Brian Jacques - Redwall 05 - Salamandastron

The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-colored jerkin, his

white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep

because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the

orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the

kitchens, and two of last autumn's russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth

with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long

winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies

hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding

narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day.

The dormouse nodded sagely. "Soon be pickin' a Nameday for this good season,

aye, soon."

The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as

he gazed up at the elder.

"You'm said you'm tell oi a story, zurr."

The dormouse polished an apple on his jerkin. "D'you like my stories, Burrem?"

The little fellow smiled. "Burr aye, oi serpintly do, zurr!"

His friend settled down comfortably on the grass, propping his back against

the log.

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2Brian Jacques

"Right then, it's a good long one. We'll have to break off for lunch and tea,

supper, too, maybe. Ah well, here goes. Once upon a time ..."

Colder than the winter wind howling its dirge through the Southwest Forest.

Colder than the snow blanketing tree, rock and earth in its silent shroud.

Colder than ice that lay on water and hung in shards from branches and bushes.

Colder than these was the smile of Ferahgo the Assassin! Ferahgo was still

young, but as the seasons passed his evil and infamy would grow, and

everybeast would come to fear the name of the blue-eyed weasel.

His .band searched the wrecked badgers' den, scavenging and snarling over

winter food and the few pitiful possessions strewn among the debris. Smiling

pitilessly, Ferahgo stepped over the bodies of the slain badger Urthound and

his wife Urthrun, the last two brave creatures to stand against him. Stealth

and deceit, reinforced by a crew of backstabbers, were the Assassin's

trademark. He had tricked the badgers into thinking this would be a peace

conference. Fools!

Migroo the stoat pulled aside a heap of dried moss. "Chief, look!"

Two badger babes lay huddled together, mewling and shiv-

Brian Jacques

ering as they stuck their heads up, lips pursed in a plea for mother's milk.

Migroo laughed. "That one looks like his father, but this other one, Chief,

it's white. I thought all badgers had stripes."

Ferahgo tickled their nose tips with his knifepoint. "They're both males. One

is a proper badger, the other is an albino. They might not be orphans today if

their parents had not resisted me."

Migroo watched the point of Ferahgo's knife. "What're yen goin* t' do with

'em?"

The Assassin shrugged and sheathed his blade. "Nothing. The winter will take

care of Urthound's whelps."

Fondling the round gold medallion he had taken from the neck of Unbound,

Ferahgo gave one last glance around.

"Now nobeast in the Southwest is left to oppose me. Come on, my Corpsemakers!"

The weasel swept out into the wintering forestlands with his band, a smile

still fixed in his beautiful light blue eyes.

Behind him in the ruins of the den the two badger babes, one striped, the

other pure white, snuggled against the cold body of their mother. They made

pitiful little noises, waiting for her to wake and comfort them. Outside the

snowflakes blew gustily between tree and bush, chased by the soughing wind.

It was cold.

But not as cold as the smile on the face of Ferahgo the Assassin.

BOOK ONE

Questors and Runaways

Many and many a long seasdn'had come and gone since that fateful midwinter day

in the Southwest Lands.

The only sound disturbing the stillness of a high summer noontide was that of

seabirds plaintively calling as they wheeled and circled overhead. The

vastness of the sea lay becalmed, without blemish of wave or white-crested

roller, still as a millpond, mirroring the faded blue of a cloudless sky.

Obscured in its own heat haze, the sun blushed forth a radiant golden wash,

tinting sand and rock with a soft amber glow.

Above the tideline stood the great citadel of Salamandas-tron, the mountainous

shell that had once been a volcano when the world was young. Through countless

ages it had been ruled by the mysterious badger Lords and their friends the

hares of the Long Patrol. The entire rock was a towering fortress, riven

through with caves, passages and halls, standing guard to protect the shores

and all the sprawling country of West Mossflower.

