Brian Jacques - Redwall 08 - The Outcast Of Redwall

It was a warm old autumn afternoon of russet and gold, a time for legends and

stories of seasons long gone. Blue haze on the far horizon blended sea and sky

into one. On the pale sands of a silent shore, ebbing waves had carelessly

strewn a broken necklace of shells and pebbles along the tideline. Standing

tall and mysterious was the mountain, like some huge beast guarding the coast.

Salamandastron! Stronghold of Badger Lords and fighting hares. Once, when the

earth was young, it had spouted fire and molten rock. But the winds of time

had long since banished smoke from the monolith, cooling its stones. Now

Salamandastron was home and fortress combined, run through and honeycombed

with halls, caverns, corridors, chambers, tunnels, and secret places.

Midway up the west face on a broad rocky ledge tufted with shrubs and

wildflowers, a picnic lunch was set, close to the mouth of a tunnel entrance.

Half a score of leverets, young hares, attended by a fully grown harewife, sat

watching an

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2Brian Jacques

ancient otter. Stooped and grayed by many seasons, he stood leaning on an ash

pole, shaking his grizzled head in disapproval, as old creatures often will

when faced with the young. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong

for an old-beast.

"Hmph! Wish I was at die Abbey, those young 'uns at Redwall have proper

manners. Instead o' layin' about gawpin', first thing they'd do would be help

a body sit down!"

Stifling a smile, the harewife watched die leverets scurrying around the aged

otter, doing their best to show respect and concern as they assisted him.

"A seat, y'say, nothing simpler, old chap, er, I mean, sir." "Pop y'self down

here, sir, grass is nice an' soft, wot!" "Whoops a daisy! Easy does it, oF

sir!" "Lean y'back on this rock, that's the ticket!" "Righto, ancient one,

comfy enough now?" The venerable beast nodded slowly. "Well enough, thank ye.

Now, are you all goin' t'stand mere watchin' a pore creature starve?"

There followed a further scuffle as the young hares set food and drink before

their guest.

"Enough tuck to kill a duck here, sir!" "Summer Salad an' a beaker of Old

Mountain Ale." "How about fresh-baked carrot'n'leek flan?" "Some scones with

gooseberry jelly, very good y'know!" "Rather! Give the old chap a hot pastie!"

When the old otter was served, the harewife beckoned the young ones back to

their seats. "Good show, chaps, but mind y'manners or Mr. Rillbrook won't tell

you a story."

Beneath fuzzy brows, Rillbrook's old eyes glinted mischievously. He broke open

a steaming pastie and said, grumpily, "Story? Just stopped here t'rest awhile,

marm, wasn't intend-in' t'do no storytellin'."

Outcast of Redwall 3

A fat, cheeky leveret piped up indignantly, "Scoffin' a load of our grub an'

not tellin' a story? I say, what a bally swizz!"

The harewife cuffed his long ear lightly. "Burrbob! That's quite enough from

you, m'laddo. I don't think you deserve a story after such impudence!"

Rillbrook took a deep draught of Mountain Ale, smacked his lips, and wiped a

paw across his mouth. "Oh, I dunno, marm, a good story often teaches rotters

an' rogues to be better creatures."

The leverets shouted encouragement eagerly.

"Rather, tell on, old chap!"

"I'll say! Anythin' t'make us better creatures, wot?"

"Do us the world o' good, doncha know!"

The ancient otter waited until silence fell and they were watching him

expectantly, then he began.

"They call me Rillbrook the Wanderer, son of Rillbrook the Wanderer; my

grandsire was called Rillbrook the Wanderer. ..."

The cheeky Burrbob could be heard muttering, "I s'pose his great great auntie

was called Rillbrook the Thingummy, we know that, get on with the yarn.

Yowch!"

This time the harewife's quick paw did not descend so lightly on the impudent

leveret's ear. She fixed him with a frosty glare and said, "One more word from

you, sir, and it's bed with no supper!"

Burrbob took the hint, becoming the very model of silence.

Rillbrook started from where he had left off.

"I have wandered all the seasons of my life, near and far, sometimes under

forgotten skies, along hidden streams, across silent forests. I have seen many

things: mountains topped with snow, hot wastelands where creatures would kill

for water. I have eaten among strangebeasts, listened to their songs, poems,

and stories, words that have brought tears and laughter to these old eyes. I

have heard tales so mysterious that they

4Brian Jacques

trouble my memory and still return to roam my dreams on lonely nights.

