine pow'ful beastie!"

"Wouldn't like t'meet 'im up a creek on a dark night, eh, eh?"

"Phwarr! That'n would swipe the tail offa ye wid that blade!"

"Oh aye, fine sharp blade that'n is, eh, eh?"

Prethil shooed them away and led Tagg to a table. "Will ye leave the pore beast alone? 'E's 'ungry!"

This statement caused even more speculation from the voles.

"Bet 'e could wade through a fair bit o' grub?"

"Yarr, so c'd you if'n you was 'is size!"

"No use givin' 'im a small bowl an' a liddle tankard, eh, eh?"

Krobzy pushed them aside and sat down with Tagg. A bushy male watervole joined them. Krobzy introduced him. "Tagg, this is Sekkendin. We calls 'im that 'cos 'e's my sekkendin command 'round 'ere."

The table moved as a pile of younger voles pushed in against it, trying to get closer to the newcomer. Sekkendin glared at them. "Goo 'way, g'wan, the lot of ye. Go an' show Tagg 'ow youse kin dance. Rakkadoo, make some gob music for 'em, willyer!"

A kindly-looking fieldvole placed hot nutbread and a pan of vegetable stew in front of the otter, commenting, "Bowl'd be too liddle for the likes of ye, sir. Eat 'earty now."

Krobzy poured out tankards of a fruity-tasting beer, which the voles called bankbrew. Tagg ate and drank as he witnessed the voles' pawskills at dancing.

Two elders began twanging on jawharps and the one called Rakkadoo rattled out a curious melody. It was very tast and comprised of odd sounds interwoven with words.

"Ho rang tang rattledy battledy,

Twirl y'tails an' kick up y'paws,

Flibberty flabberty rumple dee doo,

Which 'un's mine an' wot one's yores?

Y'jump like a trout an' y'caper about,

An' don't dare stamp on anybeast's tail,

Roll like a vole playin' toad in an 'ole,

An' rackit an' rampit an' fetch the good ale!

Rubbledy dubbledy fleas never troubled me,

Fiddledee faddle an' diddle dee doo,

Slugs never 'it me an' bugs never bit me,

I'm far too fast so I'll leave 'em t'you.

A rap tap tap I jump so 'igh,

There's birds beneath me flyin' by,

Flippin' an' flappin' me paws are a-tappin',

To beat a vole dancin' y'never should try. Hi!"

Apart from seeing a few rats sing the odd verse around the campfire, Tagg had never known anything like the voles' dancing. His own footpaws felt weary from rapping the floor in time with them. Even the smallest of infant voles could dance expertly, and not only that but they could somersault, backflip and perform the most amazing acrobatics without missing a beat of the gob music. They came crowding around the table again, but Prethil appeared brandishing a stone and a branch in her paws.

"Last beast a-snorin' gets rubbed down with a rock'n'a root in the river!"

With fearful yowls the little voles fled into another chamber, where they flung themselves on the moss-strewn floor and began making small snoring noises. Krobzy smiled.

"Yarr, that's got rid o' the pests fer the night. Now then, Tagg me ole sunshine, tell us all about yoreself. We got all night an' us voles do like a good yarn!"

The otter took a draft of bankbrew to moisten his throat. "Let me see, now. How did it all start. . . ?"

Dawn broke clear and quiet. Gruven was still slumbering deep when his mother's footpaw stirred him awake. "Gruven Zann, up now. There's big things for you to do!"

The stoat sat up, picking at the corners of his eyes. "It's not properly daylight yet. I'm tired!"

He rolled aside as Antigra slammed the swordpoint into the ground beside him. Bringing her face close, she hissed, "I didn't wait all these seasons for you to be tired. You are a clan Chieftain now. Get up!"

He rose hastily and donned the cloak he had been given the previous evening. It was a dark red dyed barkcloth, a touch short for Gruven, but it added slightly to his bearing as a new Chieftain. Recalling the events of the last few days, he tugged the sword free, allowing anger and hatred to build inside him. Antigra straightened the cloak about her son. She stared into his vengeful eyes, murmuring in a low voice, so that those waiting outside could not hear, "That's more like it. Remember this: as long as the otter lives you cannot really call yourself leader of the Juskazann. Keep that in mind, and hunt as you have never hunted before. When you do catch up with him, slay him by any means, fair or foul. Only then can you return here to claim your full title. Go now!"

Grissoul awaited Gruven outside the tent. The Seer had eight vermin with her, fully armed. She waited until Antigra came out to join her before speaking.

"Gruven Zann Juskazann! I have chosen eight of our best to go with thee. Eefera, Dagrab, Ribrow, Grobait, Milkeye, Rabbad, Rawback and Vallug Bowbeast. Command them well and bring back the head of the traitor Taggerung. Thy mother and I will go with thee as far as the spot where Sawney Rath lies slain. You will pick up the trail from there. You warriors, guard your chief with your lives. If you return here without him you will all die."

From their open tents and around cooking fires, the clan watched as Antigra and Gruven led the hunting party out of the clearing. Through the summer-dappled trees of Mossflower they trotted, heading north for the oak tree where the murders occurred. Grissoul traveled at the rear, with one of Sawney's most trusted lieutenants, the weasel Eefera. He was a big taciturn beast, well versed in the art of death. Grissoul had instructed him precisely. He knew what to do should Gruven shrink from his mission or show fear. Accidents could always happen out among the woodlands.

Chapter 11

Brother Hoben woke late next morning in Cregga's room. The Badgermum's empty chair was evidence that she was already up and about. The Recorder muttered to himself as he sluiced down his face in the bowl of water on a cornerstand. "Huh! Might have given me a shake. Leaving me to lie abed half the morning. Not like Cregga at all."

He hurried downstairs, only to find the dining tables deserted. There seemed to be nobeast about; the place was silent. Hoben stood gnawing his whisker ends, completely perplexed. Then he heard a sound. The squeak of trolley wheels sent him scurrying to the kitchens from whence it issued.

Young Broggle was loading the trolley with jugs of cold mint tea and blackberry pies, which he was pulling from the ovens with a long paddle.

"What's going on around here?" Hoben demanded indignantly. "Where's everybeast gone?"

Broggle elbowed him gently to one side as he loaded his cart. "Going on, Brother? I'll tell you what's going on. Mhera and Cregga's search has turned into a full-scale picnic. Since we solved that riddle poem last night there's not a creature in the Abbey who doesn't want to be involved with it. At the moment they're all down at the south wall having breakfast in the open. I just came up here for more supplies. Fresh air makes them ravenous, apparently. Did you oversleep, Brother?"

Hoben began lending a paw to finish loading the trolley. "Aye, I slept like a log, it was so quiet and peaceful in Cregga's room. Her bed is absolutely massive. She never uses it, sleeps in her armchair all the time. Quiet and peaceful that room, no Dibbuns playing 'round the door an hour before sunrise. Come on, Broggle, I'll push and you pull. Easy now, watch those jugs."

Around the south wall was a scene of merry chaos. Boorab came to meet them, a beaker of pennywort cordial in one paw and a half-eaten oatmeal scone, dripping honey, in the other. He appeared to be in fine fettle. "What ho, here's two gallant chaps bearing munchable reinforcements to the front, wot. Well done, chums. You can leave that trolley to me now. I'll see to it, wot wot!"

"Get your plundering paws away from that trolley this instant, you flop-eared reprobate!"

The hare evaded Friar Bobb's ladle with a sideskip. "Only tryin' to help, old scout. Offerin' one's services, y'know!"

Filorn caught up with Boorab and took his paw. "Come and help me to get the Dibbuns down from the walltops, sir. I'll shoo them off and you can stand sentry on the wallsteps to make sure they don't get back up again."

Boorab strolled off gallantly, holding the ottermum's paw on his in courtly fashion. "Never refuse a pretty gel, wot. Duty is me second name, marm. I'll guard those wallsteps against the little blighters with my very life. Hi there, you midget savages, down off the bally battlements. Down I say, sir. Yowch!"

A well-aimed apple core bounced off the hare's scut tail. Filorn struggled to keep her face straight as Boorab closed one eye and glared fiercely up at a molebabe. "Assassin! You leave me no alternative but to declare war on you and all your fiendish crew, sah!"

Hoben found Mhera and Gundil with Cregga, breakfasting sitting on an old rug spread close to the wall. He sat down with them, helping himself to barley toast, quince jam and a beaker of cold mint tea. Cregga waved away an inquisitive wasp.

"A beautiful morning, Brother. Before you start telling me off, I left you asleep on the bed because it seemed a shame to waken you. Your breathing sounded so peaceful I hadn't the heart to disturb you. I hope you'll forgive me."

The Recorder felt abashed that he had misjudged his friend. "What's to forgive, marm? I had the best night's sleep I've known in many a season. Well now, how far have we got with our latest riddle? What was it? Ah, I remember. All the clues ran south, until those last two lines.

" 'Twixt water and stone I stand alone,

Sounding burnt but alive I survive!"

Gundil picked daintily at a candied plum. "You'm gotten ee gurt membery, zurr. Oi surpose et's 'cos ee be's an Accorder. We'm bain't gotten no furtherer with ee riggle."

Mhera poured more mint tea for the Badgermum. "But 'tis not for want of trying, Brother. We've sat here racking our brains since dawn, without a result."

Cregga shook her head sorrowfully. "Look around if you want to see the reason why. We've had a hare filching our food, Dibbuns racing around us like wild things, Sister Alkanet complaining about this, that and the other, and young Broggle fracturing our ears with his ceaseless chatter. Hardly a good place to sit and solve problems, is it?"

Brother Hoben pointed upward. "Then let's adjourn to the walltop. Mhera's mama has cleared it of Dibbuns and Boorab's guarding the steps. It should be quiet enough for us to do some thinking up there."

Boorab's spear was a window pole. He stood on the second step, barring their way. "Who goes there? State y'business, wot?"

Brother Hoben tapped an impatient paw on the bottom step. "Come out of the way, please. We're going to the walltop."

The hare twitched his whiskers officiously. "No Dibbuns allowed up here. You're not Dibbuns, are you?"

Cregga took hold of the window pole he was clasping and lifted both Boorab and the pole, with one paw, down onto the grass. "Do we look like Dibbuns? Don't try my patience, sah!"

"Just doin' one's duty," he muttered up the steps after them, somewhat crestfallen. "I was only jolly well askin' a civil question, wot. Humph, some creatures!"

Hoben was right. The broad walkway of the ramparts, backed by the battlemented wall, was more peaceful. Mhera liked being up high. She could see the land to the south unfolding below her and the path meandering off into the distance.

Cregga took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. "Ah, that's better! Mhera, my pretty, let me borrow your eyes. Which way are you facing and what can you see?"

"I'm looking south, Cregga, and I see the woodlands to my left and the open space below, then the path. Off to my right there's the flatlands and a few hills over toward the horizon."

The badger leaned her back against the battlements. "That's all? Nothing out of place, no unusual objects sticking up you'd not noticed before? Come on, you two, get looking and help her out."

Brother Hoben and Gundil searched the scene carefully.

"Not a thing, Cregga. It all looks fairly normal."

"Burr aye, et be's a noice purty soight though, marm!"

The Badgermum issued her next instruction. "Now turn 'round, right 'round, facing into the Abbey grounds. Tell me, what do you see now?"

They pieced together the picture for their blind companion.

"Mossflower Wood's treetops and the north wall, the beehives and the flower gardens, then the lawns."

"Burr aye, then ee gurt h'Abbey buildin' an' ee path frum et runnen to ee gate'ouse an' ee west wall wi' main gate in et."

Cregga stopped Gundil with an upraised paw. "Take it from there, Mhera. Slowly and carefully. Leave nothing out, and remember, we're looking for something that sounds burnt but alive, whatever that's supposed to be."

Mhera started from the east wall. "Well, I can see the south side of the Abbey and the orchard between that and the east wall, and further west more lawns running right down to the west wallsteps, south of the gatehouse . . . Wait. We're looking for something that stands alone 'twixt water and stone, aren't we?"

Cregga suddenly became alert at the ottermaid's tone. "Yes, yes. Have you seen it?"

Mhera concentrated hard, feeling she was on the edge of a solution. "Not exactly, but it occurred to me that I might narrow it down a bit. 'Twixt water and stone. Suppose this wall . . . the one we're standing on ... is meant to be the stone, between here and the south side of the Abbey is the pond. Maybe that's the water we're looking for!"

A slow smile of satisfaction spread over the badger's broad face. "Now we're getting somewhere. 'Twixt water and stone, between this wall and our Abbey pond. What else is there?"

"Hurr, marm, on'y ee gurt ole tree."

"What sort of tree?"

Brother Hoben shrugged. "Probably an ash tree, I think. Why?"

Mhera spotted Drogg Cellarhog down below and called to him. "See that tree I'm pointing at? What sort is it, please?"

The stout old hedgehog replied without even looking. "That'n's an ash, miz. I gets all my tool shafts from it. Fine timber, 'tis; makes goodly furniture too!"

Mhera patted the rough greyish-hued bark as they stood around the tree in question. "What a bunch of puddenheads we are. Ash! A living tree which sounds by its name as though it had been burned. What next?"

Brother Hoben had a suggestion. "We inspect the trunk and the ground around it, to see if we can find out what Abbess Song meant."

Cregga had an even better idea. "I am taller than any of you and my paws are extra sensitive. I'll inspect the trunk all around as high as I can reach. You three stand back a bit and look at the trunk and the ground. Use your eyesight to examine the ash."

Filorn and Foremole Brull passed by the tree with a crowd of Dibbuns around them. The otter waved to her daughter. "Brull and I are taking the babes for a paddle in the pond. It'll give Friar Bobb and Broggle a chance to get cleared for lunch. Please don't swing on my apron strings like that, you'll pull me over. Let me go, Durby!"

The molebabe trundled over to Mhera and attached himself to her smock. "Oi be goen a-skwimmin' in ee deep ponder!"

Mhera laughed as she detached the tiny creature. She wagged a paw at him and replied in mole dialect. "Ho no you'm bain't, likkle zurr, ee be's goen a-pagglin'. Skwimmin' bain't furr ee, lessen you'm a h'otter!"

Durby sucked on a digging claw as he thought about it, then trundled off chortling. "Hurr, miz, you'm a-tryen to cloimb ee gurt tree, an you'm bain't ee squirrler. Hurr hurr hurr!"

His logic struck the ottermaid immediately. "Cregga, he's right! We need a squirrel. Who better to examine a tree? Come on, let's get ourselves a squirrel!"

Friar Bobb was too old and young Broggle, by his somewhat well-fed girth, was not quite in athletic trim. The good Friar gave thought as to whom he could recommend.

"Hmm. What you want is a first-class treewhiffler, a specialist climber. 'Tis a bit of a problem, friends. Overweight parents, old 'uns like me, and some Dibbuns. They're the only squirrels we have at the moment. Broggle, can you think of anybeast who'd fit the job?"

Curling his tail soulfully, the assistant cook spoke one word as if it were a prayer. "Fwirl!"

Mhera stared at the dreamy-eyed Broggle. "Just tell me two things, please. What do you mean by a treewhiffler, and who in the name of seasons is Fwirl?"

Broggle was tongue-tied. Friar Bobb replied for him. "A treewhiffler is the squirrel name for a champion climber. There's a young squirrelmaid, called Fwirl, living alone in the woodlands. She's quite shy, but Broggle knows her. He often takes a few goodies up to the east battlements as a gift for her. We're hoping that someday she'll join us as a Red waller."

Gundil was grinning at the adoring look on Broggle's face every time the name Fwirl was mentioned. "Hurr, may'aps you'm'd loike t'fetch miz Ferl to meet us'n's? She'm sounden loike ee roight h'aminal furr ee job."

Young Broggle dug into his apron pocket and produced a neatly wrapped package, tied with a fancy bow of chamomile stalk. His tail curled over his eyes and he scuffed the ground with his footpaw as he explained. "I was, er, just going to see her. I'll, er, ask Fwirl if she wants to help. No need to come with me. I can go myself, thanks. Oh, an' if she is good enough to come, please don't refer to me as young Broggle, just Broggle will be sufficient. Wait here, I'll be back."

Brother Hoben watched the chubby figure ambling oft to the east wall. "Our young Broggle looks as if a barrel of October Ale just fell on his head. He's evidently smitten with Miz Fwirl."

Cregga shook her great striped head in wonderment. "Young Broggle, eh? Who'd have ever thought it?"

Gundil gave a deep bass chuckle. "Hurrhurr, that'n lukken loike 'is stummick be full o' buttyflies an' 'is 'ead be full o' bumblybees!"

Mhera spoke up in defense of the assistant cook. "Now just stop that talk, please. I won't have Broggle made fun of, poor creature. It's obvious he thinks a lot of Fwirl, so let's not do anything to embarrass either of them!"

Friar Bobb bowed his head courteously to the ottermaid. "Thank you, Mhera. That was kindly said. I knew that Broggle was visiting the squirrelmaid, I've known it a while now, but I never told anybeast, lest they made fun of him. I've practically reared Broggle, and he's a hard worker, loyal to our Abbey. If he were my son I couldn't think more of him!"

Cregga held a paw to her mouth. "Ssh! I hear him coming back!"

Broggle marched up with a jaunty swagger. "I spoke to Fwirl, and she's agreed to help us."

Brother Hoben looked about and spread his paws wide. "Thank you, Broggle. But where is she?"

The tubby squirrel folded his paws and smirked. "Up in the ash tree. Where did you expect her to be?"

Cregga gave an involuntary start. She took Broggle's paw. "Just a moment, sir. I never heard a thing. To do as you say she'd have had to dash around to the west wall, scale it, and come up behind us so silently that we didn't hear. Then she'd have had to climb that tree without us even seeing her."

Broggle winked at them and nudged Cregga. "Well, you said you wanted a good treewhiffler! Fwirl, would you like to come down and meet my friends?"

Fwirl was not just pretty, she was startlingly beautiful, with huge almond eyes, dainty paws, snow-white teeth and a curling redgold tail unlike that of any squirrel Mhera had ever seen. She was clad in a short belted tunic of soft green.

Mhera welcomed her with an outstretched paw. "Well, hello, Fwirl. You must be the champion treewhiffler of all Mossflower!"

Fwirl's smile lit up the bright summer day even more. "Haha, you've been listening to Broggle. He's told me all about you. I feel as though I know you all. How can I help you? I do climb a bit."

Cregga ran a paw over Fwirl's perfect features. "That's what I like to hear, a squirrel who doesn't beat about the bush. We've examined the ash tree and the ground around it as far as we can, Fwirl. But I think whatever we're after is much higher than the trunk. Could you take a look up in the boughs and foliage for us? 'Twould be a great help."

The squirrelmaid shot away like lightning, her tail swirling in a blurring circle. Halfway up the trunk, which she covered in the blink of an eye, Fwirl turned and addressed Cregga. "What am I looking for, Badgermum?"

Cregga liked the squirrelmaid's friendly manner. "Well, it could be anything at all: a carved message, a slip of parchment, or an object you wouldn't normally find in an ash tree. By the way, I hope you're going to join us for lunch?"

Fwirl vanished into the foliage, calling back, "It would be my pleasure, but let's take a peep up here first!"

The friends sat on the grass in the welcome shade of the old ash. Broggle sighed. "Isn't she just... just... Isn't she?"

Gundil lay flat on his back peering up into the foliage. "She'm surrpintly is, zurr. You'm a gurt lucky beast!"

Broggle plucked a blade of grass and chewed on the stem. "I hope Fwirl decides to come and live at our Abbey, if that's all right with you, Cregga marm?"

"All right with me? We'd be delighted to have her, eh, Mhera?"

Mhera threw a paw about her squirrel friend's shoulder. "I'm sure Fwirl will come to live at Redwall. Especially as she knows you're here, pal!"

Fwirl was back down among them in a surprisingly short time and made her report. "No carvings or secret messages, I'm afraid. No parchments either. However, I did come across this."

Brother Hoben took the object she produced from her belt. "It's like half a pair of glasses with an old bit of cord hanging from it. What do you make of it, marm?"

Cregga took the object. She sniffed it, ran her paws gently over it and smiled wistfully. "Long long ago, a gallant and perilous hare gave this to me. His name was Perigord Habile Sinistra, the most dangerous saber fighter ever to come from the mountain of Salamandastron. Alas, the dust of long seasons has blown over his brave bones now. This is a monocle. You wear it in one eye, with the cord looped around your neck, so as not to lose it. Let me tell you, Abbess Song was a little vain. She would not wear glasses, even when she was very old. I gave her this monocle, and she kept it hidden in the sleeve of her habit. If ever she had to read anything, she would slip it out and use it secretly. I often wondered what became of it. Where exactly did you find it, Fwirl?"