From Salamandastron's main entrance a solitary set of paw-prints led through

the sand to a limpet-crusted outcrop by the sea. Perched on the stone, chin in

paw, Lord Urthstripe the Strong gazed seaward, clad in his stout forge apron,

devoid

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Brian Jacques

of armor or sword. At one with earth, sea and sky, the badger Lord sat alone

with his thoughts. Mara had not been home for two nights, and he was worried.

Had he done the right thing, adopting a young female badger? She was one of

the few badger maids ever to live at the mountain; traditionally it was the

preserve of single male badgers. Five seasons ago his hares had found her

among the dunes, a tiny whimpering babe, lost and alone. Urthstripe was

overjoyed when they had brought her to him. He cherished her as the daughter

he had never had. But that was when she was an infant. He was a badger Lord,

with many things to attend to, and as she grew up, so they had drifted apart.

Life presented various obstacles to Mara. She had come to resent the strict

ways and regimented existence at Salaman-dastron. Urthstripe became awkward

and severe in his dealings with her, and Mara in her turn was rebellious of

his heavy-pawed authority. Against Urthstripe's wishes she had gone off two

days ago, with her close friend Pikkle Ffolger, a young hare.

The badger Lord scowled. Pikkle was far too wild and erratic; Mara would never

grow up to be a proper badger Lady running about with the like of that

mischief-maker. But that was the way of things between them now — if he

lectured her or threatened penalties he felt like an ogre. So they avoided

each other, she going her own way, and he unhappily having to go his.

Sergeant Sapwood loped slowly across to the rock. He bobbed about,

shadow-boxing until Urthstripe noticed him. Sidestepping, the strong lanky

hare tucked in his chin and hooked out a left paw.

"Haint much t' do out 'ere, sir. You a-comin' in for sum-mat to eat? There's

wild oatcakes, bilberry tart an' cold cider. You haint touched vittles since

yesterday morn."

Urthstripe climbed slowly down from the rock and growled anxiously at the

hare, "Any sign of Mara yet, Sergeant?"

"Nah, not so far. But don't you fret y'self, sir. She'll come trottin' back

wi' young Pikkle, soon as they're hungered

Salamandastron 9

enough. D'you want me to send the missie t' you when she does arrive back?"

"No, but let me know the moment she's back home. See she gets a good meal, and

then . . . then send her to me!"

Sapwood ducked and feinted as they made their way across the shore, swaying

lightly on his paws as he circled Urthstripe.

"C'mon, sir. Let's see you try t' put one on me button!"

The badger Lord tried to ignore his pugnacious friend, but Sapwood persisted.

"Go on, sir, try the old one-two, eh?"

Urthstripe halted, blinking as the hare bobbed and dodged under his nose.

"Really, Sapwood, I'm in no mood for sport."

The Sergeant dabbed a swift paw at Urthstripe's jaw. "Oh,'ave a go, sir. Try

yer luck!"

For all his great bulk the badger was surprisingly swift. He spun sideways,

clipping Sapwood under the chin with what he judged to be a light tap. The

Sergeant was bowled over, knocked flat on his back. Instantly the badger Lord

was at his friend's side, his huge striped face showing concern.

"Sap, are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Sapwood sat up. Uncrossing his eyes and rubbing his chin, he chuckled

ruefully. "Bless your 'eart, sir, I'm as right as rain, never saw that'n

comin', though. Good job you never punched your weight, or you'd 'ave knocked

me block clean off!"

With their paws about each other the two friends entered Salamandastron,

chatting and chuckling about old fights and bygone battles.

Before he entered the mountain, Urthstripe could not resist casting a final

longing glance to the open country. Disappointed that he could not see Mara

arriving home he heaved a lonely sigh and followed Sapwood inside.

A massive ridge of mountains created a high spine down the land east of

Salamandastron. In the foothills to the south they gave way to swamplands,

which in their turn led to the dunes sweeping in from the west. The early noon

sun was causing

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Brian Jacques

grasshoppers to chirrup and rustle in the rock-strewn foothills.