"Listen now, and I will relate to you a mighty saga. It concerns a Badger Lord

who once ruled this mountain, and his mortal enemy, a Ferret Warlord. The

destiny of these two was entwined with many creatures, but mainly with two

young ones who dwelt at the Abbey of Red wall. They were a pair thrown

together by chance, for good or evil.

' 'Each of us is born to follow a star, be it bright and shining or dark and

fated. Sometimes the paths of these stars will cross, bringing love or hatred.

However, if you look up at the skies on a clear night, out of all the

countless lights that twinkle and shine, there will come one. That star will

be seen in a blaze, burning a path of light across the roof of the earth, a

great comet. Think on these words as my tale unfolds. Mayhap you will learn

something valuable, not about stars, but of the value friendship brings."

BOOK ONE

A Friendship Made

Skarlath the kestrel fledged later than his brothers and sisters; the autumn

was almost over when he left the nest, never to return. This is the way with

hawks. They are fierce and independent, free spirits who love to soar high.

So it was with Skarlath, but being young and reckless he flew north and was

trapped by winter. Howling gales from the very edges of the world bore him

away. The young kestrel was held captive by a whirling mass of snow that swept

him over hill, dale, and forest. Shrieking winds drove him along, a bundle of

wet feathers in a tight cocoon of damp white flakes that built on to his

plumage in small drifts. Helpless, Skarlath was shot like an arrow into a

forest. His body smashed against the trunk of an old hornbeam. Relentlessly

the storm plunged onward, keening a wild dirge, leaving in its wake the

unconscious young kestrel.

Skarlath regained his senses slowly. It was night, still, with not a breeze

about the forest. The cold was bitter and intense,

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Brian Jacques

and frost glittered and twinkled on snow-laden tree boughs. Somewhere close he

could see the glow of a fire, but could not feel its heat. Voices and raucous

laughter came from the lighted area, drawing him, but when he tried to move,

the young kestrel squawked aloud in pain. His whole body was pinioned by ice;

he was frozen tight, spread-eagled to the trunk of the hornbeam.

Swartt Sixclaw sat closest to the fire. He was a young ferret, but obviously

the leader of the threescore vermin who made up the band. Tall, vicious, and

sinewy, Swartt had made himself Chieftain, because he was quicker and stronger

than any who dared challenge him. He was a fearsome sight to friend and foe

alike, his face striped with a sloping pattern of purple and green dye, teeth

stained glistening red. Round his neck hung the teeth and claws of dead

enemies. His left forepaw bore six claws'—it rested on the hilt of a long

curved sword thrust through a snakeskin belt.

The kestrel's agonized cries brought Swartt upright. Kicking a nearby stoat,

he snarled, "Trattak, go and see what's makin' that noise."

The stoat scuttled obediently off into the snow-laden trees. It did not take

him long to find Skarlath. "Over 'ere, some stupid bird got itself froze to a

tree!" he called out.

Swartt smiled wickedly at a young badger tied to a log by a halter. It was a

creature about the same age as himself, painfully hobbled and muzzled with

rawhide strips. On its head was a broad, golden-colored stripe. Drawing his

sword, the ferret touched its point to the rare-colored stripe. "Get up,

Scumtripe, and give your master a ride over there," he said.

The vermin crowding around the flames jeered and laughed as Swartt sat upon

the badger's back and goaded it forward, raking with his claws and slapping it

with the flat of his sword blade. Hobbled close, the young creature could only

take small

Outcast of Redwatt 9

stumbling steps. Anguished growls issued from its bound mouth as it fumbled

through the snow.

Swartt thought it no end of a joke, shouting aloud for the benefit of his

band, "Giddy up, Scumtripe, y'great lazy stripedog, move!"

Skarlath eyed the ferret fearfully as Swartt brought his face close, leering

and licking his lips. "Well now, what 'ave we 'ere? A kestrel, not as tasty as

quail or wood pigeon, but young and tender, I'll wager. Stuck fast by the ice,

are ye, bird? That'll keep y'nice an' fresh until you join me at breakfast!"

Then, dragging the badger cruelly up, he tied the halter attached to its

muzzle to an overhanging limb of the hornbeam. "Here's a good job for ye,

Scumtripe—guard my breakfast until momin'! Yer gettin' too fat'n'lazy lyin' by

the fire." Swartt Sixclaw strode off, chuckling, to rejoin his band round the

flames, leaving the unfortunate pair fastened to the tree.