With the exception of Cregga, they all looked up to where the squirrelmaid's paw was pointing. "On the north side, near the top of the tree. It was lodged in the joint of two boughs. Somebeast had cut two little slots into the bark so it would stay in position. I hope I did the right thing by bringing it down here?"

"I'm sure you did, missie," Friar Bobb reassured her. "But you say there was nothing else up there whatsoever?"

Fwirl shrugged expressively. "Nothing, Brother. Only the monocle."

Friar Bobb excused Broggle from cooking duties so that he could sit next to Fwirl at lunch. Taking advantage of the good summer, Redwallers liked to dine outside. Cregga had the food served on linen cloths in the orchard, away from the search site. Fwirl enjoyed everything that Broggle put in front of her, particularly some little farls of warm bread, which she ate with her cream of mushroom soup and salad. Filorn served her some more, extolling Broggle's reputation as a baker.

"That's Broggle's nutfarls, my dear. He made them this morning. There's hazel, beech and chestnuts in them. They're my favorite too. Nobeast bakes a nutfarl like our Broggle!"

The squirrelmaid bit into another one. "Mmm, they're delicious. I could make a full meal of just your nutfarls. What a wonderful skill you have, Broggle!"

Boorab had fallen asleep whilst guarding the steps. He came hurrying in late and plonked himself down between the two squirrels. Halfway through loading a platter with salad, cheese and nutfarls, he suddenly noticed Fwirl.

"Wellwellwell. Howdy doody, m'dear. I say, what an absolute corker your charmin' pal is, Broggle. A real spifferoo, wot wot. Come on, Broggle, y'old rascal, you lucky grubslinger, how's about introducin' a chap to your stunnin' luncheon guest, wot, wotwot?"

Cregga's massive paws descended on the garrulous hare, and she lifted both him and the plate he was holding clear of the two squirrels. "I thought you were left to guard the south wallsteps, sah. Skipper, escort this malingerer back to his post. Let him take that plateful of vittles with him. Back to your duties now, you horrible hare!"

The brawny Skipper of Otters chivvied Boorab along. "Right y'are, marm. Come on, Mr. Boorab. Remember, yore still on probation 'ereabouts. One two, one two, eyes front, that's it!"

Boorab's protests faded into the distance, amid general laughter. "I say, you rotten old riverdog, get y'paws off me. Still on probation? Pish tush, sah, flippin' length o' time I've been at this confounded Abbey, I should be on pension, not bally probation. The nerve o' that great stripe-muzzled mauler, eh, wot?"

Gundil ruminated as he worked his way through a turnip and gravy pastie. "Whoi wudd ee h'Abbess be a leaven ee mononokle oop in yon tree?"

Brother Hoben selected a maple wafer spread with white cheese. "Yes, and why in that one particular place?"

Mhera spoke the answer before she had realized it. "Monocles are for seeing through. Maybe she placed it there so somebeast could climb up there and look through it."

Cregga smote a paw against her forehead. "Of course! It was placed facing north, Fwirl said."

The squirrelmaid allowed Broggle to fill her beaker with cordial. "From the position of the monocle in between the boughs, I'd say anybeast looking through it would be viewing the Abbey building on its south side, if that's any help."

Gundil wiped a serviette across his mouth. "Us'n's ull foind that owt doireckly arfter lunch, hurr aye!"

The second visit to the ash tree involved taking along one of Drogg Cellarhog's stout ropes. Fwirl took it up into the tree, and looping it around a high bough she let the end down, scampering to the ground behind it.

"Have you got the monocle, Mhera? Come on, I'll help you up."

Cregga gave the ottermaid final instructions. "Place the monocle back in its slot and look through it. The instant you see something, shout down and tell me. Up y'go, friend!"

Assisted by the treewhiffler, Mhera climbed into the spreading ash, hauling herself up on the rope whilst allowing Fwirl to find holds for her footpaws. She chanced a glance down. "We're getting rather high up, aren't we?"

Fwirl placed her shoulder under Mhera's footpaw to steady it. "Don't look down, Mhera. Keep going. Nearly there now."

The friends below on the ground stood patiently waiting. After a while they heard sounds.

"Hurr. Et's Miz Mhurra an' she'm larfin' fit t'burst."

Cregga turned her face upward. "Mhera, have you found anything? What are you laughing at?"

Ottermaid and squirrelmaid were both chortling. Mhera called back down to the bemused Badgermum. "Hahahaha! You, haha, you'll never believe it, Cregga. Ahahaha! I'm staring straight into your bedroom window. Hahahaheeheehee!"

Chapter 12

Rain drizzled lightly through the early-morning mist rising from the surface of the broad stream. The two voles Krobzy and Sekkendin emerged from the secret tunnel with Tagg. The otter carried a small sack of supplies and a cloak, which they had presented to him. Krobzy blinked up at the indifferent milky sky.

"Yarr, drizzlin' won't last long; my ingrowed paw claw ain't twingein' enough. 'Twill clear up afore noon an' the sun'll smile on us again. Tagg, I wish ye wouldn't go, mate. Stay 'ere wid us. Ye could make an 'appy 'ome midst our voles."

Tagg clasped the bankvole's chubby paw fondly. "I've never had such a happy time as I spent with your tribe, friend, but I must go. There's bound to be Juska beasts following me, Sawney for one, and I don't know how many others. It would not be the act of a friend to bring trouble upon your creatures. Juska are thieves and killers. Stay out of their way. Keep to your homestead and be watchful for the next few days."

Two more voles emerged from the tunnel, carrying what appeared to be a large basket. Sekkendin showed it to Tagg. "This is a coracle. When yer finished wid it, just cast it out into the stream. 'Twill drift back 'ere by itself."

Tagg tried to hide a smile as he inspected the flimsy craft. "A coracle? Are you sure I'll fit into it?"

Krobzy chuckled. "Ye've still gotta lot tlearn, big feller. A coracle's a good liddle craft, light an' easy on the paws. There's just one paddle, see, wid a blade on each end. Yer paddle's a mast, too, when y'slip it atwixt those two blocks." Two small chunks of sycamore had been tied into the woven rushes of the craft's base. Tagg stood the paddle end up between them.

"Good idea, but where's the sail?"

Sekkendin indicated the cloak Tagg had been given. "That ain't just a cloak, matey. 'Tis a sail, too, an' I'll tell ye somethin' else. Our cloaks are special made, wid beeswax an' secret plant oils soaked into the weave. Yell find rain an' water don't affeck them. They'll keep ye dry anywheres!"

Krobzy tossed the sack of supplies into the small round coracle. "Yarr, those vittles too, they're travelin' rations. Full o' goodness t'keep yore strength up."

They launched the coracle into the water and Tagg got in. Despite his size it floated well, and he pushed off into the current, dabbing left and right with the double-ended paddle.

"This is wonderful! 'Tis so easy to steer, even going upstream against the current. Thanks, friends. My best wishes to you and all your tribe. I'll never forget your kindness. Please don't stand waving on the bank. Go in, and keep your heads low for a while. Keep a weather eye out for Juska vermin. Goodbye, and may your seasons be long and happy!"

The voles scuttled into their secret tunnel, calling back, "Yarr yarr, Tagg, call back an' see us agin. Yore alius welcome!"

Krobzy stayed at the entrance for a time, watching the sturdy otter paddle his coracle off into the drizzly mists. "Good fortune to yer, Taggerung. I 'opes you meets friendly beasts like us along yore way!"

Drizzle was still falling in moist curtains when the hunters woke, damp and uncomfortable, in unfamiliar woodland after a night spent out in the open. Gruven huddled into a dry space beneath a fir tree, irate and hungry. He snarled at the weasel Milkeye. "What's the matter with you, deadlamp? Did y'never learn to light a fire properly? You'll be all day puffin' an' blowin' there!"

Milkeye turned from his flint and tinder, so that his good eye could see the stoat. "Wood's all wet with the rain. Can't make a fire with damp wood."

Gruven turned his bad temper elsewhere. Vallug Bowbeast was gnawing some dried fish from the meager rations they had brought along. Gruven tossed a pinecone at him. It missed.

"Hey, Vallug, are you goin' to sit there stuffin' your face 'til it bursts? Where's my breakfast? I'm clan Chieftain."

"Not yet you ain't," Vallug commented with his mouth half full. "Sawney always said that a leader had to prove 'imself first. We ain't seen you do nothin' yet except complain. I'm not yer mother. Get yer own vittles!"

Gruven sat glaring at the big ferret. Vallug was a killer, a dangerous beast to get the wrong side of. He wished he had picked on somebeast weaker. He tried to save face by growling, "When I catch up with that otter, then I'll prove myself all right!"

Eefera strode into view. He had been up before dawn, searching for tracks. Without reporting to Gruven, he threw himself down and grabbed some dried fish. He addressed himself to Rabbad, a small, sly-looking fox. "Waste o' time tryin' to track in this weather. There's a stream over yonder. Otters favor streams."

Rabbad collected water, dripping from the trees, onto a dock leaf. He poured it into his mouth and swallowed. "Ye reckon we should follow the water course, then? Which way d'ye think the streamdog went?"

Vallug shouldered his bow and quiver of arrows. "Prob'ly north. That's the way he was travelin'."

Gruven decided the time had come to assert his authority. Leaving his shelter, he strode off purposefully, snarling orders. "Right, we're headed north. Break camp, you lot, no time for squattin' 'round eating. Follow me!"

There were definite sounds of gruff laughter from the group. He wheeled around to see Eefera pointing in the opposite direction. There was a hint of contempt in the weasel's voice. "It's this way . . . Chief."

Gruven found himself trailing at the rear. It was too narrow a trail to push past the others and regain the lead.

By midmorning they were well along the riverbank, traveling at a fast lope. Though Gruven was big and well built, he found it difficult to keep pace with the others. They were older than him, but lean and hardy for the most part. He was silently relieved when Vallug stopped them for a short rest on the bankside. Eefera scouted ahead whilst the others sat under the shade of some weeping willows, out of the continuous drizzle. Dagrab nodded northward. "Riverdog'll be makin' for the big mountains."

Gruven felt argumentative. "Where's the sense in that? Why should he want t'go there? It's stupid if you ask me."

The rat Grobait replied without even looking at him. "Mountains is made o' rock. 'Tis 'arder to track a beast over rock. That's the way I'd go if I was 'im."

Gruven spat into the stream. "Huh! Who asked you?"

Further conversation was forgotten as Eefera reappeared. "Come an' look at this. I was right."

They followed him to a spot on the bank further upstream. Eefera pointed out the signs. "I said otters favored streams. See? This is where he came out. There's part of a pawprint, in the mud, under that stone, an' 'ere, this's where the riverdog's tail flattened an' broke two young ferns. Sometime late last night, I'd say."

Gruven was prepared to argue the point. "Sometime last night, huh? How d'you know that?"

Eefera did not answer. He strode off, further up the bank. Gruven smiled at the others, shaking his head. "The great tracker, eh? Couldn't give me an answer, could he?"

Milkeye felt the bottom part of the broken fern stems. "Didn't 'ave to. Feel that. It takes a good few hours fer the rain to wash away the sticky sap that leaks out, an' these ain't sticky. They been stannin' 'ere broke in the rain since it started late lastnight. Come on, Eefera's on ter sumthin'."

Gruven drew his sword and raced ahead of the others, making certain he was in the lead this time. "Aye, come on, mates. Follow me!"

He dashed off as Eefera's voice called back through the bushes, "Stop 'im! Grab ahold o' the vole!"

Gruven turned this way and that, saw the bushes shake and hurled himself forward, crashing through them. Something dodged by him; he tripped and collided head-on with Eefera. They scrambled together in the bush cover until Eefera kicked him aside and leaped up, blood streaming from his mouth as he yelled, "In the water! The vole's in the water. Gerrim, Vallug!"

Swiftly the Bowbeast loosed two shafts at the shadowy figure before it disappeared underwater, speeding downstream with the current. He fitted a third arrow to his bow, then turned away in disgust, calling back to Eefera, "Shoulda let me know quicker. I only got 'im in the back paw. No use chasin' after 'im; that vole's well away by now!"

Eefera wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and spat into the stream. He turned slowly upon Gruven, controlling his temper with great difficulty. "I nearly caught the vole. You made me miss 'im!"

Quailing under the weasel's icy glare, Gruven blustered, "Well, it was you who yelled out for me to stop 'im."

Eefera picked up Gruven's fallen sword from beneath a bush. His tongue probing at a loosened tooth, he answered, "Sorry ... Chief. I didn't know it was you I was shoutin' to. I thought it was one of the others, a beast with a bit o' sense."

Gruven shrugged, trying to dismiss the sarcastic reply. "It was only a scummy little vole. What would y'want with a vole?"

Eefera looked at him as if he were totally stupid. "Information?" He made as if to give Gruven's sword back and thought better of it, tossing the weapon carelessly away over his shoulder.

Gruven took a little time locating the sword, and when he hurried back to the others it was to find them moving off. Joining them, he noticed they were eating pears. The stoat grabbed hold of Milkeye, one of the few he could bully into obeying him.

"Where'd you get those pears?"

Milkeye gestured back to the place they had just left. "Top of an 'ill yonder. There's a pear tree there, Chief."

Gruven spun the weasel around forcefully. "Run back an' get me a few. Go on, get moving!"

Milkeye avoided a slap from the flat of Gruven's swordblade. "All right, Chief, I'm goin'!"

Krobzy crouched in the secret passage entrance with Sekkendin, bandaging the watervole's footpaw with a dressing of sanicle, dock leaf and hair moss. Sekkendin placed his paw gingerly on the ground and smiled.

"Yarr, I'll live! Take more'n some ole Juska arrow to kill me."

Krobzy picked up a reed blowpipe and a tufted dart, its point smeared with laburnum and agaric fungus juices. "Aye, mate, but the vermin that gets this in its behind won't bo able t'say the same thing. You lay 'ere an' rest. No Juska varmint's goin' t'do that to a vole an' live fbrag about it!"

Milkeye grabbed two pears from the tree and dashed off, not wanting to be left adrift in strange country.

"Ouch!" He felt the sting on the back of his neck and slapped at it. "Scummy liddle gnat, take that!"

He continued his hurried progress to catch up with the others. Krobzy followed until he found his dart lying in the grass. Picking it up gingerly by the tuft, he dropped it into a tiny box and thrust it into his belt pouch.

"Yarr, dat's one liddle gnat you won't ferget, varmint!"

Midnoon sunlight sparkled off the waters, fleecy white clouds decorated the bright skies. Krobzy had predicted the weather accurately. Tagg shipped his paddle. Reaching up, he grabbed an overhanging alder branch and pulled his coracle into the still shallows of a small cove. Beaching the little craft amid some concealing bushes, he waded ashore and stretched his limbs. It was a pleasant spot, with blackberries growing in profusion. Tagg made a leisurely meal of some flat cakes with dried fruit baked into them and a flagon of pear cordial from his vole supply sack, and a few pawfuls of the ripest berries he could find. In a patch of sunlight amid the alders, he spread his cloak and lay down upon it, humming an old tune that had always been with him, though he could not remember from where. The otter fell into a doze, trying to recall the words, his eyelids slowly closing.

Dim kindly faces hovering about him, soft clean linen touching his cheeks, the scent of spring flowers. He was in the magic place, the room of old red stone where peace and happiness lived. Two female otter voices were singing to him from far far away, a young one and an older one, singing sweetly, gently. Calm and serenity, safety and peaceful joy.

"Where glides the butterfly,

O'er some still pond,

There is my little love,

Dear one so fond.

Hush now you humming bee,

Soft shadows creep,

Silent in summer's eve,

Sleep baby sleep."

The happiness Tagg felt was intense, yet, as in all dreams, elusive. Even though he was in the realms of slumber, he realized this and sought to retain the feeling. He strove to make it clearer, to see more, to understand the dream, so that he could recall it at will and experience its joyous warmth. But the dream faded, like smoke on the wind.

How long he lay curled on the cloak in that silent glade, Tagg did not know. Then the mouse warrior was standing in his mind, pointing at him with the wondrous sword and calling, calling . . . "Deyna! Deyna!" It stirred him to wakefulness for a brief second. Eyes half open, he began to sit upright. Then he felt a heavy blow across his skull, and fell backward into agonizing darkness.

Eefera studied the bank edge, close to the water, and called back to the stoat Rawback, who was following behind with the others. "Still no signs near the shallows. What about you, any luck?"

Further back and higher up on the bank, Rawback, who had taken the lead, shouted his reply. "Nobeast been along 'ere 'cept us. Nary a trace!"

Eefera waited until they caught up. He was staring at the water. "He's on this stream, though, I know he is. I think he must 'ave some sort of light boat, a fast 'un."

Gruven sat cooling his paws in the shallows, cynical as ever. "Where would he get a boat? He's an otter, isn't he? Otters are supposed to be great swimmers."

Eefera did not dignify Gruven's ignorance with a reply. Rabbad the fox sat down to wet his footpaws in the stream. Gruven looked at him triumphantly. "Well, I'm right, aren't I?"

Rabbad enlightened him. "Even otters can't swim at full speed all the time, especially agin the currents. We're makin' good time, travelin' fast. If'n 'e was swimmin', we'd 'ave caught up with 'im afore now. So the otter must be usin' a fast boat like Eefera sez."

Gruven turned their attention away from his stupidity by sniggering as Milkeye, who had fallen far behind, came staggering crazily along the bank to join them.

"Oh, look who's arrived! What're ye pantin' an' slobberin' for, deadlamp? Is the goin' too tough for yer? Don't go lyin' down. We're movin' off soon. Where's the pears I sent yer for?"

Milkeye collapsed on the bank, unable to move an inch further. "Water, mates . . . water!"

Gruven looked up at the weasel, huddled on the banktop. "Idle hound. There's plenty o' water right here. Come an' get it yoreself. What d'ye think we are, skivvies?"

Eefera made his way up the bank. Crouching beside Milkeye, he raised the weasel's head. "Wot's wrong with ye? Have y'taken a sickness?"

Milkeye's face was beginning to bloat, and his one good eye was half shut and red-rimmed. He clasped Eefera's paw feebly. "Pain, all over . . . I'm burnin' up .. . Water!"

Eefera cast about until he found a large dock leaf. "All right, mate, I'll get ye some water."

He was halfway down the bank when Milkeye made a horrible gurgling noise. His paws thrashed about momentarily, and then he went still. Grobait prodded him with a footpaw.

"Milkeye's dead! By the blood'n'fang, wot d'ye think of that?"

They weighted the body down with a few stones lashed to its middle and threw it into the stream. Eefera and Vallug then conferred as to the group's next move. Gruven joined the rest, foraging for berries and birds' nests, smarting with resentment because the two self-appointed leaders were ignoring him. He returned with a pawful of dandelion roots and two apples and boldly sat himself down next to the Bowbeast.

"Well, what's our next move?"

Vallug pointed with one of his arrows at the far bank. "We need to scout both sides o' the water. The otter could be leavin' tracks on the other edge."

Gruven chuckled nervously. "I'm not swimmin' across there. 'Tis deep an' fast."

Vallug shot him a glance that dripped contempt. "You won't 'ave to, yore stayin' this side with me .. . Chief. For all the use you'll be," he added under his breath.

Eefera waded into the stream to test the current. He was almost swept off his footpaws, and Vallug had to reach out his bow to help him back to the bank. "Young mudbrain's right," the weasel muttered to Vallug, out of Gruven's hearing. "It is too deep'n'fast, an' there's trailin' weeds that wrap around the paws, too. I think I stepped on ole Milkeye's carcass trapped in 'em. We'll ford it further along."

They spent the remainder of the afternoon trekking along the bank, searching for a spot where a crossing could be made. Unwittingly the hunters went right past the place on the opposite side where Tagg had pulled in and hidden the coracle. Toward evening, they halted beyond a bend where the stream eddied, prior to increasing its speed when it hit the straight. Eefera favored the spot.

"Water swirls a bit 'ere, but it ain't so bad. See, there's reeds stickin' up near t'other side, no current there. This'll do to cross. Ribrow, Grobait an' Rabbad, you come with me. The rest of ye stay this side with Vallug."

Holding paws, the four vermin entered the stream, with Eefera in the lead. At the center they had to hold their heads back, chins up. Rabbad spat out a mouthful of water. "I didn't think it'd be this deep. We might 'ave tswim fer it!"

Eefera, who was slightly taller, silenced the fox. "It gets shallower from 'ere to the bank. Keep goin'. You let go of anybeast's paws an' we're all in trouble!"

There were no shallows on the other side. The bank was a rock ledge that dropped straight down, so the stream remained the same depth as at its center. However, there was little or no current near the far side. Eefera entered the reeded area, which slowed progress. "Nearly there now ... Yowch, I'm bit!"

Disregarding his own instructions, Eefera loosed Grobait's paw and floundered as fast as he could to the bank. Grabbing the rock ledge, he hauled himself out with panicked energy.