Ferahgo the Assassin sighted his skinning knife at one insect which was about

to leap. He flicked the knife expertly. His aim was good: the keen-edged blade

sliced the grasshopper in two. The knifepoint was still quivering in the

ground as Ferahgo pulled it free and wiped it clean on the grass.

"That's one grasshopper won't jump any more," he chuckled. "Am I not right,

Migroo?"

The stoat nodded vigorously. "Aye, Chief, 'twas a grand throw!"

Ferahgo sheathed the weapon in the crossbelts he wore diagonally across his

chest. Two other knives were encased there, each as sharp and deadly as the

one he had thrown. Smiling, he rested his paws on the broad belt supporting

his short kilt of skins. He had grown taller and more sinewy than other

weasels. The seasons seemed to lend an extra sparkle to his eyes, which were

light brilliant blue like a fresh spring sky; beautiful almond-shaped eyes,

with deep laughter creases etching their corners. Many a stranger had met

death through the deceit and vicious cruelty which lay behind those innocently

smiling eyes. Every weasel, stoat, rat, ferret or fox in his army of

Corpsemakers knew that the more Ferahgo the Assassin smiled, the more evil and

brutal he became. His reign of terror had spread and flourished in the

Southwest Lands until the whole country trembled with fear at his name.

Ferahgo!

This summer he had decided to push further north. None of his army dared

question the odd decision, though they speculated in secret as to his reason

for such a long trek. The horde lounged in the dunes and the foothills—some

stretched on the sun-scorched sand and grass, others seeking the shade of

rocks—apparently idle, but ever vigilant for their leader's commands.

Disobedience to Ferahgo meant death.

The Assassin stretched luxuriously upon the dry curling grass and closed his

eyes, enjoying the still warmth of summer. One eye suddenly snapped open as he

called to a weasel stationed in the rocks higher up.

Salamandastron

11

"Feadle, keep your eyes peeled for my son and Goffa. Don't go to sleep up

there."

Feadle made a show of scouring the terrain north and west before shouting back

down, "I'll let you know as soon as Klitch and Goffa show up. Master. Don't

you worry!"

Ferahgo's reply gave the lookout good reason to stay awake. "Oh, I'm not

worried, Feadle—but you should be, because if you miss them I'll skin you

alive with my knives. Keep those eyes open now, there's a good weasel."

It was a plain-spoken, matter-of-fact statement, but every-beast within

hearing knew that the Assassin was not joking. Ferahgo seldom joked, even

though he did smile a lot.

Dethbrush the fox and his six tracker rats loped in from the south. He heard

Feadle announce their sighting from his high perch: "Dethbrush an' the

trackers coming in, Master!"

The fox stood by as Ferahgo, still lying down with his eyes closed, questioned

him.

"You have not brought Dingeye and Thura back with you?"

Dethbrush was weary, but he did not dare sit or relax. "No, Master. We tracked

them for two moons. They have gone east, into the flatlands on the other side

of these mountains."

Ferahgo's paw strayed to the handle of his favorite knife. "It does not please

me when my orders are not carried out."

Dethbrush tried hard to stop his limbs trembling; he swallowed hard, licking

at dry lips.

"Master, we searched night and day without rest. They must have found a way to

cross the south stream—that is where I lost their tracks. I thought it would

be better to report back to you, rather than get lost in strange country."

Ferahgo opened his eyes. He was not smiling. "You did right, Dethbrush. Rest

and eat until tomorrow. Then you will go tracking again with your rats. But

remember, I want Dingeye and Thura, or their heads, brought back here to me.

It is bad for the morale of my Corpsemakers if they realize that deserters can

escape my punishment and roam free. Do you understand?"

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Brian Jacques

Dethbrush gave a sigh of relief and nodded. "I understand, Ferahgo. This time

I won't fail you."

Ferahgo closed his eyes. "Make sure you don't, my friend." He smiled slightly

and waved a paw in dismissal.

Dethbrush went to look for water, his mouth dry with fear.