An hour passed, when all that could be heard was the crackling of pine logs as

flames devoured them; the vermin camp was silenced in sleep. Suddenly, in one

swift, silent movement, the badger flung his body close against the kestrel,

trapping the bird between himself and the bark. At first the young kestrel

thought he was to be smothered, but the warmth from the soft fur of the

badger's chest started to melt the ice. Slowly, Skarlath felt the blood begin

to stir in his veins. Although the badger was tethered and muzzled, he clung

on tightly with all his strengm until at last Skarlath was able to move his

head and wings. Skarlath jerked his head around until he found himself looking

into the dark eyes of the golden-striped creature. Both young ones stared at

each other, communicating in silence. Then the badger held still as the hawk's

beak went to work. With short, savage movements, Skarlath tore into the

rawhide muzzle strips that bound the badger until they were ripped to shreds.

The badger clenched and unclenched his teeth, testing his jaws; then bowing

his great gold-striped head

10

Brian Jacques

he devoured the rawhide hobbles that bound his paws, chewing and swallowing

the strips in his hunger. They were both free!

"Come, friend, we go, escape, get away!" said Skarlath, keeping his voice to a

hoarse whisper.

But the badger acted as if he had not heard his companion. Fierce anger burned

in his eyes. Stretching his powerful young limbs, the badger seized a bough of

the hornbeam and snapped it from the tree with a single wrench. Smashing the

bough against the tree trunk, he broke it in two; then, casting aside the thin

end, he gripped the heavier piece with both paws. It was about half his own

height, thicker at one end than the other, like some huge rough club. Roaring

out his challenge, he charged the unwary vermin around the fire.

"Eeulaliaaaaaa!"

The camp came to life instantly. Two vermin fell under the club as the badger

threw himself at Swartt. Before the ferret had half drawn his sword, the

badger's club thudded hard against his foe's six-clawed paw. Swartt screeched

and fell back injured, yelling to his creatures, "Stop him! Kill him!"

Skarlath saw the badger disappear under a crowd of vermin as they tried to

bring him down, and he hurtled in, ripping and stabbing with beak and talons.

Though the badger was weighted by foebeasts, none could fell him. He stood

like a mighty young oak, flailing the club, his deep-throated war cry ringing

through the forest.

"Eeulaliaaaaa!"

Skarlath decided then that his friend was totally mad. The vermin numbers

would tell soon and the badger would be brought down to be slain. Fighting his

way through, the kestrel landed upon the badger's shoulder and cried into his

ear, "Come away or we'll both be killed. Escape!"

The badger struggled to the fire's edge and, using his club, he scattered the

blazing logs into the ranks of his enemies.

Outcast of Redwall

11

Flames whirred and sparks showered as he battered burning wood everywhere. It

sizzled and steamed in the snow, throw-ing up choking clouds of smoke and wood

ash. Then the two friends were away, the young badger bounding through the

night forest, with Skarlath perched upon his shoulder. Bursting with the

energy of freedom, they traveled tirelessly, crashing through bush, briar, and

bramble in a welter of flying snow.

Back in the ruined camp, all was confusion, smoke, ashes, and freezing dark

night. A weasel called Muggra extricated himself from a snowdrift where the

badger's club had bowled him. Rubbing his aching back, he crawled over to

where an older vixen named Nightshade was ministering to Swartt, binding his

six-clawed paw with a poultice of herbs and snow. Muggra sneaked a pawful of

the herbs and nibbed them on his own back, asking, "Shall we follow them an'

slay 'em with arrows?' '

The vixen answered without looking up from her task. "Aye, best do it right

away, before they get too far."

Bad temperedly, Swartt made as if to raise his six-clawed paw and swipe out at

them both, but the movement caused him to snarl in agony; his paw hung limp

and throbbing. "Idiots! Get the fire goin', quick, before we freeze t'death in

the dark here," he spat. "Follow them? With me paw smashed an' ruined, an'

five slain, another five, maybe, wounded or injured? I give orders 'round

'ere, mudbrains, we follow 'em when I'm ready, an' not before!"

With lightning speed he shot out his good paw, and seizing the weasel Muggra

by the neck he pulled him close, his hot breath vaporizing on the weasel's

face as he hissed, "But when this paw's fixed an' I've rested by a good fire,

there'll be noplace that badger can hide from Swartt Sixclaw. I'll follow that

one to the edge of the world or to Hellgates, and he'll take a long time t'die

at the blade of my sword. I'll hunt him

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Brian Jacques

t'the death an' slay him bit by bit, if it takes me ten seasons!"