His actions caused chaos among the other three. They let go of each other; it was everybeast for himself. The water began threshing with big ugly mottled brown fish as a shoal of burbot attacked from their base in the reedbeds. Lying flat on the bank, Eefera extended his spearpole to Grobait. Shrieking aloud, the rat grabbed the spear, hauling himself along on it. "Yaaaargh! One of 'em's got me!"

As he clambered up the bank, Eefera took a rock and pounded on the broad frightening head of a big burbot, which had its teeth sunk into Grobait's backside. The stoat Ribrow, who had been last on the chain of linked paws, pushed away from the reeds and swam awkwardly, but fast, back to the other bank, pursued by two burbot, their rounded backfins cutting the water behind him. Vallug Bowbeast dispatched one expertly with a well-aimed arrow. Rawback and Dagrab ran into the shallows, beating off the other with sticks as Ribrow stumbled ashore, his eyes wide with fear.

Rabbad was the unlucky one. He screamed in agony as several of the huge fish attacked him. Turning, he tried to emulate Ribrow by swimming back to the far bank, only to meet the one who had been driven away by Rawback and Dagrab's sticks. Gruven stood horrified as he watched the fox being pulled down by the burbot shoal. Monstrous heads, with two short spikes protruding from their nostrils and a long one trailing from the chin, reared open-mouthed out of the water to rip at the helpless fox. He screeched shrilly as the water reddened around him. More burbot, and two large pike, came skimming to the fray, attracted by the blood swirling in the stream. Rabbad went under, the water stifling his last cries.

The bedraggled vermin stood stunned, staring at the eddying, bloodied waters where he had disappeared. Vallug was the first to move. Wading in, he reached out with his bow, trapping the arrow that was sticking out of the burbot he had shot. He pulled it in to shore, inspecting the long heavy body with its sharp dorsal fin and fan-shaped tail, and called across to Eefera, "Bad fortune on Rabbad, dinner for us. I see you got a fish too!"

"Aye, but it nearly ate Grobait's be'ind," the weasel answered, pointing to his companion. "We'll stop 'ere t'night an' start trackin' again at dawn."

Gruven gazed hungrily at the burbot grilling over a fire, spitted on a green willow branch, watching Vallug prod it with an arrow to see if it was ready. "Wot sort of fish d'ye call that ugly monster?"

Ribrow had seen them before. "Burbot."

Gruven nodded, drawing closer to the fire. "Burbot, eh? It should make good eatin'."

Vallug continued prodding the fish as it sputtered over the fire. "Well, I'm the only one who'll find that out, 'cos I killed it. Go an' catch yer own fish if'n you want one. This 'un's mine!"

Gruven's voice went shrill with indignation. "Lookit Eefera. He's sharin' his with Grobait."

Vallug chuckled dryly. "So 'e should. They caught it t'gether, an' Grobait's bottom was the bait. Huh huh! Grobait. .. bait! That's a good 'un!"

Rawback, Dagrab and Ribrow knew better than to ask Vallug Bowbeast for a share of his fish. They remained silent, gnawing roots and apples. But Gruven felt a sense of injustice, and he said so.

"Lissen, Vallug, I'm supposed to be yore Chief. I should get a share of that fish!"

The big ferret had just taken a piece and was chewing on it. He spat out a bone and turned to face Gruven. "Then try an' take it... Chief!"

Gruven knew the others were watching him. He decided the moment had come to show them who was leader, and his paw strayed to the sword thrust through his belt. Vallug leaped forward and floored him with a hefty punch to the nose, then stood over him. "I'll tell yer who they'll call Chief, the beast who brings back that otter's 'ead! An' I tell yer, snotnose, it won't be you. We all saw the Taggerung give you a wallopin' back at camp. You ain't no Chief, Gruven; yore mama's tougher'n you. Ole Grissoul will make up a load of mumbo jumbo fer the one who slays the otter, the one who's tough enough t'do it, an' that'll be the clan leader. So you keep outta my way, unless ye want to die. I got no time fer bigmouthed fools, see! You was nothin' but a snivelin' cub when Sawney brought that otter into our camp. I was the one who slew 'is father, an' I'll be the one to slay the son too!"

On the opposite bank, Eefera could hear Vallug's every word on the still night air. Licking fish scales from his paws, he murmured to himself, "Oh, will ye now? We'll see about that, Bowbeast."

Gruven lay where Vallug had felled him, wiping blood from his nose and planning how he was going to kill the Bowbeast. Vallug sat with his back to him, wolfing fish. The ferret spat a bone into the fire and spoke, as if he was reading the other's thoughts.

"You ain't got the guts t'kill me, Gruven. Put one paw near that sword an' I'll stuff it down yer neck!"

Gruven made no reply, just lay there alone with his thoughts of murder. As did Vallug, who liked the idea of being a Chieftain. Eefera sat on the other side of the stream, watching them both. His plans involved a double killing. He had learned a lot and his teacher had been one of the best. Sawney Rath.

Chapter 13

Cregga sat exhausted in her big armchair. Her bedroom was teeming with Redwallers, plus the tiny mole Dibbun called Durby. He had installed himself on the Badgermum's lap and was amusing himself by repeating everything she said. Every other beast was searching, for it stood to reason that if the monocle in the ash tree focused on the room, then there should be something of interest within. Boorab opened the corner cupboard, as numerous others had done that day. The hare poked his head inside, to find Floburt rummaging about busily.

"Jolly hungry work, missie, wot? Found anything, have you?"

The hogmaid brushed dust from her apron and sneezed. "Kerchoo! Only a lot of dust an' cobwebs. It'd be nice to know what we're searching for."

Boorab whispered secretively to her. "Some ancient map to a secret hoard of crystallized scoff. Probly all sorts of super chuck preserved in lashings of honey!"

Sister Alkanet pushed past them both. "Tch tch. Just the sort of a senseless idea that only a hare could think up. Let me take a look in there!"

"This is the sixth time you've searched my room today," Cregga pleaded wearily, with Durby acting as echo. "Will you please go away and leave me in peace? There's nothing here!"

"Hurr, thissa sixy time you'm be's a surchin' moi room. Go eeway an' leaven oi en pieces. Thurr bain't nuthen yurr!"

Boorab tripped over Drogg, Alkanet got locked in the cupboard, and an argument broke out between two mice who were stuck beneath the bed. Mhera decided that enough was enough. "Stop!" she called sternly. "Stop what you are doing, be quiet and stand still. Now!"

She was pleasantly surprised when they did, even the Counsel elders. Mhera changed to a reasonable tone. "Friends, please, have some respect for your Badgermum's feelings. This room has been searched thoroughly several times without success. Leave Cregga in peace now, I beg you. Go about your tasks or leisure time elsewhere. The only creatures who really need to stay are the original searchers."

Cregga smiled as she listened to them filing out in sheepish silence. She waited until the door closed. "Thank you, Mhera, that was beautifully done. You were quite firm and you used a considerable amount of tact."

"Hurr, thankee, Murrer, ee were bootiful undunned. Mmmmf!"

Mhera placed a paw gently over Durby's mouth. "What will we do about this little terror?"

Broggle put on a gruff voice. "Chop off his tail and stick it in his mouth to keep him quiet. I'll take him to Friar Bobb's kitchen and we'll make molesoup of him!"

Durby scuttled down from the badger's lap. Hurling himself on her bed, he began to make snoring noises. Then he opened one eye. "Whurroo, you'm wuddent chop ee tail off'n ee sleepin' choild! Nay, zurr, you'm a gurt koind beast, an' oi be a-sleepen."

Cregga chuckled. "Thank goodness for that!"

Mhera began tidying things back into place. Fwirl lent a paw, and together they got the room back to normal. Fwirl sat down beside Broggle on a paw hassock, looking glum. "Phew, Redwallers don't mess about when they search a room! Your friends certainly scoured this place from top to bottom. For a while there it was enjoyable, because I've never been inside a building before. But I feel unhappy now that we didn't find anything."

Mhera stared at the pretty squirrelmaid in astonishment. "You've never been inside a building before? How is that, Fwirl?"

They listened sympathetically as she told her story.

"I don't remember much of my early seasons. I must have been only a babe, for I can hardly recall my parents' faces. I can remember cries in the night; I think we were attacked by foxes. I was thrust into a hollow log, and I could hear fighting, then screams, followed by foxes laughing. I must have stayed inside that log almost all night and half a day. When I crawled out my mother was lying quite still, with a deep wound on her head and blood everywhere. My father was gone, the foxes too. I sat with my mother for a long time, but she didn't move. I was hungry and couldn't stop weeping. Next morning I wandered off into the woodlands to search for food. Being only an infant, I got lost. That was as far back as I can recall. There's not much more to tell. I've lived in the woodlands, fending for myself ever since, always keeping on the move. Then one day I came upon your Abbey. At first I was afraid, not knowing who lived here. I used to climb the high trees so I could see inside. I watched you all; you seemed so happy and peaceful. I stayed close to the walls, and that was when I met my friend Broggle. He brought food which he had prepared for me, told me all about his Redwall friends. It must be like a dream living here."

Mhera was smiling, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears at the squirrelmaid's tale. She spoke to Fwirl, knowing the others would welcome her decision. "Then dream on, friend. Redwall Abbey is your home from now on!"

Fwirl clapped a paw to her mouth. "But I. . . you mean I can . .. live here forever?"

Broggle took the liberty of giving her paw a squeeze. "Haha. Nobeast lives forever, but you can stay here until you grow older than Cregga Badgermum!"

"You impudent young rip!" Cregga growled jovially. "Fwirl, my dear, let me be the first to welcome you to your new home. You are now a Redwaller!"

Durby poked his head from beneath a pillow. "An' oi be ee secund to wellcum ee, missus. Ee be gurtly wellcumed to moi h'Abbey, ho aye!"

The Badgermum nodded toward the bed. "And as your first official chore you can take that little rip down to Cavern Hole. His mother will be looking for him. Go with Fwirl and show her the way, Mhera."

They had to play Durby's game. Holding a paw apiece, Fwirl and Mhera bounced the molebabe's footpaws on each stair as they descended, the ottermaid reciting an old Abbey rhyme.

"Where's the naughty Dibbun, tell me where?

Is that him upon the stair?

Hear the little pawsteps, one two three,

And the Dibbun shouting, 'Can't catch me!'

What's for dinner, dumplin' an' pie,

Nice an' hot for you an' I,

If you don't come down those stairs,

Guess who'll eat it, two fat hares!"

Durby's mum wagged a paw at her babe. "Whurr you'm been, rascull? Oi'm out'n moi moind lukken furr ee."

The molebabe crinkled his button nose at her cheekily. "Yurr, doan't ee take on so, moi ole mum. Whurr be's moi vikkles?"

The two friends had to stifle their laughter as the molemum seized her son and hauled him off to the tub. "You'm bain't gettin' vikkles until oi barth ee, Durby Furrel!"

"Woaw!" Durby wailed aloud, trying to reason with his mother. "Keep oi out'n ee warter or oi'll be a-shrunkened. Woaw!"

Durby's mum appealed to Fwirl and Mhera. "Missus, will ee tellen this choild ee warter woan't shrink 'im?"

They helped the molemum to bathe Durby as they assured him, "No, no, water doesn't shrink you. Look at me and Mhera, we both get lots of baths, and we haven't shrunk, have we?"

Durby allowed them to bathe and dry him, then he waved all three imperiously aside and marched to the door lintel. "Oi'll just be a-measurin' oi t'see if'n oi shrinked!"

His mother measured him against the marks she had made to check his growth. She patted his head fondly. "Thurr thurr, choild, ee bain't shrunken, ee growed summ, lookit!"

The molebabe eyed her suspiciously. "Oi 'opes you'm bain't tellen ee fibs!"

Broggle was deep in conference with Brother Hoben, Gundil and Cregga when Mhera and Fwirl returned to the bedroom. Cregga held out her paws, and Gundil and Broggle heaved her out of her chair.

"Come on, let's go down to dinner. I've had enough of puzzles and riddles for one day. Are you hungry, Fwirl?"

"I'm always hungry, the food's so good at Redwall!"

"Ooh, my old bones!" Cregga complained as they negotiated the stairs. "Ah well, what a pity Abbess Song's clue led us nowhere. Dearie me, they did give my room a good search, though. It's feeling tidier than ever now, thanks to you two."

Mhera allowed the Badgermum to lean upon her as they entered the dining room. "We'll take another look tomorrow. Mmmm, smell that!"

Fwirl did. "Delicious! Wonder what it is?"

Cregga sniffed the air briefly. "What? You mean the damson and plum pudding Mhera's mum is steaming off, or the hazelnut, mushroom and turnip casserole Friar Bobb's taking from the oven, or the dandelion and burdock cordial Drogg Cellarhog is pouring from its barrel?"

Broggle seated Fwirl at the table, chuckling. "That Badgermum's sense of smell is better than the eyesight of a dozen Redwallers. Oh, look out, here comes trouble!"

Boorab bounded up and struck an eloquent pose between the tables. "And now, my good creatures one an' all, a delectable appetizer of the muse before we strap on the old nosebags, wot wot. A poem, composed by m'goodself. Pray attention for the official poet.

"I beg you listen to my verse, Ode to a damson plum pud,

"Tis not much better than it's worse, in fact it's jolly good!

Oh queen of puddens as ever was born, a gentle ottermum called Filorn,

Has made to grace our scoff this night, by steamin' pot an' oven light,

A pudden to tempt the hungriest turn,

Full of flour an' honey an' nuts an' all sorts of gorgeous scrumptious an' absolutely spiffin' ingredients from the kitchens where she's worked like a blinkin' madbeast all day long . . . an' of course from damson an' plum!

Pass me a plate, an' I'll say it's great!

Bung me a dish, an' I'll say what you wish!

Slip me a large platter, oh what does it matter!

Slide me a basin, with lots of space in!

Sling me a bowl, as deep as a hole!

Chuck me a pail, an' I won't wail!

As long as it's full of what does a chap good,

Heroic hare-sized portions, of damson an' plum pud!"

Boorab made a long and leggy bow, flourishing both ears and tail. In the silence that followed, he stalked majestically to his seat, but tripped and fell before he reached it. Midst laughter and applause he poked his head out from under the table and tried to silence them with a dignified glare.

"Perfect poetry's wasted on you lot, bounders! Tchah, laughin' at a chap's misfortunes. Small things amuse small minds, my dear old mater used t'say. Some of you never grew up from bein' blinkin' Dibbuns if y'ask me, wot!"

"That's it, that's the answer!"

Everybeast turned to see what Mhera was shouting about. She smiled self-consciously. "Er, sorry, but something just dawned on me. It was hovering in my mind when Durby measured himself against the door lintel. It came to me fully when I heard what Mr. Boorab just said. Growing up, that's the key. The ash tree has grown up since Abbess Song placed her monocle there. We were looking through the lens in the wrong place!"

Cregga started out of her seat. "Of course! Why didn't we think of that earlier?"

Boorab was still sulking. "Huh, why indeed? 'Cos you were too busy titterin' at a poor chap who'd just fallen an' fractured his flippin' tail, that's why!"

Filorn began serving him a massive portion of damson and plum pud. "Poor Mr. Boorab, I never laughed at your fall. Thank you for the lovely poem you composed about my pudding. I think you deserve a double . . . no, a treble helping for your pains."

The hare's mood lightened considerably. "Gracious marm, you are truly a gem among otters, not like these other bucolic bumpkins. Er, excludin' Miz Mhera, wot!"

Fwirl had been thinking of the next move. "As soon as it's daylight tomorrow we'll explore the wall below the window. Whatever it is that could be seen through the monocle back then should be lower down. Leave it to me. Let's see if I'm as good a wallwhiffler as I am a treewhiffler. I'll need a long thin cord and a heavy knife." The squirrelmaid winked at her bemused companions. "Don't ask me what I need them for. You'll see tomorrow!"

Regaining consciousness was a slow and painful experience. Every time Tagg moved his head he was aware of the lump on the back of it, painful as a knife thrust. However, he could not reach a paw to touch it because he was bound securely. Somebeast was moving nearby. Tagg kept his eyes shut, listening as he tried to locate the position of the creature. The floor he was lying on shook frequently. Tagg groaned and rolled onto his side, facing away from where he reckoned the other beast was. He heard it move, felt its breath on the side of his face, then sensed it going back to its former position. Slowly, Tagg opened an eye, the one closest to the floor. It was night. He glimpsed the darkened foliage and realized that he was up in one of the alder trees, on a platform between two main branches, laid with boughs lashed securely together. It was open to the sky, having neither walls nor roof, only the foliage to shelter it.

"Stinkin' scum-splattered vermin, kill 'em all!" The creature was talking not to him, but to itself. "Rotten slime, festerin' spawn, don't deserve t'live. Kill 'em!"

Tagg lay quite still, listening to the hoarse voice raving on.

"Dirty foul vermin, nothin' on their minds but evil an' death. Death, eh? I'll show 'em death, I know a bit about that. Death!"

The creature began crawling toward him. Tagg lay quite still, the hairs on his nape prickling as it got nearer.

"Death, the best thing that can happen to vermin. Death, the slower the better. Make 'em suffer like I did. Yes, yes, oh yes!"

Tagg decided to make his move swiftly. As soon as he felt the other one's breath close to his back he lashed out hard with both footpaws. The creature gasped sharply as Tagg's bound footpaws kicked the breath out of it. Rolling over, Tagg pursued it across the narrow platform, still kicking out furiously, hoping to stun his captor. Whatever species the beast was, it was a tough creature, clawing and mauling him roughly. What was really odd was that it was talking and chuckling to itself as they tussled upon the platform.

"Hahaha! Death's the thing for you, bully, good'n'slow, hahaha!"

Tagg saw its bared teeth flashing close to his eyes. Rearing his head back like a striking snake, he butted it hard, the impact of colliding heads almost stunning him. Then they both rolled off the platform, the strange beast's claws locked into Tagg's belt. He got a fleeting glimpse of leafy foliage rushing by as they plummeted earthward. Tagg twisted, his lightning reflexes putting him on top of his attacker. They struck the ground with a hard thud. Both lay completely stunned.

A long interval passed before Tagg stirred. The creature beneath him was still unconscious, though it was groaning and muttering through its stupor. He realized that his foe would soon regain its senses; he would have to work quickly to free himself. Tagg rolled off the beast, shaking himself until its claws came loose from his belt. The otter's mind was racing, with one thing uppermost. His knife, where was it? An idea occurred to him. Using his footpaws he rolled the beast over, facedown. There was the blade, thrust into the back of his adversary's belt, Tagg's teeth closed around the handle, and with a mighty effort he tugged the knife free. The beast groaned and rolled over onto its back. It was coming slowly awake; there was no time to lose. Holding the knife point forward in his mouth, Tagg worked his head up and down, sawing away at the bonds on his paws, which were tied tightly in front of him. It did not take long. Sawney Rath's blade could slice a leaf floating in the air. Keeping an eye on the fast-reviving beast, Tagg sliced through the thongs about his footpaws.

Still holding the knife in his teeth, Tagg massaged the life back into his limbs. The otter's head was banging and he was sore all over from the fight. But he was alive. Sheltered from the moonlight, it was totally dark in the tree shadow. Tagg still did not know what type of creature he was up against. It was not quite his height, but much bulkier. Suddenly it sat bolt upright, laughing madly.

"Hahaha! So you stayed t'get yourself killed, eh?"

Tagg did a forceful twirl. His rudderlike tail thwacked hard, right across his opponent's forehead, sending it down again. Like a flash he was upon it, straddling the creature's chest, his blade across its throat. "Be still! Still, I say! Don't move, or you'll be the one who gets killed. Be still, I warn you!"

Two glittering eyes grinned wildly up at him. "Hahahaha! Kill me then, vermin. Go on, get it over with!"

Reversing the knife, Tagg thwacked his opponent between the eyes, stunning it again. Piecing together the thongs that had bound him, he tied an end around one of the beast's paws. He dragged it upright and slammed it face forward against the nearest alder. Running the thong around the trunk, he tied it to the beast's other paw and let it slump down into a sitting position, paws spread, embracing the tree it was bound to. Tagg staggered down to the water's edge and lay flat in the shallows, letting the cold streamwater wash the aches from his body. Then, feeling refreshed, he went to where he had hidden his coracle and found the pack of supplies given him by the voles. Having eaten a few small cakes of oats and dried fruit, he drank some pear cordial and felt much better.

Tagg curled up in the coracle and dozed away the remaining night hours with his blade held ready. At dawn's first light he strolled cautiously back up to the clearing. His prisoner was still there, bound to the tree, sitting with its forehead resting against the trunk, muttering away.

"Vermin won't escape me, oh no, I'll track him an' bring him back an' watch him die, nice an' slow. Beggin', pleadin' an' moanin', just like all scum-mouthed vermin do."