Redwall Abbey slumbered peacefully under the noontide sun. A songthrush

trilled sweetly from the surrounding greenery of Mossflower Woods, its

melodious tune echoing from the dusty red sandstone walls of the main building

to the outer ramparts. Somewhere in the Abbey pool a trout half leaped at a

passing gnat, missed it and flopped back lazily into the water. Two moles

lugging a trolley laden with vegetables for the kitchen turned at the sound,

commenting in their quaint mole-speech.

"Ee be a gurt noisy trowt that un, eh, Burrley." Burrley, the smaller of the

two, wrinkled his button nose. "Hurr, you'm doant say. Oi'd be gurt 'n' lazy

iffen oi dwelled inna pond wi' nothen t' do. Ho urr!"

They trundled into the Abbey, speculating on the easy lifestyle of trouts who

lived in ponds.

Mrs. Faith Spinney was picking fruit in the orchard. The good hedgehog lady

muttered quietly to herself as she checked the contents of her basket.

"Early plums, gooseberries, small pears. . . dearie me, they are liddle uns

too. No mind, they'll make tasty cordial. Damsons aren't near ready yet—pity,

I do like a good damson

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Brian Jacques

pudden. Now let me see, what have I forgotten?"

The sight of a tree jogged her memory.

"Apples, of course! Those big green uns be just right for bakin' pies."

Standing on tip-paw, she reached for a large green apple hanging from a low

bough.

Zzzzip! Splott!

An arrow sped by, a hairsbreadth from Mrs. Spinney's paw. It pierced the juicy

apple, sending it spinning from the bough onto the grass. The hedgehog dropped

her basket and dashed off, ducking low and shielding her head with both paws

as she whooped out in terror. "Ooowhoo, help, murder! We're bein' attacked by

scallawagians!"

Help appeared swiftly in the form of a brawny male otter.

"Sink me! What's all the to-do about, marm?"

Faith Spinney was hiding behind a gooseberry bush with her apron over her

head. She peeped out at the otter. "Hoo-hoo! Do 1urry an' sound the alarm

bell, Mr. Thrugg. Just lookit that apple lyin' in yonder grass!"

Striding boldly over, Thrugg retrieved the apple. Pulling the arrow from it he

looked about, nodding grimly. "There there now, marm. Don't get yore prickles

in an uproar. Everything's shipshape. I didn't clap eyes on the villain who

shot that arrer, but I'll stake me rudder I know who it is that did!"

Thrugg filled the basket with the fruit that had spilled out, adding the

apple. Placing a paw gingerly about Mrs. Spinney's bristling shoulders, he led

her off toward the Abbey, carrying the basket for her.

Afternoon summer tea at Redwall was always very good. The mice who formed the

Brother and Sisterhood sat among other creatures in Great Hall. There was

never any distinction to class or species; all were Redwallers and friends,

and they mingled freely, sharing the delicious repast. Hot scones, ha-zelnut

bread, apple jelly, meadowcream, redcurrant tart, mint tea and strawberry

cordial were consumed in great quantities. Abbess Vale, successor to old Abbot

Saxtus, sat dwarfed

Solamandosmm

15

in the big badger chair at the head of the long table. Redwall Abbey had not

seen a female badger guardian in many a long season, old Mother Mellus having

gone to her well-earned rest quite some time ago. Beside the Abbess sat

Bremmun, a venerable squirrel. He leaned across to speak to her, raising his

voice over the hubbub and jollity of Redwallers at tea.

"You heard what Thrugg had to say about Samkim?"

Vale put aside her beaker. "Yes, I heard all about it."

Bremmun chose a slice of the latticed redcurrant tart and ladled it thickly

with meadowcream. "Shall I leave it for you to deal with as Mother Abbess, or

do you wish me to do it?"

The Abbess turned the beaker slowly in her paws. "You are both squirrels. I

think it would be better if it were to come from you, my friend. Samkim can be

very naughty at times, but I've always liked the little fellow. I really don't

have the heart to scold him. I'll leave it to you if I may, Bremmun."