The vixen Nightshade continued binding Swartt's paw, fixing the herbs and snow

tight with mud from the earth where the fire had been and strips of aspen

bark. "If you leave it later man this night, it will take you a lifetime," she

said as she worked.

Swartt winced as the dressing tightened. "Shut yer slimy mouth, fox, always

seein' the future, or sayin' that y'do. I could fix your future with one swing

of me sword, that'd keep you quiet!"

Muggra was choking under Swartt's grip. The ferret looked at the weasel as if

just noticing him. "What're you doin' gur-glin' there. Didn't I tell y'to get

a fire goin'? Trattak! Hal-frump! Gerrout an' forage for dry timber! The rest

of you, get shot of those deadbeasts an' clear this place up!'' He flung the

weasel aside.

Later, as fresh flames licked hungrily around resinous pine boughs, Swartt lay

back gritting his teeth and muttering savagely, "We'll meet again, badger.

Make the best of these few days y've got left—I'll find ye, Scumtripe!"

The badger did not stop running until it was broad daylight, cold and crystal

clear. He halted in a smalt clearing at the forest edge. Skarlath fluttered to

one side as the hefty young badger threw himself down in the snow and lay

panting, tongue lolling, as steam rose from his thick coat. After a while he

sat up, cramming pawfuls of the cooling snow into his mouth and gulping them

down.

Skarlath hopped about, testing his wings with short swoops, noting gratefully

that his pinions were undamaged. Glad to be alive, he shook his plumage and

spread his wings. "Heeeeh! Rest, friend, then we go far away!" he cried.

The badger stood and picked up his club. "You go where you want. When I've

rested and found something to eat, I'm going back there to slay that vermin

Swartt Sixclaw!"

The young kestrel took flight and wheeled round the badger's head, his wings

brushing his friend's gold-striped muzzle. "Heekeeer!" he cried. "Then you are

a deadbeast, my friend.

13

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Brian Jacques

Swartt has too many vermin; you will surely be slain!"

The badger clenched his jaws as his body trembled with rage. "For many seasons

that ferret held me slave, dragging me around, hobbled and muzzled, starving,

beating, making fun of me. Scumtripe, that was his name for me—Scumtripe! I'll

make him repeat my name tenscore times before I slay him with this club. But

what is my name?"

Whirling his club, the badger charged a dead elm stump and struck the rotting

wood a mighty blow ... Whumpjfl A hole appeared in the elm stump as Skarlath

shrieked out, "Kreeee! Look, food!"

Hazelnuts, chestnuts, and acorns poured out onto the snow, the forgotten cache

of some careless squirrel. Anger was momentarily forgotten as the two friends

laughed aloud at their good fortune and fell upon the life-giving treasure.

Sitting on the stump, the badger cracked shells in his strong teeth and placed

the nuts before his friend. Soon they were both crunching and munching.

The kestrel spoke around a beakful of chestnut: ' 'I am Skarlath; I was alone,

but you saved my life; now I am with you. Where come you from, friend?"

Scratching his golden stripe, the badger chewed thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. I

think I had a mother, Bella or Bellen or something, it's hard to remember. I

must have been very young. Boar the Fighter, that's a name I recall, maybe he

was my father, or my grandsire, I'm not certain. Sometimes I dream about home,

or maybe it's my imagination, but it feels nice. Then there's the mountain,

was that my home? It is all very mixed up. But Swartt Sixclaw, I won't forget

him.. .." The young badger looked quizzically at his friend the kestrel. '

'Maybe Swartt was right, perhaps my name is Scumtripe. He gave me that name.

What do you think my name should be, friend Skarlath?"

Outcast of Redwall

15

The kestrel felt fierce pity for the young badger well up in him. He hopped up

onto the strong, dark, furred shoulder and cried, "Kreeeee! Your name I don't

know. But I know you are a great warrior, slay five and injure many, like a

lightning bolt! There is none so quick or strong with a mace as you!"

The badger picked up his hornbeam limb and hefted it. "So this is a mace, is

it? I never knew a mace looked like this!"

Skarlath looked at the hulking young beast with his tree limb. ' 'If you call

it a mace, methinks nobeast would argue the point. Warriors like you can be

anything they want to be. You are unsure of your true name. I will give you a

good name. The mark of the sun is on your face, your speed is that of

lightning, you have your own special weapon ... You are Sunflash the Mace!"