As Tagg got closer, he realized it was a squirrel, a big old strong female, clad in a tunic of what looked to be skins of weasels, rats and foxes. Tagg sat down in a spot where the squirrel could see him and spoke to her quietly.

"Why did you try to kill me? I'm not a vermin."

She stared at him scathingly awhile, then answered, "Painted face, gold earring, eelskin belt, fancy patterned wristbands, an' you tell me you're no vermin. You even carry an assassin's blade. Don't tell me you ain't a vermin. Go an' take a look at yourself in a shady pool down by the stream. Go on, then come back here an' tell me what you see . . . vermin!"

"Karrr, she be right, she be right, vermin you be!"

Drawing his blade, Tagg whirled around to face the eavesdropper. A large male bittern, practically invisible because of his brown, black and fawn plumage, came up from the riverbank reeds. Stalking gracefully along on thick green legs, he halted between Tagg and the squirrel, splaying his strong talons and poking a long needle-pointed beak in the otter's direction.

"Kaburrrrr! You fool, not Botarus. I see verminbeasts, hunting the banks they be. On this stream, both sides. Kurrrrrr!"

Tagg nodded, knowing now that hunters had been sent after him. "How many of them? Where are they now?"

The black iris of the bittern's umber eye widened. "Think you I be fool? I tell and you be calling them to you."

The squirrel gave an insane chuckle. "Hahaha! Let him call 'em. You free me, Botarus, an' I'll kill 'em all, every murderin' vermin mother's son of 'em!"

Tagg stowed the knife in his belt. 'The last thing I want to do is call them. I'm not a vermin, they're the vermin.They've been sent to hunt me down and slay me!"

Botarus put his head on one side, the bright eye questioning. "You they hunt, these vermin? For why?"

Tagg did not want to go into the long story, so he made up an answer that was not far from the truth.

"I am an otter, see. I am not ferret, fox, rat, weasel or stoat. I was captured by them, and they tried to make me a vermin too. I escaped, and now they hate me and want to kill me."

The bittern pondered Tagg's answer before replying, "Krrrrrrum! Then why want you to kill my friend?"

Tagg pointed to the squirrel. "Her? I had no intention of killing her, she wanted to kill me! I was only protecting myself. That's why I had to tie her up!"

Botarus looked at the squirrel and nodded toward Tagg. "Krrrror! Riverdog he be, truth I think he speaks!"

Tagg tapped his rudder impatiently on the grass. Drawing his blade, he slashed through the thong, freeing the squirrel. "There, is that good enough for you two?"

The squirrel bounded upright, pointing an accusing paw at him. "Then why d'you look an' dress like a vermin eh?"

Botarus held his position between both creatures. "Krrrrrrr! Told you that already the riverdog has. Where be you going on yonder volecraft?"

Tagg pointed north. "To the mountain."

Botarus preened his chest feathers carefully. "Karrrrr. Go ye not by water in the volecraft. Ahead of you they be the vermin. Seeing not your craft, passed by here yesterday they did. Here leave your craft. Overland go, sweep 'round west by north. To the path I will take you myself."

Tagg bowed his head politely. "Thank you, Botarus. Wait, please, I'll get my food."

Tagg went back to the coracle and collected his stores, Botarus and the squirrel following him. The squirrel watched him shoulder his supply sack. "Give me the food. I want it!"

Tagg did not like the tone of his former foe's voice. However, he emptied some food out onto the ground, adding a flask of drink. "Here is half of what I have. I need food for myself. You can take the coracle too, and if any vole asks you how you came by it, tell them it was a gift from me, Tagg."

The squirrel inspected the boat as Tagg gathered up his cloak. He turned to see her brandishing the paddle.

"Your blade, it's a good one, I'll have that too!"

Botarus shot out his long leg and knocked the paddle out of the squirrel's paws. He glared fiercely at her. "Enough you have, Madd. Stop you here now. With me Tagg goes, back I'll be by eventide. Riverdog Tagg, come you!"

The otter gave a wary berth to the squirrel, who picked up the paddle and shook it at him.

"Hahaha! Come back this way sometime an' visit me. So that I can kill you, vermin. Hahahahahaaaa!"

Tagg and Botarus made their way through the alders and into sparser woodlands. Tagg sighed with relief.

"Thank you, Botarus. I'm glad to be shut of that beast. I heard you call her Madd. Is that her name?"

The big bittern shrugged. "Mad she be, so Madd I call her. She knows not any other name."

Tagg strode swiftly to keep pace with Botarus. "Madd is a good name for her. She's a nasty dangerous beast."

"Krrrror, so would you be, were you her," Botarus commented dryly. "Killed her family, vermin did, for dead they left her. Three days lay she there. Found her I did, wound in her head, deep, so deep. Any otherbeast 'twould have killed outright. Together now we've been, long long seasons. Not easy to get along with is Madd."

Tagg smiled at the bittern. "Then why do you stay with her?"

Botarus smiled back, the gleam in his eyes sudden and savage. "I like not the vermin either. As mad as her am sometimes."

Approaching midday they reached the limits of the woodlands. Tagg could see the mountain clearly slightly off to his right, still far off. Botarus pointed his beak out across the flatlands and outlined the route.

"Go you that way, 'twill keep ye clear o' the stream and your enemies. Krrrr, watch you, Tagg, there be drylands an' wetlands before foothills you reach. Live there many reptiles do, active in summer they be. Tread you careful an' fare you well!"

Botarus went into an ungainly run, but once he took to the air there was nothing awkward about his graceful flight. He soared and wheeled to gain height, then flew off with a long cry. "Krrrrrrooooooooommmmmmm!"

Chapter 14

It was baking hot out on the flat scrublands. Dry heather, furze and teasel dotted the landscape, grasshoppers everywhere kept up a dry chirruping, butterflies in swarms visited every scrap of flowering vegetation. Bees hummed busily as they bumbled around the blossoming heathers. Tagg strode out energetically, tasting the light lemonish tang of some dandelion buds he was sucking, his eyes on the cool white of the snowcapped mountain, shimmering in the distance. The place belied the name flatlands. Hollows, hummocks and rises, combined with dry watercourse beds, made it extremely lumpy going. At midnoon he found sheltering shadow in the lee of an oddly shaped hillock. Conserving his meager rations, Tagg ate sorrel, wild onions and some cornsalad leaves. He drank sparingly from his remaining flask of pear cordial and dozed off with the background noises of the heathlands lulling him into slumber.

It was not shouts or screams that wakened him, but a series of smothered grunts, mingled with hissing noises. He listened until he located the sounds, which came from the other side of the hillock where he was resting. Tagg drew his blade and went to investigate.

He had seen smooth snakes before, but this one was a particularly large specimen, light grey in color, with a narrow head and a dark stripe across both eyes. The snake had a harvest mouse in its coils and was trying to crush it to death by constricting its slim smooth-scaled body. However, the mouse was a game little fellow, and he kept struggling loose and inflicting some sharp bites upon the predator's flanks. Never once did he shout or cry out for help. Tagg admired his courage and jumped smartly in to help. Stamping down, he pinned the snake's head to the sandy ground and grabbed its tail firmly, straightening it out. Once the reptile had nowhere to anchor itself for purchase it was virtually helpless. Tagg winked at the harvest mouse.

"Best get out o' the way, friend. This villain's not going to be very pleased when I let him go!"

The harvest mouse straightened his little yellow tunic and bared his teeth. He performed a dance of rage. "Then pass me that dagger o' yourn, mate, an' I'll chop that stringy mouse mangier into bite-sized bits, the scaly-nosed scumtail, the fish-eyed field forager, the legless land lizard! Just gimme the blade, an' I'll show that 'un how t'make a new tunic out of snakeskin!"

Tagg was taken aback at the mouse's ferocity. He flicked him aside with his rudder. "I said stay clear. I'll deal with this."

The mouse was practically doing somersaults in his anger. "Well, gerron with it an' quit jawin', will ye? You came along just when I had that snake well an' truly whipped. Don't stand there like a weasel on a washin' line. Kill it!"

Tagg twirled his knife so he was holding the blade, and dealt the smooth snake two sharp blows on its head. It went limp.

"There, that's put him to sleep for a while, though he'll have a rare old headache when he wakes. Come on, let's get going."

The mouse stamped his footpaw and ground his teeth. “ 'Y'mean you ain't going to slay the blaggard? Are ye soft in the head or wot? Fine big lump of an otter like you an' you can't even kill a rotten reptile! Wot's wrong with ye, eh?

Tagg swung the mouse up onto his shoulders and strode off. "Bloodthirsty little scoundrel, aren't you? No reason to kill the snake; you got away all right. By the way, my name's Tagg."

A tiny paw appeared for him to shake. "Please t'meetcher. I'm Nimbalo the Slayer. Next time y'see me finishin' off a snake, just leave us alone, will ye?"

Tagg tried his best to stop laughing. "How did y'come to be out here alone, Nimbalo?"

"Got taken by an eagle," the harvest mouse replied airily. "Caught me asleep, y'know. Anyhow, he was flyin' me off t'the mountain, so I broke his claws an' dropped off down here. I fell into some soft sand, an' that's where that overgrown worm found me. Huh! Lucky for it I was a bit dazed!"

Tagg now had his laughter under control, and merely nodded. "It certainly was, Nimbalo, but where did you come from? I mean, your tribe, your family, where do they live?"

Nimbalo gave the otter's ear a tug. "Bit nosy, ain't you? Where do I come from? Oh, 'ere an' there, y'know. I've been 'round the rocks a few times, matey. As for families an' tribes, huh, who needs them? They ain't nothin' but a load o' bother. Nimbalo the Slayer travels alone!"

Tagg raised his eyebrows as the mouse shifted position. "Except when you're traveling with me, eh?"

Nimbalo leaned over Tagg's head and stared down into his eyes. "Don't contradict me, riverdog. It don't pay to cross Nimbalo. Any'ow, what're you doin' 'round this neck o' the land? Let's 'ear you doin' a bit of talkin' fer a change."

The otter told Nimbalo the story he had made up for Botarus and the squirrel, about being captured by vermin and trying to escape being one of their tribe. The harvest mouse chuckled.

"Yore right there, Tagg. Steer clear o' tribes an' families, they'll only bring ye grief. So, why are ye goin' to the mountain?"

Tagg stared longingly at the snowy peak ahead. "It's hard to say, really. It looks so cool and clean, sort of free and away from it all. I think the mountain might be a good place to live, though I've never been there. Have you?"

Nimbalo spread his paws expansively. "Mountains, I've been 'round 'em, down 'em, up 'em an' about 'em. I've crossed more mountains than you've ate dinners, me ole mate!"

Tagg halted. He took the harvest mouse down from his shoulders and faced him. "You've certainly led a long and adventurous life, my friend. Tell me, how many seasons old are you?"

Nimbalo started to count upon his whiskers, then dismissed it. "A lot older'n you, pal, by a good stretch. Ho yerss, us 'arvest mice could fool anybeast. We're usually about ten times older than ye'd think!"

The otter put his next question flatly. "Why do you tell so many lies, Nimbalo? Don't you ever tell the truth?"

Nimbalo punched Tagg's paw lightly and grinned. "Truth? What's the truth, eh? Just a pack o' lies made up by otherbeasts so you'll believe 'em. Of course I always tell lies. What's wrong wid that, Tagg? They don't 'urt you, do they?"

Tagg stood bemused, stuck for an answer. His companion swaggered jauntily onward, in his odd hopskip manner.

"Come on, me ole riverdog. Life's too short t'worry about things like that. I'll go to the mountain with ye. Hah, suppose I'll 'ave to. Big honest streamwalloper like you, ye need a smart 'un like me to look after ye. Well, are you comin'?"

Over the remainder of the day, Tagg grew quite fond of Nimbalo, who was an excellent traveling partner and never at a loss for words. At one point he had Tagg cut him the thick stem from a gentian flower. Nimbalo gnawed holes in it, hollowed it out and made a whistle. As they trekked along a dry streambed he kept Tagg amused by tootling tunes on it and singing comic ditties in between.

"I'm the fiercest mouse livin' in all the wide land,

Me fur is so fine an' me muscles are grand,

If I ever meet with some ole vermin band,

I give all the rogues a good towsin'!

For although I'm real savage, me temper I'll bide,

But beware of me dander, ye'd best step aside,

Or you'll find out why so many blaggards've died,

Givin' lip to Nimbalo the Slayer!

When I meet a bad crew all the warriors do hide,

'Cos me fame goes afore me both far an' both wide,

But to mothers an' young 'uns I bow with great pride,

That's the way o' Nimbalo the Slayer!

So take care when you see this mouse passin' by,

I can knock ye out flat with the wink of me eye,

You just ask any mousemaid, she'll blush an' she'll sigh,

He's a hero, Nimbalo the Slayer!"

Nimbalo turned and winked at Tagg. "Oh, I fergot to mention, I'm modest too!"

Summer evening shades began falling as the hot day drew to a close. The two friends made camp in a hollow on top of a rise. Tagg was pleasantly surprised by Nimbalo's foraging and cooking skills. Gathering dried turf, the otter lit a fire and awaited Nimbalo's return, as the harvest mouse had insisted on finding food by himself. Purpling layers of cloud backed the mountain, tapering off to gold and red toward the west, sweet aromas came from the turf fire. Tagg settled himself comfortably on the sandy slop of the dip, savoring the beauties of twilight. Nimbalo broke the spell on his return. He tossed a bunch of roots and vegetation onto Tagg's chest, leaping over the top of the rise and shouting, "Halloo the camp! Stir yore stumps, big feller, let's get supper goin'. I'm starved!"

Tagg inspected the tangle of vegetation. "What's all this, mate?"

Nimbalo rummaged cheerfully through the mass. "I can see yore used to woodland vittles. These are flatlands food. See, whitlow, tastes just like cabbage, pennycress, touch bitter, but nice. There's comfrey roots, pepperwort an' bindweed flowers. You'll like them, they're sweet."

Tagg sniffed the flowers appreciatively. "Hmm, lovely smell. Hope they taste as good. Ah, dandelion leaves and roots, wild strawberries and some blackberries. I've got some fruit and wild oatcakes the voles gave me and most of a flask of pear cordial."

Using both paws, Nimbalo hauled the blade from Tagg's belt. "Sounds good, mate. I'll start choppin' the salad with this sword of yours. Keep that fire low, though. Turf don't give off much smoke, it just glows. Those vermin you said was trackin' you, any idea where they might be?"

Tagg gestured to the mountain's east side. "Probably over that way. They were following a stream, so I went off in the opposite direction. I can't see them troubling us yet awhile. Maybe when we're on the mountain we might run into them. Do you carry a weapon, Nimbalo?"

Baring his teeth in a ferocious grin, the mouse replied, "These is all the weapons I need, mate, teeth an' paws. If I needs more you can cut me a big stick."

Their meal was frugal, but enjoyable. Nimbalo played a few tunes on his whistle and they sat by the fire, watching the night draw in. When Nimbalo stopped playing, the otter went to the top of the rise. He ducked as a group of swifts winged low over him, then he listened carefully. Nimbalo sprawled in the hollow, watching him.

"Wot's the matter, big feller? Somethin' up?"

Tagg slid down beside him. "Birds flying low, I thought I heard a far-off rumble, and the air feels heavy. There may be a storm on the way."

1 )usting sand from his tunic, the harvest mouse stood up. "I've been in more storms than an ole gull at sea. We'd better make a move an' find shelter. I tell ye, Tagg, you don't wanna get caught in a storm on these flatlands."

Lightning flared briefly beyond the mountain. Tagg gathered his cloak and pack together, hearing the distant thunder rumble. "Sounds like it'll be a bad one, mate. Come on!"

Complete darkness fell as the moon became shrouded by heavy cloud. They hurried along the dry bed of a stream, feeling the first heavy raindrops strike their heads, Tagg pulled his waterproof cloak over them both. Nimbalo pointed. "Lucky ole us, matey. There's a little cave in the side of the bank, I can just make it out."

Rain was sheeting straight down, lightning splitting the night skies in spectacular jagged rips and thunder booming overhead. Nimbalo skipped smartly up the bankside and held out a paw to his friend. "C'mon, ye great lump, inside afore ye get soaked!"

Tagg huddled in alongside Nimbalo. There seemed to be plenty of room. They lay in the entrance, the cloak draped over their heads, watching the awesome spectacle of the huge summer storm. Tagg shuddered and wriggled with pleasure.

"It's great to watch a big storm, especially when you're nice and dry and not caught out in it!"

The harvest mouse elbowed him roughly. "Be still, willyer? Near rolled over an' crushed me then!"

Tagg pulled himself back from the cave entrance. "Sorry, pal. I'll get back in here a bit. Hmm, this is quite a sizable cave. Maybe we could light another fire, what d'you think?"

Nimbalo turned around. He sniffed the interior air and froze. "Stay still, Tagg, stay still, fer pity's sake!"

Tagg answered him from the darkness. "Why?"

Rustling coils and venomous hissings told him the reason even before Nimbalo whispered it into the menace-laden blackness.

"Snakes!"

Following both sides of the stream course up into the foothills, the hunting party came together again. Vallug found a broad shallow expanse where he was able to lead his followers across by a series of stepping-stones that showed above the surface. They joined up with Eefera on the opposite side. Gruven saw Grobait resting, clutching a paw to his bottom, and sniggered. "I wouldn't let any fish take a chunk out o' my behind."

Eefera pushed roughly by him. "Easy fer you to say. You didn't even have t'get yore paws wet. Any luck with tracks on yore side, Vallug?"

"None. What about you?"

"None, same as you. What d'ye think? Will we be wastin' our time climbin' the mountain to look for 'im?"

Gruven interrupted them to air his opinion. "If no tracks lead up here, I reckon we're on a fool's errand. What's the point of climbin' a mountain? I said it was a stupid idea from the first!"

Even Grobait could not keep the patronizing tone out of his voice as he took it on himself to answer Gruven. "He was travelin' upstream, not down. This is the only place he could go. So wot's the use comin' this far an' not lookin' on the mountain fer the otter? Mebbe we didn't find any tracks, but he could've left the stream an' found an easier way up. We'd be the ones lookin' stupid, to come this far an' not even bother takin' a look up there!"

Gruven indicated Grobait's injury with a nod. "Well, you won't get far with that wound. Wot d'you plan on doin'?"

Grobait spat into the stream. "I'll keep up, don't fret yerself!"

Vallug had been sniffing the air. He turned moodily on them. "You'd better keep up, both of yer. See that rock ledge up yonder? I'm gettin' under it. The rest of ye'd best do the same if'n you don't want to get caught in the storm!"

Disregarding everybeast, Vallug started climbing. Gruven was about to make a smart retort when the first drops of rain splattered on his head. He joined the others following Vallug.

"Lend us a paw 'ere!" Grobait called as he struggled upright.

Gruven could not resist snickering an answer. "Why? You've already got four like the rest of us."

They huddled under the ledge as the rain began sheeting down. A thunderclap caused Ribrow to jump, and he touched the ledge above him nervously. "This mightn't be a safe place t'stay. S'pose the thunder an' lightnin' struck this mountain an' collapsed it down on us? We'd all be crushed to death by these rocks!"

Gruven snorted at the idea. "If yer frightened you don't have t'stay 'ere. Go an' sit out there with Grobait."

The injured rat had hardly moved. He lay by the swelling stream almost battered flat by the heavy downpour. Eefera stared callously at the prone figure. "That wound must've gone bad on 'im. He's been limpin' all day. Looks like 'is back leg's stiffened up an' gone useless."

A lightning flash illuminated Grobait's pitiful figure. "Don't lay out there," Dagrab shouted to him. "Come up 'ere!" None of them made a move to help the wounded rat. Vallug sneered.

"Grobait ain't goin' anywhere, unless the stream swells up an' sweeps 'im away in the night. Save yer breath, Dagrab."

Gruven peered through the curtain of rain spilling from the ledge. "Yore the Bowbeast, Vallug. Put Grobait out of 'is misery."

Turning to Gruven, the big ferret smiled wickedly. "That 'un ain't worth wastin' an arrow on. But if it was you out there, well, I'd use an arrow, mebbe even two or three. I wouldn't consider 'em wasted on you ... Chief!"

Chapter 15

Very slowly Tagg drew his blade, whispering to Nimbalo, amid the hissing and slithering, "Pass me my cloak, mate. Do it very carefully; don't make any quick or sudden moves. When I shout, you must jump right out of this cave. Don't hang about for me. I'll be right behind you."

The otter put a paw behind his back, feeling Nimbalo pass him a corner of the cloak from his position at the cave mouth. Outside, the rain continued its onslaught. Below the cave there was a swirling, gurgling sound. The storm was filling up the dry bed of the stream. Tagg felt something dry and scaly slide over his footpaw. The weight and breadth of the reptile could mean only one thing. Adders!