Those on serving duty were beginning to clear away the dishes, and one or two

diners were rising to leave. Bremmun rapped the tabletop sharply with a wooden

ladle.

"One moment, friends. Your attention, please!"

The hubbub of conversation stopped immediately. Those about to leave

respectfully kept their seats. Reaching beneath the linen table runner,

Bremmun produced the arrow Thrugg had given him. He held it up for all to see.

"This shaft was loosed in the orchard this afternoon. Would the creature who

fired it please stand forward!"

Amid a scraping of wooden benches everybeast turned to watch two small figures

emerge from the table nearest the door. Many a knowing nod was passed. Samkim

and Arula again!

The young squirrel Samkim was a strongly built fellow, wearing a beret

sporting a wren feather at a jaunty angle. Straightening his soft greencloth

tunic, he strode up to the long table, unable to extinguish the roguish

twinkle in his hazel eyes. Arula the young mole padded alongside him. She,

too, was clad in beret and tunic, though her small round eyes were downcast.

Samkim's head was barely visible over the tabletop as he denounced himself to

Bremmun.

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Brian Jacques

Salamandostron

17

"The arrow is mine. I shot it! Arula had no part in it."

The mole shook her velvety head. "Ho no, zurr,'twas oi who axed Sankin to

shoot 'ee arpel, hurr aye. 'Tis moi fault, zurr Brumm'n."

The squirrel's voice was loud and stern. "Silence, missie! Samkim, this is not

the first time. A short while ago an arrow was found lodged in the kitchen

door, then one of the gatehouse windows was broken by an arrow. Later it was

Brother Hal who was the victim of another arrow. He has a permanent furrow

through his headfur—a fraction lower and he would not be with us today. Now it

is poor Mrs. Spinney's turn. The good lady was half frightened to death by

your archery. What have you got to say for yourself, young squirrel?"

Samkim shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, I never meant to hurt anyone."

Bremmun hurried around the table to face the culprit. "You never meant to hurt

anyone? A bow and arrow is a weapon, not a toy! But you do not seem to realize

that. Oh no, off you go, willy nilly, firing arrows carelessly without a

thought for anybeast..."

Arula interrupted, pointing to herself. "Et wurr moi fault, zurr. 'Twas oi oo

toF Sankin t' do et!"

"Quite so, quite so, Arula." Bremmun waved her aside distractedly. "Now, as

for you, Samkim, you young wretch, you make me ashamed to call myself a

squirrel! Mother Abbess was far too upset by your disgraceful behavior to

speak to you; therefore it is my painful duty to do this. Both of you, Samkim

and Arula, are confined to the Infirmary until further notice! I am sure

Brother Hollyberry can find lots of tasks— scrubbing, bedmaking and washing

floors—for both of you. Your meals will be delivered to you up there, you will

sleep in the Infirmary and under no circumstances must either of you leave,

until the Mother Abbess and I have decided that you are fit to join ordinary

decent Redwallers again. Furthermore, Samkim, if I ever hear that you have

been within paw's length of a bow or arrows again, you will be in very deep

and serious trouble. Do I make myself clear?''

Two young heads nodded miserably.

"Yes, sir."

"Hurr, clearer'n broit summer morn, thankee, zurr."

Silence fell over Great Hall as the two miscreants were led off to their fate

by Brother Hal. Punishments and penalties were an absolute rarity in the

friendly Abbey.

Bremmun returned to his seat. Leaning across, he whispered to Abbess Vale.

"Thank goodness that's over with. Do you think I was too hard on them, Vale?"

She folded her paws in her lap. "Yes Bremmun, I do. Oh, I know that Samkim and

Arula are always in trouble, but they are young. Restricting their freedom to

the Infirmary is very severe, I think."

Bremmun looked uncomfortable and shrugged apologetically. "Not to worry, I

won't keep them confined there for long. They'll soon learn their lesson. Did

you notice little Arula? I had to try hard to stop myself smiling—there she

was, standing up bold as a stone, taking all the blame herself."