The badger laughed happily and, standing at his full height, be spun the

formidable hornbeam in his paws and roared, "I have a name! It is a good name!

I know who I am! Sunflash the Mace! Eeulaliaaaaaaa!"

Skarlath took wing and circled high, calling wildly, "Kreeeeeeee! Sunflash the

Mace! Kreeeeeeeee!"

When the kestrel flew to earth again, Sunflash was away, already backtracking

swiftly through die forest. Skarlath winged between the trees after him.

"Sunflash, where do you go?" he called.

The warrior blood was rising in the badger's eyes as he brushed past Skarlath.

"Out of my way," he growled. "I am going to settle accounts with the ferret!"

"So, you go to your death!" said Skarlath, as he found his perch on the big

shoulder and clung doggedly. "I have told you, Swartt has too many vermin,

even for you. No matter, I have sworn to stay by your side. I go with you, and

we will both be slain!"

Sunflash halted. "But what else can I do?" he said, a bewildered look on his

young face. "Sixclaw is my enemy!"

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Brian Jacques

Skarlath was wise for a young kestrel. He rapped his beak lightly against the

skull of Sunflash, saying, "We can think! You are brave, but headstrong. Why

risk your life against the odds when, if we take our time, we can be certain

victors one day."

Sunflash sat down in the snow, leaning his chin on the mace as he gazed at his

companion. "Tell me how we will do this. I will listen and learn."

Thus began the education of Sunflash the Mace. Skarlath outlined his plan,

which was simple and should be effective. ' 'Why run after Swartt? He will be

coming after us. The ferret will lose face in front of his vermin if he lets

you live. Let Sixclaw wear himself out chasing us, while we leave this cold

land and find warm country, where it is green and there is plenty of food.

There we can rest and grow strong.

"I will be your eyes and ears, flying high, watching for Swartt, listening for

information. When the time is ripe, men we strike cleverly, my friend, like

wasps we worry the ferret and his band. In and out, sting and disappear, slay

one or two at a time, strike like sunflash, vanish like smoke. Then Swartt

will come to fear us; he will realize that you will not disappear—that one day

he will turn round and you will be there, waiting. This will trouble his mind,

haunt his sleep. That is my plan. What do you think?''

A broad smile spread across Sunflash's face. "It is a great plan, Skarlath. I

will learn to think like the kestrel. Lead on!"

That day the two friends began traveling south and west on a journey that

would last many seasons. Sunflash strode over hitl, valley, and plain, while

Skarlath soared and circled overhead, scouting out the land. Winter passed

into spring as the two friends journeyed onward, growing up together, getting

wiser, seeing, and learning as they went. Sunflash could not stand injustice,

and wherever he saw creatures being oppressed or enslaved, the big badger,

remembering his own enslavement

Outcast of Redwall

17

by Swartt, meted out terrible retribution to their tormentors.

His name and fame began spreading. Songs and poems sprang up in the lands he

and Skarlath traveled through. Most were heroic, and some, like this one, were

humorous:

I met with six weasels one warm summer night,

And I feared for my life I'd be beaten and slain,

But their faces were fearful, all ashen with fright,

They jibbered and whimpered like they were insane.

"O save us, preserve us, O hide us from him,

The one with the mark of the sun on his face,

hi one paw he carries a great hornbeam limb.

He's the Warrior Lord they call Sunflash the Mace!"

Of a sudden the earth seemed to tremble and shake,

And the verminous weasels passed out in a swoon,

As he came like the wind, with a hawk in his wake,

There he stood strong and tall 'neath the moon.

I'll never forget what he told me that night,

While he looked at the weasels, stretched out where they

fell.

"You're a very brave beast to down six in one fight, For a small baby dormouse

you've done very well!"

But as more seasons passed and time went on, things did not quite turn out as'

Skarlath had said they would. Swartt Sixclaw had tracked them as predicted,

and Sunflash and his friend worried them, striking at them many times. Each

attack was successful, and the ferret lost quite a few of his vermin to the

lightning strikes of Sunflash. But Swartt was no fool. The realization of the

badger's guerrilla tactics came home to him one sunny morning in low hill

country to the north of Mossflower Woods. Two vermin whom he valued highly,

Spurhakk the stoat and Bulfie, a ferret like himself, both hardened and

skillful warriors, had vanished overnight. Swartt sat

18

Brian Jacques

Outcast of Redwatt

19

hunched over a small fire, massaging his damaged paw. From shoulder to elbow

the limb was as strong as ever, but the six-clawed paw was rigid and unmoving.