The vicious hissing increased. He figured there were at least six snakes in the darkened cave. Now that they had scented other creatures and felt movement stir the air, they would be ready to strike with their poisonous fangs. Tagg acted with every fiber of his great strength and uncanny reflexes honed to their limit. Flinging the blanketlike cloak where he judged the adders to be gathered, he slashed low all about him and yelled, "Jump! Quick!"

The harvest mouse was actually in midair when, propelled by a massive back somersault, Tagg cannoned into him. With a resounding splash they both hit the water. The otter grabbed Nimbalo with one paw and shoved him high, clear of the flood. Tagg slashed out with the blade held in his other paw, right down the ugly head of a big adder, with almost half its body length extended as it struck. Hissing madly, it pulled back into the cave, its skull sliced to the bone.

Tagg shoved off, swimming strongly, following the current, with Nimbalo still held high, yelling shrilly, "Don't drop me! I can't swim!"

The otter was a powerful swimmer, even with one paw holding the harvest mouse clear of the swollen streamrace. He continued for quite a while, then his head broke the surface close to Nimbalo. "Are you all right, little mate?"

The mouse kicked and squirmed. "All right? I'm near drowned by this rain! Get me ashore!"

As soon as he spotted a rock, sticking sideways out of a fern patch a few lengths from the bank, Tagg abandoned the stream and set Nimbalo down. Slithering and sliding, they made their way up the bankside and stumbled to the welcome cover beneath the large stone chunk. Rolling thunder sounded more distant now; lightning flashed far off. Tagg wiped mud from his paws onto a fern and lay back.

"Storm's moving away now. The rain should slack off before dawn. Well, mate, we've lost our supplies and the cloak, but we're lucky. We could've lost our lives to those serpents back there."

Using his tail as a probe, Nimbalo dug mud from his left ear. "Gave me a good ride, didn't ye, big feller? I was foolin', y'know; I'm a champion swimmer really. Faster'n a fish, that's me!"

Tagg went along with the joke, knowing his friend was lying. "Well, you scoundrel, I never knew you could swim, and me carrying you all that way, swimming with three paws an' a rudder. Rascal!"

Nimbalo tweaked Tagg's ear affectionately. "Never mind, pal. Next time I'll swim an' hold you up over the water, I promise!"

Tagg chuckled. "I'll keep you to that promise, you rogue."

Sleep was out of the question. They sat watching the rain. It had slackened somewhat, but was still quite heavy, with a light breeze beginning to drive it sideways. Tagg sat Nimbalo on the lee side, taking most of the wetness on his right side. Nimbalo peered out onto the rainswept plain. "Can you see a light out there?"

Tagg saw the dimly flickering glow. "Aye, and it's coming this way."

They sat still and silent, the otter gripping his blade, as the light got closer. Nimbalo screwed his eyes up against the rain. "It's some ole beast carryin' a lantern!"

Tagg slid the blade back into his belt and moved over a bit, to make room for the newcomer. It was an ancient shrew, bent almost double, covered in a blanket cloak and hobbling along with the aid of a blackthorn stick, Groaning faintly, he put the lantern down and sat between them. Throwing back his cloak hood, the shrew dug a spotted kerchief from it and wiped his whiskers.

"Filfy night 'tis, plain filfy. Yew nearly fell into me den as youse climbed the bank back there. Hoho, that woulda been wot y'call droppin' in fer a visit, wouldn't it, me ole cullies?"

He tapped the side of his lantern, and about six fireflies flared their tiny lights in response. The ancient shrew cackled. "Heeheehee! I'd got 'ere sooner, but I 'ad to feed me pals. A liddle 'oney'n'water, that's all they needs. Sparky bugs, they are. Now, wot are youse two doin' out 'ere on a night like this?"

Tagg allowed Nimbalo to act as spokesbeast. "We was about to ask you the same, me ole greysnout."

The shrew tapped Nimbalo's paw with his stick. "Yore an 'ardfaced liddle 'arvest mousey. Wot's yore name, eh?"

"Nimbalo the Slayer. Everybeast 'round 'ere knows me!"

The shrew sucked his toothless gums, looking Nimbalo up and down. "Well, I don't, but I'll tell ye why I'm 'ere, Lamino, I come t'see if'n youbeasts was needin' shelter in me den. 'Tain't much, but it's all mine, an' 'tis dry too. So, wot d'ye say, Limbow? Does you an' yore big silent brudder want a night's lodgin', eh?"

Tagg touched his paw to his nose politely. "Thankee, that'd be very nice. My name's Tagg, sir."

The old one arose creakily and picked up his lantern. "Well, my name's, er, er, Ruskem. Hah, 'tis so long since anybeast spoke it I'd almost forgotten. Come on, then, Tugg, foller me. Come on, Minaglo, you can carry the lantern."

As they made their way back to the bank, Nimbalo whispered, "Wish he'd get me name right!"

Tagg wiped rainwater from his eyes. "Don't get too upset, mate; Ruskem has trouble remembering his own name, poor old beast. He must live all alone."

Ruskem's den entrance was near the banktop above the waterline. He ushered them in with his stick. "In 'ere, Togg an' Ninnybo, this is me ole den."

It was tiny inside. Tagg had to bend his head to avoid the ceiling. However, it was homely and comfortable, with a turf fire glowing in a stone hearth, an armchair, a bed, and thick rugs of woven moss and reeds carpeting the floor. Ruskem produced a ladle and two polished elm bowls, which he proceeded to fill from a big cauldron hanging over the fire.

"Shrewburgoo, that's wot 'tis, an' don't ask me wot's in it. That pot ain't been empty since I don't know when. I just adds to it aught I c'n find, berries, fruit, roots an' all manner o' things. One fer you, Numbowl, an' the big bowl fer Tigg. There's a kettle o' mint'n'comfrey tea on the 'earth, so 'elp yoreselves."

The shrewburgoo tasted wholesome and filling, though some parts of it tasted sweet and other bits were definitely savory. Ruskem poured them tea, and saw Nimbalo's eyelids start to droop.

"Yore in need o' slumbertime, Binflow. I'll sleep in me chair, you take the bed. Fogg, yore too big fer either. You kin sleep on the rugs, they're nice an' soft."

Nimbalo swigged his tea off, flopped on the bed and fell asleep without further ado. Ruskem sat in his chair and sighed. "Don't tell me yore story, Wagg. It'll tire me ole brain out."

Tagg was gazing around the walls, which were filled with pieces of slate. Each one had a skillfully executed portrait of a shrew's face on it, some male, others female. The otter smiled. "Oh, I won't tell you my story, Ruskem, it bores me listening to it. These are good pictures. Who did them?"

The shrew pointed to a lot of flint shards on the mantelpiece. " 'Twas me. I like makin' pitchers, got a good eye fer it. Those are my kin, ma, pa, grandma an' grandpa. That 'un's my ole missus, seasons rest 'er pore 'eart, the rest are me sons an' daughters. Gone, all gone now. Those that ain't died 'ave packed up an' left. There's on'y me now. But 'tis my 'ome an' I likes it enough ter live wot seasons I got left right 'ere. You get some rest now, Flagg. Big feller like you needs plenty o' shuteye. Nighty night!"

Sometime during the night, Tagg woke up. Ruskem was snoring gently in his chair, but Nimbalo was talking in his sleep, sobbing too. In the dim glow of the turf fire, Tagg watched his friend tossing about on the bed, and listened to the harvest mouse's disjointed ramblings.

"But Papa, I've done all the work. I'm hungry. Ow! Ow! Please don't beat me, Papa, I've done all the work. Where's Mama? I want my mama! What . . . Oh, Mama, please come back..."

Nimbalo sobbed heartbreakingly. Tagg rose quietly and stroked his friend's head as gently as he could, murmuring, "Hush, matey, sleep easy now. Hush, hush."

Nimbalo's eyes opened wide, and he sat up with his paws clenched. Tagg could tell he was still sleeping. Nimbalo's voice grew hard. "Put that belt down, Papa! I said put it down, you ain't goin' to beat me with it no more. No more, I say!"

Tagg pushed him back down and passed a paw over his eyes. "Sleep, now. Tagg's here, mate. Sleeeeeep."

Nimbalo uttered a single word. "Tagg." His eyes closed and he slept peacefully for the remainder of the night. Tagg dozed off sitting by the fire. So Nimbalo was a runaway who had received a hard upbringing from a cruel father. Now Tagg knew why his friend presented a tough exterior to all. He wanted to show he could not be bullied or beaten anymore.

Tagg woke late next morning. Nimbalo was still asleep, but Ruskem was up and about. He added mixed oats and barley and some strawberries to the shrewburgoo. Stirring in a chunk of honeycomb, he nodded to Tagg.

"G'mornin', Trogg. Wot d'ye think? Shall I toss in some wild celery an' onions to this lot?"

The otter wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "No, I think the strawberries an' honey should be enough, sir. What's the weather like outside, I wonder?"

The ancient shrew poured tea from the kettle for his guest. "Fresh as a daisy an' prettier'n a rosebud. Rain's all gone, stream's runnin' muddy but full. What more could a beast want?"

Tagg went to the bed and shook the snoring harvest mouse. "A traveling partner who's awake, that's what I want."

Nimbalo sat up, rubbing his eyes and lying in his teeth. "I'm awake, I'm awake! Been awake fer blinkin' ages, watchin' youse two makin' breakfast. Fooled yer, eh?"

Ruskem passed him a steaming bowl. "Then try foolin' yore stomach wid some o' this, Bongbul!"

When they had breakfasted, the old shrew sat back in his chair. Reaching down among the cushions, he pulled out two pieces of slate, with fair likenesses of Tagg and Nimbalo etched on them. He displayed them proudly.

"Hah! I was up long afore youse pair. Well, wot d'ye think?"

Tagg studied them. "They're very good, sir, very good!"

Ruskem was pleased with the otter's verdict. "Heeheehee! Thankee, Blogg. I'll put 'em up on me wall after yore gone. Youse kin be part o' me family, eh!"

"I don't wanna be part o' no fa"

Tagg clapped his paw over Nimbalo's mouth and picked him up. "Let's go outside and stretch in the fresh air, matey!"

Ruskem put the portraits aside. "Wot's wrong wid young Bimbo?"

"Tummy trouble. He bolted down that hot breakfast."

Tagg swept Nimbalo out onto the sunlit bank. "No need to be insulting to the old fellow. He was honoring us by putting our pictures on the walls with his kin."

The harvest mouse looked shamefaced. "I better go back in an' say I'm sorry to Ruskem."

Tagg patted his friend's paw. "No need to. I don't think he heard you. Just remember to be nice to him. He wasn't obliged to help us, but he did."

Blinking against the sunlight, the ancient shrew hobbled out. "Heehee! See, I told ye. 'Tis a mornin' to be alive on. Nothin' looks prettier'n these 'ere flatlands after a summer storm!"

Nimbalo politely helped the old fellow to sit at the stream edge. "Yore right, sir. It certainly is!"

Ruskem waved his stick back at the den. "Yell find some liddle fruit loaves that I baked an' two flasks o' dannelion an' burdock cordial in there. I take it yore bound fer the mountain? I was up there once. A strange an' wunnerful place 'tis, but mind 'ow you go, especially you, young Bungalo."

Nimbalo seemed a bit distracted as he answered. "Aye, sir, we'll take care . . . Tagg, can you 'ear a bumpin' sound?"

The otter listened carefully, turning downstream. "Sounds as if it's coming from down that way. What d'you think?"

Ruskem turned in the opposite direction. "I think 'tis a-comin' from upstream, but yore ears are younger an' better than mine, Trigg."

They chose to search downstream, around a bend. A gaunt pine tree trunk was floating there, its thick end bumping the bank, trapped in the shallows as the stream rushed swiftly by.

Tagg tested it with his footpaw, leaning down hard.

"Good fortune for us, mate, a ready made boat. This'll save our footpaws for a day or so. We can make it to the foothills on this."

Ruskem pointed up the mountain's north face. "Stream starts up there, in the north foot'ills. When there's been a storm it swells, an' one part branches off to loop down here before circlin' 'round t'the mountain again. Dries up after a score o' days. Yore right, though, Cragg; if ye can free that trunk while the flood's this high it'll take ye close t'the west face in no time."

Tagg trimmed spare branches from the pine and held the trunk steady, whilst Nimbalo boarded with their provisions. Wading waist deep, the otter pushed the makeshift craft out into the current and leaped aboard. Ruskem waved his stick as they were swept speedily away.

"Fare ye well, Frogg an' Numble. May yore stummicks be full an' yore path smooth!"

They shouted back as the log raced downstream.

"Goodbye, Ruskem. Take good care o' yourself!"

"Aye, an' thankee for yore 'ospitality, mate!"

The ancient shrew watched until they were out of sight, waving his stick and murmuring to himself, "Wish I was a-goin' with ye. Heehee, there's two young rips bound off adventurin'. Ah no, I'm 'appy where I am. Did enough rovin' in me younger days. Oh well, time fer me nap."

Ruskem went into his den without bothering to look beyond the upstream bend, where he thought the noise had come from. Had he taken a glimpse there he would have seen the bloated carcass of Grobait, washed up and stuck to the bankside as the sun dried the mud, baking it hard as rock.

Chapter 16

Broggle had been on breakfast duties in the kitchen. Filorn watched him hastily stacking dishes and wiping tables. The kindly ottermum relieved him of his tasks.

"I'll finish off here. You're anxious to be with your friends in Cregga Badgermum's room, aren't you? Go on, off with you!"

Wiping his paws on his apron, Broggle backed off, bowing politely. "Thankee, marm, very kind of you, marm, you're a real mal, parm, er, I mean a real pal, marm!" He turned and dashed away upstairs.

Boorab, who was last at table, rose and began collecting dishes. "Allow me to assist you in these menial chores, O fair one."

Filorn smiled at him and curtsied deeply. "My thanks t'you, kind sir. Pray, what's the reason for this sudden rush of helpfulness?"

The hare winked broadly as he loaded a tray with bowls. "Just my sense o' duty, marm, an' of course there's always lots o' nice leftovers from brekkers, wot!"

Filorn picked up a tray of beakers and followed him out to the kitchens. "Oh, I'm sure we can find you somethin' to tickle your palate, sir. I'll put the kettle on and we'll have a nice cup of rosehip tea together."

Bells tinkled on Boorab's ears and cap as he shook his head in admiration of Filorn's understanding nature. "You, marm, are an opal among otters, if you'll allow a chap t'speak poetically. A diamond midst the dreary dross of daily duties, wot!"

Fwirl placed her paw on the windowsill, judging it as accurately as she could. "There, that's about dead center, I'd say."

Mhera approved her decision. "Right, put the nail right on that spot, please, Broggle."

With a stone-headed hammer, Broggle drove a small clout nail into the woodwork, to about half its length. Fwirl explained her plan as she worked. "This is how you make a plumb line. I tie one end of the thin cord to this knife hilt, and now I let it out over the windowsill."

Gundil scrambled up onto the sill. "Ee knoife be's goen' daown an' daown on ee corder, miz."

Fwirl played the cord out slowly. "Tell me when 'tis almost near the ground, Gundil."

The mole watched the knife's steady descent. "Jus' ee likkle bit more, miz . . . Stop! That be furr enuff!"

Fwirl tied the cord around the nail as Cregga called from her chair, "What's going on? Keep me informed, please."

Brother Hoben did the explaining. "Fwirl has made a plumb line. It runs straight and true, right from the center of your window to the ground below."

Cregga levered herself up out of the chair. "Of course! The clue that Song could see through the monocle before the ash tree grew will be somewhere on that line, probably between the cracks or on the wall itself!"

Gundil thought he had found a flaw in the plan. "Oi' bain't a-climberin' oop ee gurt 'igh walls. You'm be needen summ turrible long ladders furr ee job!"

Cregga lifted Gundil down from the windowsill. "Who needs ladders when we've got our Fwirl?"

"But that'n be ee flatted wall, et bain't ee tree," Gundil protested. "Miz Furl be a-fallin' off on she'm skullbones. Hurr!"

Fwirl reassured the doubting mole. "Don't fret, Gundil. I can walk up a wall as easily as you can walk about on the ground, you wait and see."

Gundil scurried to the bed. Burying his head beneath a pillow, he cried out in a muffled voice, "Ho no, luvly mizzy, oi cuddent burr to watch ee. Moi 'ead wudd be assidurably dizzied a-wurryin' abowt ee. Burr, lackeeday!"

Redwallers gathered on the grass below, necks craned upward, while those in the bedchamber leaned over the windowsill to stare downward. All eyes were on the squirrelmaid, searching the wall, spreadeagling herself parallel with the plumb line as she moved back and forth. Broggle was practically bursting with pride and admiration.

"Now that's what I call a champion climber. Skillful, magnificent!"

Fwirl stopped moving, concentrating on one particular block of wallstone. She studied it for a moment, her bushy tail twirling with excitement, then she shot upward like an arrow, straight back through the window and onto Cregga's lap.

"I've found it! Writing carved into the stone, but I can't read or write words down. What should I do?"

Mhera and Brother Hoben came up with a simple scheme right away, and shortly thereafter Fwirl scampered back down and found the sandstone block with the carving on it. She spread a clean white table napkin, its four corners smeared with honey, over the writing. Then, taking a stub of beeswax candle, the squirrelmaid colored in the white linen all over and made a perfect rubbing of the characters beneath the cloth. A cheer went up from the onlookers as she pulled it from the wall and waved it like a banner, crying shrilly, "I did it! I've got it!"

Cregga's room became jammed to the door again. Everybeast listened in breathless silence as Brother Hoben read out the message carved into the wall of the Abbey long seasons ago.

" Twas I slew the Scourge in days of old,

Then I was one, but now we are two.

We who are dumb, yet sound so bold,

Day and night to order you.

We are those who announce a feast,

Or victories of the brave-hearted.

We are those whose solemn farewell,

Mark sadly a loved one departed.

On our oak see knowledge unfold,

We never speak 'til we're told?

We never speak 'til we're told?"

In the brief silence that followed, Fwirl shook her head. "What a puzzle. Great seasons, what's it supposed to mean?"

Her comment was greeted by roars of laughter. Broggle bristled. "Don't laugh at her, it's not fair!"

Mhera pounded the small tabletop until she restored silence. "Broggle's right, you shouldn't laugh at Fwirl. She's only just come to our Abbey. How is she supposed to know about Redwall?"

Everybeast began explaining at once, until Cregga roared, "Silence, please! Floburt, would you like to explain it all to Fwirl? I don't want to hear a murmur from anybeast except Floburt, thank you!"

The hogmaid recited what every Redwaller had learned at Abbey school.

"The poem means our two Abbey bells. They're called Matthias and Methuselah. A long time ago Redwall had only one great bell, called the Joseph Bell, after its maker. Our Abbey was captured by an evil rat, Cluny the Scourge, but a mouse named Matthias fought him. Matthias took the great sword of Martin the Warrior and cut the ropes holding the Joseph Bell. It fell on Cluny and killed him, but the bell was split by its fall. Later, the metal was melted down and recast into two smaller bells, Matthias and Methuselah, the pair we have in our bell tower today. If you know this the answer becomes clear. Bells cannot speak, yet they make sounds, ringing out at midnight, midday and eventide. They ring for feasts, triumphs and also for a death. The line that's repeated at the poem's end is a clever play on words. We never speak 'til we're told. Think about it. A bell will make no sound until you toll it, so they never speak 'til they're tolled!

Old Hoarg the Gatekeeper sat down on the bed. "Hah! I didn't see that 'un 'til you explained it, Floburt. Very clever indeed. But wot about the line speakin' of knowledge unfoldin' on our oak? Where do we find our oak?"

Mhera whispered something to her mother. Filorn nodded understandingly, then she made an announcement. "You'll learn the answer right after the entertainment contest!"

Everybeast appeared bemused at this.

"What entertainment contest?"

"Hurr, furst oi yurr'd abowt et."

" 'Tis a new one on me too."

"I didn't know about any entertainment contest, did you?"

Mhera restored order. "It's to be held by the gatehouse very shortly. Give your names to Gatekeeper Hoarg if you wish to enter. Any kind of entertainment will be considered. My mum will present the winner with a large woodland fruit trifle, topped with meadowcream. Line up outside the gatehouse if you'd like to put your name down!"

Seconds later, Broggle gazed around the deserted bedchamber. "Well, Mhera, that certainly cleared the place. They went out of here like ants chasing honey. Still, who wouldn't for one of your mum's woodland trifles with meadowcream? Whose idea was that?"

Mhera giggled like a Dibbun. "It was mine. The entertainment contest, too. We don't need that lot following us around all day. Come on, let's go and take a look in the bell tower. That appears to be the place where this riddle is centered."

Cregga shook her great striped head as she rose from her chair. "You're a crafty otter, Mhera. That was cleverly done. Now, I'm too old for climbing bell tower stairs, there's too many of 'em for my liking. But you could drop me off by the gatehouse. I want to hear about this entertainment contest. Who knows, I might put my name down. I'd dearly love one of your mum's trifles all to myself."

The search party assisted the Badgermum down the stairs, joking.

"What'll you do, Cregga? Sing the song of the ancient badger?"

"Ee cudd resoite summ gurt dramatuck vursus, marm!"

"Haha, or play tunes on Boorab's haredee gurdee!"

Cregga sat on the bottom stair to catch her breath. "Insolent wretches! I'll have you know I was very skilled at entertaining in my younger seasons. Maybe I'll perform a quick acrobatic dance, that should do the trick!"

Mhera and Fwirl were laughing so hard that they could not help Cregga upright again.

Inside the bell tower it was dim and cool, but the spiral stairs seemed to go on forever. Halfway up, Brother Hoben had to sit down and rest awhile. "Phew! Lackaday, now I know why Cregga didn't want to come!"

Fwirl's voice came from high above them. "Put a move on down there, I'm already up here!"

Gundil wiped a paw across his brow, trudging doggedly on. "Hurr, easy furr ee t'say, moi booty, but this choild bain't nuthin' but ee pore molebeast, not fitted furr cloimbin' oop sturrs wot goes 'round an' 'round!"

Together they stood up near the small conical roof, astride a massive wooden beam with stout ropes bound around it. Below them was a dizzying drop, with two tolling ropes hanging the length of it. Mhera pointed out the two bells suspended from the beam below their footpaws.

"The one on your left is the Matthias bell, this one on the right is the Methuselah bell. See their names embossed around the edges? A pretty awesome sight, isn't it?"

Gundil's nosetip had gone dry. He turned his eyes aside, moaning, "Bwhurr, oi bain't no burd, an' oi bain't feelen too gudd noither!"

Mhera and Fwirl assisted him off the beam and sat him lower down on the steps. The mole turned his face to the wall. "Oi woan't be 'arpy 'til oi'm saferly on ee gudd furm grownd."

Broggle inspected the beam on all fours. "This is definitely made from a great oak. Look at this huge scar cut across it. Wonder how that happened?"

Brother Hoben, being the Recorder, instinctively knew. "That's where Matthias severed the bell rope with Martin's sword. Such a forceful blow he struck that he scored the beam deeply."

Broggle picked at it with his small kitchen knife. "Must have hit the hem of his habit, too. Look, there's a piece of cloth wedged in the cut."

Mhera saw what was going on as she returned to the beam with Fwirl. "Don't damage it in any way, Broggle. Try as carefully as you can to get the cloth out all in one piece!"

Broggle shaved the wood delicately away, either side of the cloth. "That's easy. See, it just lifts out!"

"He's a real artist with that little blade," Mhera whispered to Fwirl, loud enough for Broggle to hear. "There's nobeast in Redwall more skilled with a kitchen knife than our Broggle."

Blushing with modest pride, the assistant cook gave the cloth to Mhera. It was only a small square of light green material, simple and homespun, nothing elaborate or special. Mhera sniffed it before laying it flat on the beam.

"Hmm. Still got a faint scent of lilac on it. I wonder who it belonged to? Ah, there's letters inked onto it. Let's see . .. HITTAGALL? What's that supposed to mean? The letters aren't even written straight across horizontally, like ordinary writing. They're written vertically. HITTAGALL all in capitals from top to bottom. Brother Hoben, what d'you make of it?"

Folding the material carefully, Hoben slid it into his belt pouch. "Nothing right now, but let me think on it. What do you say we go down and discuss this over lunch? I think Gundil's illness is catching. I'm beginning to feel a bit woozy up here."

Friar Bobb was sitting with the rest of the audience in front of the west wallsteps, by the gatehouse. When the friends appeared he waved for them to sit down by him, whispering, "Sorry about lunch, I'll fix something later. Come and enjoy yourselves. We've had some marvelous entertainment here."

Egburt and Floburt were tootling flutes and performing a jig, while Grandpa Drogg beat a small drum as he sang for them.

"We never have to comb our spikes,

Because they won't lie flat,

An' that is why you'll never see,

A hedgehog wear a hat.

I've seen some hares wear helmets,

And bees in bonnets too,

While molemaids favor mob caps,

All stitched with bluebells blue.

But hedgehogs don't wear headgear,

An' that's my sad refrain,

Poor hedgehogs get as wet as frogs,

When left out in the rain!"

They skipped off to great applause, still tootling their flutes.

The next item was a real novelty. Sister Alkanet and three little ones, Durby the molebabe, a tiny mousemaid named Feegle and the smallest hedgehog who could just about toddle, called Wegg, climbed up on to the wallstep, which served as a stage. In her severe and precise tones, the Sister recited a cautionary poem. Much to the hilarity of the audience, the three infants acted out the lines with serious faces and much paw wagging.

" 'Tis often said by otherbeasts,

And trust my word 'tis so,

There are certain manners,

Which Abbeybabes should know!

All Dibbuns must behave themselves,

From break of dawn 'til night,

Tug their ears, touch their spikes,

In general, be polite.

Bid all their elders time of day,

Don't interrupt. .. My word!

Our rule is Dibbuns may be seen,

But very seldom heard.

One must wash one's paws and face,

Before one ventures out,

And up one's sleeve a kerchief keep,

With which to wipe one's snout.

Never sup soup noisily,

Say please and thanks when able,

Remember to excuse oneself,

Before one leaves the table.

If Dibbuns heed these golden rules,

They grow up good and true,

Early to bed, straight to sleep,

And don't hide when bathtime's due .. . Thank you!"

The little ones bowed, to tumultuous applause, though Foremole Brull was heard to remark to Cregga, "Doan't hoide when barthtime be due? Hurr hurr, lookit likkle Durby thurr, larst toime me an' 'is mum barthed that 'un ee water turned to solid mudd, burr aye!"

Before any other contestant had a chance to present themselves, Boorab leaped up, flourishing his long robes dramatically. "I do this not for any triflin' reward, wot wot, get it, trifle? Ahem, pray attention, goodbeasts all, for as Abbey Poet I have composed a small recitation that I shall recitate. These few lines would bring tears to the blinkin' eye of an underwater fish! Mothers, cover your babes' tender ears! For 'ere goes, ear goes? Hawhaw, that was a good 'un, wot wot?"

"Oh, get on with it, you great long-eared windbag!"

Boorab glared at old Hoarg, who had shouted out the remark. "Fie on you, sah. Even windbags have feelin's!" Then, drooping his ears and waving a limp paw, Boorab soulfully began.

" 'Twas winter one summer an' spring was in bloom,

The turnips were twittering gaily

As I cleaned out my humble room,

Three times I do it, twice daily!

When a mole flew in by my window,

He bid me good night and day too.

His eyes were yellow, his nose was green and his tail was pinkyblue.

That mole gave me a very odd stare,

Which I put in me pocket for later,

He then asked me if I was a hare,

Or a rascally impersonator?

I replied to him, in accent grim,

'Good sir, I'm a him not a her,

I'm a him that's a hare not a her that's a him,

And the least is as large as the greater!'

'If you're a hare that's a him, he quoth,

As he left my room with a leap,

'When I return this leap, you'll be,

Not a hare or a him, but a-sleep!'"

Boorab bowed elegantly, tripped over his robes and leaped up in the same instant, calling out to Filorn, "Who could compete with that pulsatin' performance, marm, wot? Deliver the toothsome old trifle to me room at once, so I won't have to share it with these talentless bounders. Don't applaud too loud, chaps. Only doin' me job, y'know. Modest as ever, that's me!"

The trifle was immense, a real beauty. It was displayed in the gatehouse doorway. Helped by Mhera and Fwirl, Cregga mounted the steps, at Filorn's request, to deliver her judgement. She held forth her paws for silence.

"What a wonderful entertainment. You've made my task very difficult. I was going to award the trifle to Boorab, but you all heard him say that he required no trifling reward. So I've decided to give the prize to all the Dibbuns who took part. It's such a huge trifle that I'm sure it's far too much for any onebeast!"

Laughter and cheers greeted the Badgermum's popular decision. The Abbeybabes dragged the trifle inside the gatehouse and slammed the door.

Mhera turned to Brother Hoben. "Well, Brother, have you had time to think about the piece of cloth and the lettering on it?"

Hoben took out the article in question and stared at it. "I've racked my brains until my head's aching, but I'm afraid it's a complete mystery to me. Sorry, Mhera."

Friar Bobb picked the cloth up. "Is this your latest find? What is it?"

Fwirl put her chin in both paws glumly. "We haven't the faintest idea, sir. D'you think Cregga will know?"

They took it to the Badgermum, who sniffed it and felt it. "Faint scent of lilac, that's about all I can say. What is the lettering on it? Read it to me, please, Broggle."

"HITTAGALL. All in capital letters, marm, written in a downward line. Is that any help?"

Cregga passed the cloth back to Brother Hoben. "I'm afraid it doesn't mean a thing to me."

Looking thoroughly downcast, the good Brother sighed. "Then that's it, we're defeated. 'Twas all for nothing."

Mhera slapped her rudder down hard against the step. "Well, I'm not defeated, I'll solve that riddle somehow. I'm not going to give up hope or let it beat me!"

The friends strolled paw in paw back to the Abbey, their air of gloom not even dissipated by Boorab, who was pounding the gatehouse door, pleading with the Dibbuns inside.

"Have a bally heart, little chaps, open up for a poor starvin' hare, wot! I'd have given you a jolly good share if I'd won the trifle, honest I would, cross me ears an' hope to turn blue. Come on, open up an' be reasonable, little bods. At least let me lick the bowl. If I die of the horrible hungers it'll be your fault, y'know. Festerin' bounders! Trifle thieves, meadowcream marauders! I hope you all get the screamin' tummy ache. Cads!" He loped off and caught up with Mhera and her friends. "I say, you lot look pretty sad, wot. Did you want to win the trifle too?"

Mhera smiled weakly. It was one thing having plenty of fighting spirit and stern resolution, but she was as baffled as the rest. Brother Hoben was right; all their questing had amounted to nothing. The entire thing was still a mystery.

Chapter 17

It was the evening of their second day upon the mountain, and still the hunters had not sighted any sign of their quarry. Vallug Bowbeast sat shivering over a small fire made from odd twigs and dead heather. He stared out at the tracks of his own party, crisscrossing the snowfields that ran up toward the peak. His stomach made a squirling noise. It needed food, but there was none whatsoever to be had. Eefera was the first to show over the high ridge. He trudged down to the glimmering fire, long bluish shadows of eventide creeping down after him. White steamy breath issued from his mouth as he sat down beside Vallug.

" 'Tis difficult to catch yer breath up 'ere. Huh, I see you packed in searchin'. 'Ow long've ye been squattin' 'ere warmin' yer paws?"

Vallug stared into the paltry wisps of flame. "Long enough t'do some thinkin'."

The weasel glanced sideways at the big ferret. "Thinkin', en? Tell me about it."

The Bowbeast nodded up at the peak. "Ain't no vittles up 'ere, we never brought robes or cloaks. We could freeze or starve t'death, an' nobeast of the Juska clan would ever know wot became of us."

Eefera thrust his paws closer to the fire. "Aye, there's some truth in that. We've been on this stinkin' mountain almost two days now, an' not a track, nary a single pawmark that the otter's been even near the place. Vallug, do ye think that 'e could've put one over on us? I mean laid a false trail along that riverbank, jus' to make it look as if 'e was comin' 'ere?"

Vallug said what his companion was thinking. "An' give us the slip so's 'e could go elsewhere?"

Eefera shrugged. "But where's 'e gone?"

Vallug lowered his voice as if eavesdroppers were about. "That's wot I been thinkin' about. You remember ole Grissoul mutterin' about omens an' prophecies? She was the one who saw the Taggerung at the river ford where it ran across the long path. Sawney told me somethin' about a big place with bells. 'Twas a long time back, but I can recall it. Sawney didn't want t'go near that place, said it was dangerous an' filled with warriors."

Eefera nodded impatiently. "Aye, I remember all right. Redwall, 'e called it. Grissoul spoke about the red place like 'twas magic. Wot d'you think, Vallug?"

The Bowbeast curled his lip scornfully. "There ain't no such thing as magic. I never seen nobeast that one o' my arrows couldn't stop. I think that otter I slew, the liddle one's father, I think that 'e came from the Redwall place. I'll tell yer wot else I'm thinkin'. I'll wager that sometime in 'is seasons with the Juskarath, that Taggerung 'eard of Redwall too. If'n that otter's laid a false trail fer us t'follow, then 'e's bound for Redwall, the place where 'e was born!"

Eefera had been listening so intently that his paw strayed into the flame. He drew it back sharply and rubbed snow on it.

"Right, Vallug. Yore right! So, wot's the plan?"

Vallug picked up his bow and shouldered it. "We go after 'im. I don't mean those other fools an' Gruven. Leave em 'ere on the mountain. Like I said, they'll freeze or starve t'death up 'ere an' nobeast will ever know, 'cept us."

Eefera smiled wickedly. "An' we won't tell, will we. They was all killed, Gruven too. By pikes, serpents, drownded, all of em. Sad, ain't it, mate?"

It was Vallug's turn to smile. He nudged Eefera. "Aye, 'twas an 'ard job, tryin' to save 'em. We was lucky to get back alive, me'n'you, but we slayed the otter between us, eh!"

Vallug spat on his paw and offered it to Eefera. "No sense in 'angin' 'round 'ere, mate. Let's git goin' afore those other block'eads come back. I couldn't stand another night of Gruven's company, braggin' one moment, whinin' the next..."

Eefera spat on his paw and gripped Vallug's to seal their pact. "Yah, the cold an' 'unger'll take care of 'em. Come on, back t'the sunny woodlands an' a chance o' some decent vittles!"

Vallug stood to one side deferentially. "Good idea, mate. After you."

Eefera did a mock bow, but stayed where he was. "Nay, friend, you go first."

They stared hard at one another, eye to eye, then both broke out into false hearty laughter and strode off together. Neither of the two vermin wanted to expose his back to the other.

The stream did as many turns as a switchback, rambling and meandering hither and yon. Tagg and Nimbalo were not in any hurry, each enjoying the other's company. Eventide of the second day found them camped on a grassy spur where the waterway forked, one branch disappearing into the flatlands and the other rounding a fairly swift-flowing bend that took the water back into the base of the mountain.

Tagg tested the flow with his footpaw. "Shall we go this way tomorrow? It looks as if the current flows into some underground caves. Would you like to try it, mate?"

The harvest mouse threw more turf on the fire. " 'Twill be a bit of a bumpy ole ride on our log. Aye, let's try it. In the mornin', though; we'll rest tonight. Y'know, these fruit loaves wot Ruskem gave us, they're pretty good. I like 'em!"

The otter cut a chunk from one with his blade. " Ruskem's dandelion an' burdock cordial's very tasty too. Try some."

Nimbalo took hold of his friend's paw as he passed the flask. "Where'd ye get that mark on yore paw from? It's like the shape of a speedwell flower. Is it a tattoo?"

The otter glanced at the mark, then ran a paw over his heavily marked face. "No, I think 'tis some sort of birthmark. These on my face are tattoos, put there long before I can remember. They're clan marks, to show I belong to a certain tribe."

He allowed Nimbalo to touch the tattoos. The mouse snorted. "Bit silly, ain't it? If'n ye ever want to leave the tribe, then yore stuck wid yore face all marked with a big black stripe an' red dots an' the blue lightnin' flash on yer left cheek."

Tagg's paw strayed to feel the flash. "Juska law says that the only time you leave the tribe is when you're dead. I'm marked for life now, but at least I can get rid of these!"

Tagg pulled off his woven wristbands, unsnipped the big gold earring from his ear, and flung them into the stream. Nimbalo smiled sympathetically at his big friend. "You ain't 'ad much fun runnin' 'round with that tribe, 'ave yer? Well, never mind, Tagg me ole tater, you got a new life now, an' you got Nimbalo the Slayer as a pal, so come on, cheer up!"

Tagg lay back, gazing up at the stars. "I'm tired, pal. Play something for me, a peaceful tune."

Nimbalo tootled his reed flute and played awhile, then, putting it aside, he quietly sang a traditional harvest mouse ditty.

"When the corn is so heavy it bends on the stalk,

See the berries are purple with bloom,

And the wild oats do rustle as if they could talk,

There I watch for the gold harvest moon.

Then if you will help me friend,

Stay here oh do not roam,

And we'll sit by the fire,

In my harvest mouse home.

There'll be lots of good food when the work is all done,

And a barrel of old barley beer,

Mellow cheese and fresh bread, for everyone,

While the babes sleep in peace without fear.

We'll gather the fruit,

And the sweet honeycomb,

And some wood for the fire,

Of my harvest mouse home."

Nimbalo put aside his flute and lay down with a long sigh. "Aaaah. I forget the rest. Pretty, ain't it, Tagg? Nothin' like the real thing, though. My life ain't been no bed o' roses, oh no. Let me tell yer about wot I went through, mate ..." He glanced over and saw his otterfriend was already fast asleep. "Oh well, maybe some other time."

The fire burned low as four little shadowy figures watched the camp. Three of them wore new belts about their tiny waists, Tagg's two wristbands and his golden earring, which had landed on the wristbands as they floated off downstream. The one who was minus a new belt whispered to his three companions, "Yik yik, 'arvest mousey gotta nice belt. Jus' fitta me!"

The biggest of the four clipped him soundly over the ear. "Shushyerrupp! Yew wakey da biggin an' we get all eated up!" He patted his new gold earring belt thoughtfully before delivering the noisy one a clip across his other ear. "Go gerrem ole Bodjev, tellim bring alla Cavemob. Go go!"

He sloshed resentfully off along the streamshallows, calling back in a loud whisper, "Doncha pinch d'mousey belt while I 'way!"

The larger one sent him on his way with a kick in the tail. "Go on, go on, shout louder, nip'ead. Wake alla mounting up!"

One of the two wearing a wristband belt held a paw to his mouth. "Shushyer, Alfik, dey wakey up an' us don't gerra no likkle snakeyfishes, fryken 'em alla way!"

Within a short while, Bodjev, the tiny fat Chieftain of his pigmy shrew tribe, returned with a large bunch of his warriors, each bearing a pine club, tipped with flint shards, over his shoulder. He threw himself down alongside Alfik, his son, hissing with shock as he caught sight of Tagg.

"Wow wow! Whereja find dat monister? Lookarra size of 'im!"

Alfik wrinkled his long nose in a show of careless bravery. "Ho, I jus' finded d'beast, sleepyin' 'ere. Warra us do now, Daddy?"

Bodjev glared at his son and clipped him a good one on the ear. "You norra Squidjee nomore. Worr I tellya? Chief's name Bodjev, only Daddy when you was likkle. Bodjev now, 'member dat!"

One of the Cavemob tribe called out a warning as Tagg groaned and rolled over in his sleep. "Y'be shushed or d'big fella come awakey!"

Bodjev could not identify the voice, so he satisfied himself by dispensing clipped ears to any shrew within reach. "Who you tella to shushed? Talk t'me like dat! All shushed now, wait for da snakeyfishes to come. Den after dat we catcher d'mousey anna bigga monister!"

Tagg glimpsed the mouse warrior with the beautiful sword, wandering through the corridors of his mind. He pursued him, but, unable to run, he floated helplessly through a warm pink mist, calling out the mouse's name. "Deyna! Deyna!"

The warrior mouse halted and turned, shaking his head and smiling. Touching a paw to his armored breastplate, he spoke one word. "Martin!" Then he disappeared, leaving the sleeping otter mystified. If he was Martin, then who was Deyna?

Further dreams were shattered. Both Tagg and Nimbalo leaped up amid a sea of slithering silver. They slipped and fell flat as the slim shining shapes slid over them. Wild squeaks rent the dawnlight. Pigmy shrews were everywhere, striking wildly at the silvery threadlike mass with small clubs and shouting to one another.

"Dink a dink! Gerra snakeyfishes!"

"Yik yik, chukkem inna water!"

"Dink a dinky dink dink! Plenny snakeyfishes, brudders!"

Tagg grabbed Nimbalo. Kicking his way through the wriggling mass, he made it to the top of a rocky mound and stared in wonder at the scene around him. Nimbalo knew what the glimmering threads were. He had seen them once before on the flatlands.

"Elvers, mate! Those are little tiny eels. They travel on the dewy grass, shoals an' shoals of 'em. They can go fer many a league. But where'd all the baby shrews come from?"