It ached every morning, reminding him of the winter night when the young

badger smashed it with a piece of hornbeam. Nightshade approached with three

others who had been out searching for the missing warriors. Swam quickly

pulled a gauntlet onto his dead paw. It was a heavy affair, meshed brass mail,

with two weighty copper fasteners, and it made a very formidable weapon. He

glanced up at the vixen and snarled, "Well, didyer find 'em?"

Nightshade squatted down on the other side of the fire. "Aye, both sitting up

against a sycamore in a copse over yonder, stone dead, each holding one of

these." She tossed over two long-stemmed water plants.

Swartt picked them up and inspected them. "Bulrushes?" he said.

Nightshade was a healer, and she knew every plant by name. "That's right,

bulrushes. They are also called reed mace, or just mace in some parts of the

country."

Swartt Sixciaw flung them on the fire and watched them smolder. "Mace! It

doesn't take a genius to work out who did this."

The vixen narrowed her eyes against the smoke of the fire, saying, "You should

have caught him and slain him the night he escaped."

Swartt leapt up. Drawing his sword, he scattered the fire and shouted, "Should

have! Might have! Would have! That's in the past! Get those idlers up off

their tails, we travel east!"

The vixen sprang aside to avoid the burning embers. ' 'East? But my scouts

tell me Sunflash still travels south by west. What is there in the east?"

"Bowfleg!"

Nightshade raised her eyebrows questioningly. "Bowfleg the Warlord?"

Swartt thrust the sword back through his belt, sneering, "Bowfleg the Warlord,

hah! You mean Bowfleg the Old, Bowfleg the Fat, Bowfleg the Glutton!"

Nightshade shrugged. "Still, he leads a great horde." Swartt chuckled evilly

as he marched off. "Not for long!"

Outcast of Reduxdl

21

The far northwest fringes of Mossflower Woods are broken by rocky outcrops,

gullies, and hills. One could wonder why creatures bothered living there when

the woodlands farther inward were so lush and bounteous. But home is home, and

often creatures do not like to move away from the familiar surroundings of

their birthplaces. So it was with the hedgehog family of Tiny Lingl and the

mole kin of Bruff Dubbo, who had shared the same dwelling cave for untold

generations. Tirry and his wife, Dearie, had four small hogs, scarce a season

and a half old. Not counting his old uncle Blunn and aunt Ummer, Bruff had his

wife, Lully, and two little mole maid daughters, Nilly and Podd, to provide

for.

However, the dwelling cave of both families was not a happy place. It was a

hungry and dangerous time for them, for outside in the gray drizzling

afternoon another family waited, a family of five foxes. The old vixen with a

hulking son covered the back exit, while the father, an equally old

20

dogfox, sat outside the front entrance with a fully grown son and daughter who

towered over him. They had been there nearly half a season, laying siege to

the dwelling. It was quite easy to relieve one another for the purposes of

eating and sleeping, and still keep up a presence, taunting and reasoning by

turns, knowing they had the hedgehogs and moles prisoners in their own home

until hunger forced them out.

"Don't be foolish, come out, there's food here, friends," the vixen wheedled.

Tirry Lingl shouted back at them, * 'Garn, shift yoreselves, vermin, you ain't

welcome 'ere!"

The hulking fox son sniggered as he called into the back exit, "Heehee,

there'll be something tasty here when you come out. Heeheehee. You!"

The vixen nipped him sharply on his ear. "Shuttup, acorn brain, do you want to

scare 'em to death?''

The old father fox cajoled at the front entrance. "Come on, be reasonable, we

just want to talk. You don't think we'd hurt yer liddle ones, do yer?"

Inside the dwelling, Bruff Dubbo helped Tirry to shore up die barricade they

had made from furniture and the bit of earth they could scrabble from the

cave's rocky interior.

Bruff shook his dark furry head sadly as he spoke in quaint mole dialect to

his companion. "Hurr oi wish't oi 'ad moi ole bow'n'arrers, they vurmints'd

soon shift they'mselves, hurr aye!"

Tiny Lingl peered through a gap between an armchair and a table at the foxes

sitting outside. "They've got time on their rotten ole side, Bruff, we ain't.

Brian Jacques - Redwall 08 - The Outcast Of Redwall

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