Tagg watched the shrews as they raced about killing the elvers, dispatching each one with a quick blow to the head from their flint-tipped clubs. Dead elvers were tossed into the water and washed away downstream into the mountain caves. As they struck out with their clubs, the shrews squeaked triumphantly.

"Dink! Gorra nudder one!"

"Dink a dink! I gorra two snakeyfishes!"

Expertly they flicked the dead elvers into the water with their clubtips. Tagg shook his head. "They aren't babies. Some of them have grey whiskers. Those are fully grown shrews. I've never seen anything like it!"

Nimbalo was taller than the tallest shrew by more than a head. He stood on tip-paw and puffed out his chest scornfully. "Huh, I knew that, mate. Crowd o' liddle nuisances if y'ask me, wakin' us up jus' so they can stock up their larders with elvers!"

The shrews did not let up their mass kill until a good while later, by which time most of the elvers had passed. They slid away like mobile tinsel, the morning sun reflecting off their packed masses as they glided into the distance. Their countless numbers were scarcely affected by the slaughter.

Alfik and Bodjev approached the mound, clubs at the ready. The Chieftain's son wiggled his nose ferociously at Tagg. "We be's Cavemobs, my daddy a Chief. Who be's you?"

Tagg was about to reply when Bodjev clipped Alfik's ear. "Wot I tellya, nit'ead? My name be's Bodjev!" He shook his head almost apologetically at Tagg. "Norra brains, norra manners. Yik yik, younger shrews dese seasons alla same. No respecks!"

Nimbalo bristled at the father's treatment of his son. "No need t'be whackin' 'is lug like that, mate!"

This gave Tagg an idea. Very gently he kicked Nimbalo's bottom and rolled his eyes expressively at the pigmy shrew Chieftain. "I know exactly what you mean, sir. They're always speaking when they're not spoken to. Put a latch on your lip, young Nimbalo!"

Bodjev held his fat stomach as he chuckled. "Yikyikyikyik! Go make playplay, yew two's. I be's Bodjev. Wot be's your name?"

Tagg held out his paw courteously. "Pleased to meet you, Bodjev, sir. My name's Tagg."

Bodjev grinned as he looked the otter up and down. "Tagg? Yikyik, be's a likkle name for a big fella. So, Tagg, you an' your son be likin' snakeyfish pie?"

Tagg kept a polite smile on his face as he shook the shrew's paw. "Never tasted it, sir, but I'm sure 'tis delicious!"

Bodjev put his head on one side as he tried to pronounce delicious. "Lishus! Lishus! Yikyik, good, eh? You come a me, bring de likkle son, we alla 'ave snakeyfish pie. Plenny good!"

Tagg waded through the shallows, with Nimbalo on his shoulders. The harvest mouse was boiling with ill-concealed temper at the treatment he had been shown. "Yore son? That flap-'eaded wiggle-snouted pudden-bellied beast thinks I'm yore son? An' another thing. Wot did you think y'were doin', kickin' me tail like that? Who gave you the right"

Tagg's paw stifled any further remarks. "Safety first, mate. I was only protecting us by making friends with the Chief. Look, I know they're only tiny shrews, but there must be thousands of them, all carrying stone-tipped clubs. We might get a lot of them in a fight, but they'd bring us down in the end, just by their weight of numbers!"

Nimbalo yanked Tagg's paw from his mouth, unappeased. "So ye let 'im whack his son an' yer kicked me tail, just t'make friends. That's very nice, izzenit? We could've battled our way through, betcha an acorn to an oak we could. I remember one time when I fought me way outta a nestful of crows. Hah, slew a good few of them I did, an' I got away safe!"

The otter turned his face to Nimbalo, a no-nonsense look in his eyes. "Where's the point in fighting and slaying if you can make a friend out of anybeast instead of a foe? From now on, while we're the guests of these creatures, we might have to do a few things we don't like. But that's the way it is, mate, and I'll hear no more argument about it. Now straighten your face and smile. You look like a beetle with a bruised brow!"

The harvest mouse kept a grin pasted on his face as he replied, "An' you look like a blackbird with a boiled behind!"

Tagg smiled sweetly, answering from between clenched teeth, "And you look like duck with a webful of custard!"

"Well, you look like a stoat with a stink up 'is nose!"

"In that case you look like a bumblebee with a boil!"

"Hoho, well, you look like a ... a ... a hedgehog with a head h'ache!"

"A head h'ache?"

The two friends burst out laughing.

They skirted a small pool, with a little stream from up in the mountains spilling into it, the cascade hiding the entrance to the pigmy shrews' cave. Dodging through the miniature waterfall, Tagg and Nimbalo emerged into what appeared to be a cathedral-like cavern. It was lit by scores of firefly lanterns and torches and populated by literally thousands of pigmy shrews. The stream continued into the cavern, where it ran into a central lake. Halfway down the stream a net had been stretched under and above the water. Shrews dipped sievelike paddles in and pulled out the dead elvers. These were taken away on a small cart to the kitchen, which was merely lots of cooking fires under wide rock ledges. The cooks there were busy doing all manner of things with the young eels: stewing, baking, roasting and frying. All activity ceased at the sight of Tagg. Every pigmy shrew stood gaping wordlessly at the giant who had entered their domain. Bodjev waddled over to the cooking fires and began boxing ears left, right and center.

"Worra you stan' there for? Thissa my frien' Tagg anna likkle son. You be cookin' lotsa snakeyfish pies for us, quicknow!"

A fat little pigmy shrew pulled a batch of pies out of the crude rock oven with a large wooden paddle. No sooner had she placed them on a cooling shelf than she swung the paddle and caught Bodjev a sharp whack on his behind, shouting fiercely, "Doo a this, doo a that! Kachah! Thissa my kitchen, Daddy Bodjev. You keep 'way, likkle fat lump!"

Bodjev did a tip-pawed dance, rubbing his smarting rear. A combined snigger arose from the cooking staff. The Chieftain backed off, replying savagely, but not too loudly, "One day I bake you inna pie, Chichwife!" He turned to Tagg and Nimbalo with a rueful smile. "Yikyik, my Chichwife, always makin' joke. She love me muchmuch!"

An alcove in the cavern was sumptuously furnished, by pigmy shrew standards, for Bodjev's family and high-ranking friends. He took Tagg and Nimbalo there to dine, away from the main population of Cavemob shrews. The otter could see them from where he sat on a thick mat of springy fernmoss. Their table manners were little better than atrocious. Amid the echoing din of insult and argument, they stole food from their neighbors and engaged in pie fights of amazing savagery.

Bodjev clapped his paws officiously. Four very pretty shrewmaids appeared with lunch, and he nodded at them. "Move youselfs, daughter. Serve, serve!"

His four daughters were quite taken with Nimbalo. Ignoring their father, they served the harvest mouse, fussing about him.

"Thissa rosehip an' almond flower tea, special cold. Yikyikyik!"

"Pies good? Our Chichmum a fine fine cooker, eh? Yikyik!"

Bodjev banged his fork against his empty bowl. "Stoppa gigglin', missies. Poor Daddy be's starvin'!"

Nimbalo was glad when the four shrewmaids left him alone to serve Bodjev and Tagg. He straightened his ruffled headfur and applied himself to the food. The rosehip and almond flower tea was refreshingly cold, obviously made with snow from the mountaintop.

If anybeast had told Tagg that he would enjoy snakeyfish pies before he had tasted the dubiously named dish, he would have declared them mistaken. But the pies were absolutely delicious, round and flat with a soft white pastry crust and a filling that did not resemble anything that looked, smelled or tasted like an elver. It had a texture of oatmeal and a flavor of salt, parsley and sage. Much to the awe of his host, Tagg ate six. Bodjev's wife Chich beamed pleasurably when she was told, and came straight over to the alcove.

"Daddy Bodjev, these goodbeasts you bring here. Big fella's mighty eater. Yik yik, goldie one very hamsing. Chich like him!"

Nimbalo did not know where to put his face. Evidently his light golden brown fur appeared quite attractive to pigmy shrew females. He applied himself to some leftover piecrust. "Thankee, marm. Yore very, er, hamsing y'self!"

Chich threw her apron up over her face and giggled. "Yikyikyikyik! Lissen, big fella, when you go 'way from here, take fatty likkle Bodjev alonga wid you an' leave hamsing goldie here wid Chich. I cook lotsa snakeyfish (lies for that 'un!"

Tagg smiled mischievously. "I'll certainly think about it, marm. What d'you say, handsome goldie?"

Nimbalo scowled as Tagg chucked him under the chin playfully. "Don't even think about it, ye treacherous riverdog!"

The incident was forgotten as a pigmy shrew began battering a huge bronze gong, which reverberated through every corner of the massive cavern. All the Cavemob shrews set up a pitiful wail, then fell silent. Tagg looked to Bodjev. "What's that all about, friend?"

"Izza ole Cavemob law," the Chieftain explained in a subdued voice. "Us gotta make goodsure snakeyfish come back nex' time."

Nimbalo poured himself more iced tea. "Hmm. 'Ow d'yer manage t'do that, mate?"

Bodjev pointed upward at the high cavern ceiling. It was smooth limestone rock, with one long stalactite hanging down. All the pigmy shrews had drawn back to the cave walls, leaving the area beneath the stalactite, not far from the deep lake's edge, completely clear. In the total silence a drop of water fell from the tip, falling through the air for several seconds.

Plock!

The sound echoed about as Bodjev went on to enlighten the visitors. "Waterdrop will fall on chosen Cavemob shrew."

The gong was struck again, and an old shrew in long robes cried out, "Make snakeyfish line. Dance, now!"

All the shrews formed an immense line, long enough to trail around the cavern interior three times. Bodjev rose and nodded to his family. "Us go now, join line. Fortune keep us 'eads dry!"

"Yo Karr, fortune keep us 'eads dry!" Chich, Alfik and his four daughters repeated solemnly.

Nimbalo took hold of the shrewmum's paw. "What'n the name o' fur'n'feathers is goin' on 'ere, Chich?"

She dabbed her apron at her eyes and sniffed. "Everytime snakeyfishes come, Cavemob must choose one to meet Yo Karr, or snakeyfishes come no more. Drop of water fall on shrew head as we dance. That shrew meets Yo Karr."

Bodjev's family went and joined the line, splitting up and each finding a separate place among the others. The shrews began chanting. "Yo Karr, Yo Karr, Yo Karr!" The line moved off, slowly shuffling, swaying from side to side. As they passed under the stalactite, each shrew shut its eyes tight, paws sliding along through the wet area.

Tagg shrugged. "Probably some silly old ritual that goes back as far as anybeast can remember. Look, the ones who've passed under it are going off to stand by the walls again."

Nimbalo watched with growing interest. "Aye, 'cos the drop didn't fall on 'em. I wonder wot Yo Karr is? Must be some kind of award, eh?"

Tagg saw the relief on the faces of those who had passed under the stalactite and come away dry. He noticed the looks of fear on those whose turn was yet to come. "Huh. It doesn't appear to be an award anybeast wants to gain."

Plock!

A mighty cry arose from the pigmy shrews as the line broke. "Yo Kaaaaarrrrr!"

One of Bodjev's pretty daughters stood rooted to the spot, the fat drop of water running down her brow to mingle with her tears. An uneasy feeling had been building up in Tagg's chest. He stood up.

"Come on, mate. Let's go out there and see what's going to happen!"

Huddled together, the shrewmaid's family hugged one another and wept. Tagg pulled Bodjev away from them. "Listen, friend, I don't like this. Now tell me once and for all, what's going on? Why are you all blubbering like this, eh?"

Tears ran openly down the fat little Chieftain's face. He pointed to the deep lake near the cavern's center. "It is law. You look, you see."

Picking pawfuls of dead elvers from a bowl, the old robed shrew who had beaten the gong hurled them into the lake. From the bluegreen translucent depths something came rushing up and broke the surface. Tagg felt himself go stiff with fright. A gigantic eel glided about, its needlelike teeth snapping the elvers into its ugly mouth. It swirled back under, lying just beneath the surface, its thick olive-hued back and dirty amber underside clearly visible as it waited on more food.

The fur on Nimbalo's neck was bristling with horror and anger as he yelled at the pigmy shrew Chieftain. "Yore not goin' t'let'em feed yer daughter to that thing, are ye?"

Bodjev hung his head and turned away. "It is law of Cavemob shrews, so snakeyfish will return. Dinat must go to meet Yo Karr."

The harvest mouse dashed to the shrewmaid's side and put a protective paw about her shoulders, roaring defiantly, "Not while Nimbalo the Slayer's 'round she ain't. I'll drop the first one who puts a paw on 'er!"

The pigmy shrews rushed him. Tagg bounded into the fray to help his friend. Shrews piled in on the pair until they were completely swamped and subdued. Tagg lay trying to breathe under the masses of small furry bodies, unable to move as much as a single paw. Nimbalo was in the same position. The old robed shrew pointed to the shrewmaid Dinat, then to the lake where the monster eel waited, its long backfin stirring the water. Dinat looked as if she was in a trance as the shrew called out, "Yo Karr waits. Go to Yo Karr. You be chosen!"

Dinat walked slowly forward onto the rock ledge that formed the brief shallows at the side of the deep lake. The eel turned and swam slowly forward, stalking the terror-stricken shrewmaid.

Tagg could feel himself blacking out as the crowded shrewbodies pressed down on him. The mouse warrior was suddenly in front of his mind's eye.

"Deyna!" The warrior spoke the one word, then bared his teeth savagely, opening his mouth wide and snapping his teeth together.

"Yeek! Yahee! Aaaarr!"

Pigmy shrews were sent hurtling off the pile, some ot them with blood showing on backs and paws. Furious energy coursed through the big otter's muscles and sinews. Between bites he sucked in mighty gulps of life giving air. His limbs and rudder together lashed out like steel pistons. Nimbalo felt the shrews being kicked from him and began lashing out, yelling, "Go at 'em, mate! Give 'em the ole one-two!"

Tagg was standing upright, like a colossus, shaking oft the Cavemob. He roared at the sight of the shrewmaid, locked in the eel's swirling coils as she was dragged screaming from the ledge. Then he broke free and tore toward the lake, hurtling straight into the air and diving down. He cut the water like a knife, locking all four paws around the huge eel's head and setting his teeth into the back of its heavy neck. Nimbalo booted aside a few venturesome shrews and ran to the stream. Tearing the elver net loose, he grabbed the nearest shrew, who happened to be Alfik, and shouted in his face, "Don't jus' stan' there! Lend a paw 'ere or I'll slay ye!" Between them they began dragging the net toward the lake. Bodjev joined them, seizing the heavy net and dragging with them.

Now the eel had its coils around Tagg. It had released Dinat and was concentrating upon its attacker. Arching its head back, it tried biting at the otter, but Tagg clung on like a grim nemesis, clenching his viselike jaws as he bit deeper into the monstrous neck, seeking bone. Down, down they sank, locked together. Tagg felt the air being squeezed from his lungs as the eel tried to kill him by crushing tighter and tighter. The lake was seemingly bottomless and icy cold. Otter and eel sank farther into a world of aquamarine ribboned with scarlet. Bubbles burst in a stream from Tagg's mouth, and he began to feel certain that he would die in the watery depths with an eel embracing him. Then something brushed against his face. It was the tip of the net.

Freeing his teeth from the eel, he locked them around one of the stone weights woven into the net's hem. Squirming around, the eel bit his shoulder and clung on. Despite the pain, Tagg bent his elbow around and got the monster in a headlock. They began rising swiftly toward the surface, the otter with his neck and jaw muscles rigid as he gripped the net with all the strength he could muster. Looking downward from the corner of his left eye, he could see the eel's gold-and-black-rimmed eye staring back at him, his elbow lock preventing its teeth from reaching his outstretched throat.

Then everything was roaring sound, and Tagg's head broke the surface. He saw Nimbalo and a host of yelling shrews, standing on the shallow ledge, heaving on the net.

"Pull! Pull, ye string-snouted swabs, gerrim up 'ere on the ledge!"

Tagg sensed himself and the thrashing eel being hauled sideways, felt his rudder scrape the ledge and then he was in the shallows. Nimbalo hurled himself upon the eel, kicking, biting and punching. "Ye great slimy son of a greasy rope, let's see 'ow many pies we can make outta you!"

Wrenching its teeth from the otter, the eel went for Nimbalo. Tagg felt the constricting coils slacken slightly. Like lightning he whipped out his blade and stabbed deep into the creature's neck where his teeth had been sunk earlier. Suddenly the monster resembled, in truth, the piece of greasy rope Nimbalo had called it. All power left its body, and the bulky coils fell uselessly away from Tagg. It lay hissing softly, its once bright eyes clouding over.

Bodjev waded in and patted it. "Yikyikyik! Make an' 'undred pies outta Yo Karr; mebbe two!"

Chichwife splashed in and cuffed his ear smartly. "Phwah! I not gonna cook datbeast inter pies. Back inna lake wirrim. Back inna lake, brudders!"

As best they could, Nimbalo, Bodjev and Alfik dragged Tagg from the water onto the cavern floor. He lay there exhausted and watched the shrews roll the eel off the ledge. It sunk limply into the depths until it was lost to sight. The shrewmaid Dinat and her three sisters set about dressing Tagg's shoulder, and then she clasped the otter's paw gratefully.

"Thankee much much, big fella, you save this Dinat's life!"

Nimbalo took the knife from Tagg and cleaned it. "Sorry I took so long gettin' the net to ye, matey. I 'ad t'pull Dinat out wid it first, an' by then you'd gone so far down we could 'ardly see yer. I thought you was a goner that time, on me oath I did."

Tagg grinned. "Well, I'm back now, handsome golden one."

Taking his blade back, he beckoned to Bodjev. "Yo Karr's dead now. Listen, friend, you're the Chieftain here. You should never have let that happen to your own daughter."

Bodjev looked sheepish. He shrugged awkwardly. "Law. It was ole Cavemob law, always be'd thataway."

Tagg jabbed his fat stomach with the knife handle. "Don't let it ever happen again. Sacrificing creatures' lives! What an awful idea. You're the Chief, make some new laws. The elvers'll still come back, you'll see."

Bodjev stuck out his stomach and shouted to the pigmy shrews, "Lissen, alla Cavemobs. I Chief make lotsa new law. Nomore Yo Karr, nomore die, snakeyfish still come back, you see."

Alfik stepped up beside his father amid the cheering. "Nomore Cavemobs die! Good ole Daddy!"

Bodjev cuffed his ear. "Worra I tell you, nit'ead?"

Tagg caught Bodjev's paw as he raised it again. "And no more ear-smacking, or name-calling. Why not be kinder to one another? It'll make life a lot nicer."

Alfik saw his father's footpaw starting to rise. "An' nomore tailkick!" he shouted.

Bodjev stared at Tagg in disbelief. "Nomore tailkick?"

The otter shook his head. "No more tail kicks, ear smacks or name calls. The Cavemob will be polite and live happily together. This is the law now. All who wish it this way, raise your paws and shout aye."

The response was thunderous. Paws waved wildly and roars of "Aye" resounded throughout the cavern. Tagg noticed that Bodjev was looking rather crestfallen, so he waited for the noise to die away and made another announcement.

"This is the new law of Bodjev, mighty Chief of the Cavemob, whose name will be forever remembered among your tribe."

Cheering themselves hoarse, the pigmy shrews waved their clubs and danced around the big otter as he carried Bodjev shoulder high around the cavern.

"Your biggun be wisefriend," Alfik whispered to Nimbalo. "Lookit Daddy, he smile an' smile lots!"

The harvest mouse feigned a yawn and sat himself down. "So 'e should be, mate. I taught 'im everythin' 'e knows!"

Chapter 18

For the first time since the start of an ill-fated trip, Gruven felt himself really in command. He sat by the replenished fire, which Vallug had made, watching Dagrab, Ribrow and Rawback. Dawn was well up and the three vermin were lying so close to the fire that he could smell singeing fur. Gruven snapped twigs, flicking them at the sleepers until they stirred and sat up rubbing their eyes. Rawback looked around. "So, Vallug an' Eefera never came back durin' the night, Chief?"

Gruven poked at the fire with his sword. "Huh! Did you expect 'em to? Those two are long gone, an' good riddance too, I say. Who needs 'em?"

He listened as the three vermin speculated.

"Mebbe they picked up the otter's tracks an' went after 'im their selves, eh?"

"Suppose they got lost an' they're layin' out there in the snow, frozen stiff?"

"Don't talk daft. One of 'em lit this fire, an' it was still burnin' when we found it last night. I think somethin' 'appened to 'em!"

"Like wot?"

"I dunno, maybe they was attacked."

"Attacked by who? Vallug an' Eefera are both good fighters, they could take care of themselves."

"Suppose it was somebeast who was better'n 'em. You don't know wot sort o' creatures are livin' on this mountain."

Gruven jumped upright and scattered the fire with his sword. The trio leapt back, brushing sparks from themselves as he snarled, "Yore like a bunch of ole gossipers, sittin' there arguin'. I'll tell ye wot I think, then we'll go an' do somethin' about it instead of sittin' freezin' our tails off!"

By the respectful silence that followed, Gruven knew he was boss.

"If Vallug an' Eefera was killed by otherbeasts up 'ere, we ain't stoppin' 'round t'find out. I always said climbin' this mountain was a waste o' time. That otter was never up 'ere. So this is wot we're gonna do. We'll get off the mountain an' track Vallug an' Eefera, an' I bet they'll lead us to the otter. Then all three of 'em are goin' to die, the otter 'cos that's who we came to kill, Vallug an' Eefera 'cos they're traitors, desertin' their own clanbeasts, leavin' us to perish from cold an' starvation. Come on, let's move!"

The two stoats, Rawback and Ribrow, walked behind Gruven and Dagrab, conversing in whispers.

"D'you think Gruven knows where 'e's leadin' us?"

"No, mate, but anywhere's better'n 'ere."

"Right y'are. Keep yore eyes peeled for vittles. I'm famished."

The rat Dagrab slithered alongside Gruven, warm sunlight on the hard-packed snow making the downhill descent quite difficult. She kept her eyes down, watching the ground underpaw.

"Look, Chief, prints in the snow!"

Gruven inspected the faint impressions left in the previous night's snowfall. "Hah, I was right! Vallug an' Eefera passed this way. Good work, Dagrab. We're on their trail right enough. Scout on ahead a bit, see wot y'can find!"

"Huh, 'e was right?" Ribrow scoffed, covering his mouth with a paw. "Wot 'e means is 'e was lucky Dagrab wuz keepin' 'er eyes about 'er."

Once they were clear of the snow, the going became much easier. By midafternoon Gruven's party were on the lower slopes among huge boulders, scrub vegetation and shale. Gruven and the two stoats rested by a trickling stream, gnawing on some milk vetch leaves. Gruven was feeling cheerful.

"See, warm weather, clean water an' a bit o' food. Good, eh?" Ribrow and Rawback continued eating in silence as Gruven continued, "Dagrab lost the tracks a bit back there, but she'll pick 'em up again. Don't worry, I won't steer us wrong."

Ribrow spat out a hard bit of stalk, nodding downhill. "Oh, we ain't worried, Chief, but Dagrab doesn't look too 'appy. 'Ere she comes now, see."

Scrabbling breathlessly uphill, Dagrab returned to make her report. "Looks like all kinds o' stuff growin' down there on some ledges, Chief. Proper vittles, mushrooms, wild onions, some turnips an' stuff like that. Only thing is there's a load of liddle beasts, look like shrews. Good job they never saw me. There's a lot of 'em an' they look well armed, clubs, knives, spears ..."

Gruven tossed away a pawful of vetch leaves. "Liddle beasts like shrews, eh, with plenty o' vittles too? Let's go an' take a look."

From their vantage point on a rocky boulder-strewn spur, the four vermin lay looking down. Far below were broad terraces above the foothills covered in deposits of rich alluvial soil. The pigmy shrews were farming, planting seedlings and gathering in their vegetable crops. Between where they were working and the high spur where the vermin lay was a steep wasteland of thistle, fern, scree, boulders and shale.

Gruven's smile was one of pure wickedness. "This'll probly make a bit o' mess, but we're not interested in next season's crops, just enough fer a few good meals."

Putting his shoulder to a rounded boulder, he pushed it over the edge, calling to the others, "Come on, send some rocks down that slope!"

The boulders hit the steep incline, bouncing and setting other boulders and shalebanks on the move wherever they struck, smashing fern beds, crushing thistles and sending huge masses of scree into a thundering avalanche. Pigmy shrews scattered hither and thither, squealing in panic as the mountain thundered down on them, crushing anybeast not swift enough to avoid the destruction.

Gruven laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. The plan was working. "Hahahaha! It's like droppin' pebbles an' sand on ants, hahahaha! Lookit 'em, they don't know which way t'run fer the best, hahaha!"

The three other vermin caught his mood and began tipping more boulders over the edge onto the creatures below.

"Whoohoo! Looka that 'un runnin'. Hoho, 'e's tripped an' fell!"

"Watch me get those two 'idin' be'ind that rowan tree!"

"Heehee, that liddle one just vanished under a load o' shale!"

They watched until the massive landslide subsided. Gruven leaned on his sword and smirked at his companions. "That'll teach 'em, fillin' their bellies while there's 'ungry Juska warriors starvin' up 'ere. There's a good few baskets full o' fresh picked food down there that never got buried. Told yer I wouldn't steer ye wrong, didn't I? Let's slide down there an' see wot the pickin's are like."

Nimbalo jumped at the sudden rumbling and clattering that echoed through the cavern.

"Great seasons, wot's that, mate? Thunder'nlightnin' again?"

Alfik scrambled up the streambank to the curtaining waterfall that shielded the entrance. "Stay. Not thunder'n'lightnin', that rockfall, not safe. Stay!"

Nimbalo made to follow him, but was stopped by Tagg's strong paw. "Best stop here, mate. These creatures know their own mountain best. That rockfall sounds bad!"

They waited until the rumblings ceased. There was a brief silence, then the Cavemob shrews began chattering wildly and moving toward the cave entrance. Bodjev headed them off, calling for calm.

"Shushupp, shushupp, alla beast! Nogo, stay 'ere. Alfik cleverwise son, know best. Wait, wait 'til Alfik comeback!"

The wait was rather a long one. Anxious shrews who had family and friends outside chattered away interminably to one another. Nimbalo covered his ears, screwing his face up.

"The blinkin' noise that lot are makin' is worse than the rockfall."

Tagg nodded sympathetically. "Aye, but they've probably got kin out there and they're worried. I wish Alfik would come back. Hope he's all right."

Virtually as the otter finished speaking, Alfik came splashing hurriedly through the watery cascade and made straight for Tagg. "Death be's out there, lotsa death, much hurted Cavemobs. Four beasts too, biggabeasts, mebbe yore size, big knifes, spear, lookalike bad. Muchbad!"

The big otter drew his blade, his tattooed face grim. "Bodjev, you and your shrews stay here for a while. Wait a bit before you follow me. I know who those beasts must be, and I don't want any of the Cavemob hurt because of me!"

Nimbalo picked up a flint-studded club and followed his friend to the entrance. Tagg shook his head. "Not this time, mate. This is something I've got to do alone!"

The harvest mouse brushed by him. "No mate o' mine fights standin' alone, I don't care wot ye say. I'm goin' with ye, Tagg. If there's four of 'em you'll need somebeast to watch yore back, no arguments!"

Tagg flashed him a quick smile. "You're a real pal, Nimbalo the Slayer!"

Amid the devastation they had caused to the neatly farmed terraces, the four vermin laughed amid fallen boulders and dead pigmy shrews, callously feeding themselves. Gruven stuffed fresh button mushrooms into his mouth, grabbing at Dagrab as she passed with a basket.

"Strawberries! Why didn't ye tell me there was strawberries 'ere? Gimme some o' those, ye greedy rat!" He spat out the mushrooms and began stuffing strawberries.

Ribrow had a basket part filled with scallions. He munched on a bunch and belched loudly. "Nothin' like fresh-picked veggibles. 'Ere, mate, d'yer want some?" He held out the basket to a groaning pigmy shrew, buried to the chest in rubble, with blood crusting upon his brow. "Doesn't know wot's good fer 'im," Ribrow scoffed. " 'E don't want none. Rawback, chuck some of that celery over 'ere, will ye?"

Rawback was nibbling on some tender young carrots. He threw the celery, but it missed Ribrow's outstretched paw, landing on the back of a dead shrew. Ribrow shot him a look of disgust.

"I ain't gonna eat that now. Yore a lousy thrower!"

Gruven pulled a face and stood up, patting his stomach. "Too many strawberries gives me the gripes. Anythin' else that looks tasty 'round 'ere?"

He turned to scan the far end of what had been the Cavemob shrews' terrace field and saw Tagg, still some fair distance away. For an instant, shock rooted the stoat to the spot. But then he sprang into action. Without a word he ran off down the mountainside in the opposite direction. When Dagrab saw him hurtling off through the rubble and into a grove of rowans, she forgot the strawberry in her paw. "Where's the Chief off to?"

Rawback looked up and saw Tagg thundering toward them. "Yaaaargh! The Taggerung!"

They leaped up and fled like sparrows from a hawk, in the direction Gruven had taken. Ribrow was slightly slower than Dagrab or Rawback, and his paw struck a sharp rock. Leaping and yelping, he hobbled as fast as he could, until a sinewy paw caught the back of his neck in a ferocious grip. Tagg spun the stoat around and stunned him with a resounding blow from his rudder.

Nimbalo had now reached the avalanched area and was yelling, "Tagg, mate, there's wounded an' injured all over the place 'ere. Lend a paw, will you? You've got to 'elp me with 'em!"

For a moment Tagg was torn by indecision. He looked in the direction Gruven, Dagrab and Rawback had taken, his eyes blazing hatred, his whole body quivering as he strove to control himself. Then, hauling the unconscious Ribrow over his shoulder, he growled, "You'll do for now. I ll track those other three down. They can't run fast or far enough with a Taggerung on their trail!"

Driven by fear, Gruven ran like a hunted animal. Some distance behind he could hear what he thought to be the furious otter coming after him. Actually it was Dagrab and Rawback trying to catch up with him, but Gruven did not intend to stop and face the enemy. He pushed on, certain that the other three had run in different directions, or had been hunted down and slain. He struggled open-mouthed to suck in air, his paws pounding over rock, grass and earth alike. Behind him he heard the crackle of snapping foliage. Panic swept over him and he dodged to the left, into an area of boulders, stunted trees and a fast-flowing stream, which bordered the flatlands. He tried to bridge the stream with a running leap and failed, coming down with a splash into the shallows below the opposite bank. His right footpaw was almost skinned to the bone as it shot between a rock and a root under the water. A screech of pain welled from his throat and he overbalanced to fall backward into the stream.

With their tongues lolling and chests heaving like bellows, Dagrab and Rawback tried to halt at the edge of the narrow stream, but their momentum carried them sliding awkwardly on the damp grass into the shallows below. Scrambling upright, they spat out water, staring openmouthed at Gruven in the shallows near the other side. Their leader was lying on his back, trying to scrub mud and water from his eyes and wailing piteously, "Don't kill me, please! It was the others who caused the landslide, I tried to stop them! Let me live an' I'll 'elp ye to hunt 'em down, I'll do anythin', only spare me, please!" He broke down, blubbering and pleading.

Rawback waded across and stood over Gruven, a look of loathing and contempt plain on his villainous face.

"Gerrup, ye whimperin' idiot, an' pack in yer whingin'! 'Tis only us!"

Gruven dried his eyes swiftly. "Where's the otter? Is he comin' after us?"

Dagrab waded across to study the muddy bankside. "We never 'eard 'im followin' us. So there's no need fer all the shoutin' an' cryin'."

Suddenly Gruven was back to his old self. "I wasn't cryin'. I was callin' out 'cos I'm in pain. If'n yer took the trouble t'look, you'd see my footpaw's trapped!"

Rawback grinned wickedly. "Why so 'tis. 'Ere, let me 'elp yer, Chief."

The stoat could have freed the paw instantly, but he pretended it was a difficult task. Leaning down on Gruven's scraped limb, he ignored his leader's cries, wrenching and scraping the hurt footpaw maliciously, but keeping his voice pleasant.

"There there now, on'y babes cry an' moan. So, you was the one who tried ter stop us causin' the landslide, eh? Ain't you the big brave Juskazann. Young Gruven the terror, eh? All we could 'ear on the journey was 'ow you was goin' to slay the otter. All those 'orrible things you wuz goin' t'do when ye laid paws on 'im. Hoho, soon as ye clapped eyes on the Taggerung you took off, like a butterfly from a jackdaw. Wot 'appened, O Mighty One? Why didn't ye stand an' fight like yore mama told yer to?"

Gruven pushed Rawback aside and wrenched his footpaw free. "Why didn't you, or you, Dagrab? Yore supposed to be veteran trackers an' killers. I'd 'ave taken that otter on if'n you two cowards would've stayed t'back me up. Aye, we could've done with Vallug an' Eefera there too. They ran long afore the otter showed up. Though if'n they ain't trackin' 'im, wot are they up to?"

Dagrab pointed at the bankside. "Well, we'll soon know when we catch up wid 'em. There's Eefera's pawprints. Weasels ain't 'ard to reckernize. Aye, an' Vallug's still with 'im. See the scratches off'n 'is bowtip an' the deep prints 'e made leverin' 'imself over the banktop? They're 'eaded west by the look o' things."

Gruven slapped cooling mud on his scraped limb, binding a dock leaf to it with weed strands, then stood up and tested his balance.

"Right, we're goin' after those two slybeasts. 'Tis all clear t'me now. They knew all along that the otter'd never show 'is face near a Juska camp again, an' no clanbeast'd ever come this far from our territory to check any story they might tell. So all they do is turn up back at camp an' tell Grissoul that we're all dead, the otter too, an' next thing y'know they're clan chiefs. That's it!"

Rawback climbed to the banktop, shaking his head. "Ye've got it right, 'cept fer one thing. Only one of 'em'll make it back to camp. Ain't no room fer two chiefs. I'll wager 'tis Vallug who returns alone. 'E wuz always the deadliest slayer."

Dagrab climbed up beside Rawback. "Huh, that's wot you say, but Eefera ain't no fool. I've tracked alongside that weasel many a time, an' they don't come any slyer. Vallug's big an' powerful, but my bet is that the one who makes it back'll be ole Eefera. 'E's the craftier of the two."

Gruven scrambled to the banktop, motioning them to move off. "I don't care which one 'tis, I'll slice 'is 'ead off with this sword as soon as we make it back to camp. All you two's gotta remember is that I killed the otter. Stick to that story an' I'll promote ye both to Chief Trackers. You can 'ave yore own followers, give yer own orders, an' live off the cream o' the land. Now let's get goin' while there's still plenty o' daylight!"

Chapter 19

Every fourth summer, Skipper and his ottercrew went off to a Hullabaloo. They would follow streams and rivers down to the shores of the great sea, where they would meet up with other otter crews and many of the sea otters from the far north. Hullabaloo was a festival that could last until autumn, as long as the otters were having fun. Meeting old friends and relatives, sporting in the waves, singing, dancing and lighting bonfires each night on the beach for the inevitable feasts was good rough fun, of the sort that ottercrews enjoy immensely.

Skipper and his crew marched out of Redwall's gates that morning, waving, cheering, and promising to bring back lots of shells for the Dibbuns. Mhera stood out on the path with her friends, calling goodbyes and fluttering kerchiefs until the otters merged into the sun-shimmering distance of the flatlands.

Fwirl accompanied the ottermaid back inside the Abbey. "Why didn't you go with them, Mhera? 'Twould be a lovely holiday for you and your mama."

Mhera shrugged. "We've not been part of any crew for many seasons now. Skipper said we were welcome to join them, but there's too much to be done here, Fwirl. Friar Bobb couldn't do without Mama; she loves the kitchens as much as he does. As for me, well, I've got my riddle to solve and Cregga to watch over. Besides, I like Redwall in summer. There's always something going on."

Fwirl linked paws with her friend. "I do too. Haha, we're both becoming a regular old pair of Abbeybeasts. Come on, I promised Broggle that I'd help your mama and Friar Bobb to get lunch ready. It won't be too difficult, with twoscore otters out of the way. Race you to the kitchens!"

Even though the lunch that day was a splendid one, Mhera sat toying with her plate of celery and chestnut bake, rearranging the salad surrounding it into random patterns. A leaden lump in her chest would not allow her to enjoy the food. Failure weighed heavily upon the ottermaid. Raucous laughter from the far table, where Drogg Cellarhog and old Hoarg were challenging one another to imaginary feats of eating, did nothing to lift her spirits.

Drogg was gesturing airily with a wooden spoon. "1 could chase down a chestful o' chestnuts with cherry juice wine!"

Hoarg smiled patronizingly over his glasses at this effort. "I could purloin a portion o' pears an' pop 'em down with a pot o' pennycress cordial!"

And so the banter went back and forth.

"Ho, ye could, could ye? Well, you'd best step aside when I attack an Abbeyful of apples an' ask for an ample allocation of ale afterward!"

"Step aside? I step aside for nobeast, whether it be a hallowed hedgehog, an officious otter, a seasoned squirrel, a mutterin' mole or a befuddled badger!"

Boorab, who was referee, rapped old Hoarg's paw with an oatfarl. "Foul, sah! Infringement of the rules. You changed your initial letter no less than five times an' never jolly well mentioned food once. You lose two points, old chap, an' that slice o' fruitcake. No kerfufflin', penalty must be accepted!"

Amid gales of laughter, the hare stole a slice of fruitcake from Hoarg's plate and bolted it. The younger element began calling, "You have a go, Mr. Boorab, go on, show em how 'tis done!"

Boorab gulped the fruitcake down and obliged. "Ahem! I could simply scoff sixty-six sticks of celery separately, swallow seventeen swigs o' sweet cider an' sensationally scrunch a selection of salad whilst simperin' smilin' and singin' soulfully to serenade Sister Alkanet's stern stares!" Amid hoots of merriment he bowed to the Sister. "So sorry your name didn't begin with an S, marm!"

She rose abruptly and carried her plate and beaker off to another table, where she sat glaring frostily at the funsters. "Ridiculous! Grown Redwallers behaving like naughty Dibbuns!"

Boorab bounded over and plonked himself down alongside Mhera, attempting to cheer her up.

"I say, wot? Pretty young thing like y'self sittin' there with a face on you like a frog who's lost his fiddle. Y'best hurry up an' jolly well smile, or you'll stick like that, ask Sister Alkanet. She knows all about that stuff. Her face stuck like that when she was an infant, doncher know, missed her mouth an' poured a bowl of custard down her ear, never smiled since, wot!"

Cregga's huge paw lifted the hare right out of his seat. "Away with you and leave my friend Mhera alone."

As he rose in the air, Boorab took Mhera's plate of lunch with him. "Er, right you are, mighty marm. I say, you don't mind me taking this with me, wot. Save it bein' wasted. Can't abide waste, y'know."

Mhera relieved him of the plate and returned it to the table. "You can have it if you apologize to Sister Alkanet about the rude and unkind remarks you made about her!"

The Badgermum stroked Mhera's cheek softly. "He's right, you know. Sitting there scowling won't solve much."

Mhera pushed the plate of food away. "I'm sorry, Cregga, it's just that I haven't the time to fool about. I'm just so angry with myself that I can't solve the mystery of the green cloth with the writing on. I need to get away on my own, so I can think clearly. It's noisy in here."

Lifting her head, the badger checked the chattering, the clatter of plates and the scraping of chairs with her keen senses.

"Hmm, it is rather boisterous, but then summer lunchtimes are usually like this. You've never noticed because a certain ottermaid named Mhera is normally part of it all. Would you like to go up to my room for a bit?"

"I'd love to. Thanks, Cregga!"

The Badgermum put her head on one side as if pondering something. "Wait. Maybe it'd be better if you went up and took a rest in the infirmary sickbay. It's nice and quiet in there, you know."

Mhera could not help pulling a wry face at this suggestion. "I don't feel ill. Why should I go to the sickbay?"

Cregga shrugged. "No urgent reason really, but I was just thinking. Abbess Song loved to take a nap up there when it was empty. She liked the room, said it was both cool and clean."

Mhera rose from the table. "Clean and cool. Good. I'll give it a try."

Boorab came to the table when Mhera had left. He reached for the leftover luncheon, but Cregga's paw closed over his. "Well, sah, did you apologize graciously to Sister Alkanet?"

"Yith, marb, I dibb!"

Cregga frowned. "What are you talking like that for?"

"I 'pologithed add webt to kitth hurr paw."

Cregga translated. "You apologized and went to kiss her paw, is that what you're trying to say? What happened?"

"The Thithter thmacked bee inna node wib a pudden thpoon!"

Cregga nodded approvingly. "Sister Alkanet smacked you in the nose with a pudding spoon. Well, good for her! Does it hurt?"

"Yith. It thmarth!"

"Oh, I see. And do you look unhappy?"

"Udhabby? Ob courth I lukk udhabby!"

Cregga allowed him to take the plate. "Well, there you are, Boorab, but don't forget to smile, or you'll stick like that, remember!"

Boorab wandered off, muttering darkly, "Thmile? Huh, she bight thigg I'b laffig add gibb be anudder thock wib 'er pudden thpoon!"

It was indeed quiet, peaceful and clean in the little sickbay. Mhera lay down on a truckle bed and gazed around. The room had a wonderful old aroma of verbena. A warm circle of sunlight, coming through the small circular