The Abbess pursed her lips to hide her own smile. "Bless her, she was very

brave. Those two are true friends, even if they are a pair of scamps. Young

ones like them are the very backbone of our Abbey; they do not lack courage or

honesty. We need creatures like that. They will take the reins and show an

example to all in the seasons to come."

Samkim and Arula sat on a bed facing Brother Hollyberry. The ancient healer

and Keeper of the Infirmary leaned back in his armchair, chuckling dryly.

"Thank your lucky stars there wasn't a badger sitting in the chair today. By

the fur! You two would have really found out what punishment was like. Those

badgers were very, very strict!"

"Boi ecky, lucky fer us'ns, Bruther. Oi 'spect 'ee badger'd choppen our tails

off an' fling uz in 'ee pond!"

Hollyberry adopted a mock serious expression. "Aye, that's just the sort of

thing badgers would have done in the old days. Righto, you two, no more trying

to flannel me. There's the walls, doors, cupboards and shelves to be

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Brian Jacques

washed, windows to be cleaned, sheets to be counted and folded, lots of torn

nightshirts to be sewn, pillowslips to be scrubbed..."

He watched their faces going from glumness to despair at the mention of each

new chore. Chuckling aloud, Hollyberry rose and patted their heads. "But we'll

start all that tomorrow. You can have the rest of the day off. Sorry you're

not allowed out, young uns. Maybe if you look in the big cupboard you'll find

a game of pebbles and acorns. Oh, and some candied chestnuts in my little

locker here. That should keep you amused until bedtime or thereabouts."

Samkim rubbed his paws delightedly. "Thanks, Brother Hollyberry, you're a real

matey. Er, were you ever naughty when you were young?"

The old mouse looked secretively to and fro as he whispered, "Naughty? Let me

tell you, young un, I was known as Hollyberry the Horrible when I was a little

mouse. Old Abbot Saxtus said that I was the reason he was gray and bent

double. Listen now, I've got to go and tend my herbs in the garden. Do you

think you can behave yourself while I'm gone?"

Arula draped a clean sheet over her head. "Gudd zurr, lookit oi, hurr hurt, a

snow-whoit-choild oi be."

3

Pikkle Ffolger searched the corners of his knapsack and came up with a single

wild oatscone, which he wagged in Mara's face.

"The last bally scrap of tuck between two stout 'n' starvin' travelers, would

y' believe it, old chum!"

The sturdy young badger maid plucked the scone from his paws. ' 'There were

four oatscones in that bag before I went to sleep last night. You flop-eared

glutton, you've scoffed 'em!"

Pikkle placed a paw over his heart, his face a picture of injured innocence.

"Scoffed? Did I hear you use the expression scoffed, O boon companion and

playmate of my younger days? Nibbled daintily, picked idly at, maybe even

mouthed a morsel or so. But scoffed, never!"

Mara broke the scone in two and tossed half to him. "Listen here, Ffolger me

old Pikkle, don't try baffling me with 0owery phrases. You're a scoffer and

you always have been, so there!"

Grinning from ear to ear, Pikkle scoffed his half. "Oh well, truth will out,

old gel, wot? I say, it's goin' to take us until late night to get back to

jolly old Salamawotsit. I bet we're

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Brian Jacques

Salamandas tron

21

both in for some pretty stiff words when old Urthstripe catches up with us."

Mara slumped moodily in the hollow of two dunes, her appetite suddenly gone at

the thought of returning to face the badger Lord.

"Huh, Salamandastron—I wish I never had to go back to that dreary mountain,

Pikkle. Day and night, dawn to dusk, it's watch your manners, learn your

badger lore, keep your room tidy, sit up straight, don't slouch, do this, do

that, don't do this, don't do that. I'm sick to the stripes of it all! Isn't

there somewhere young ones can do what they want, have fun all day, without

elders and grownbeasts making you do silly boring things ... ?"

"Then come with us—we do as we please!"

Mara and Pikkle looked around in surprise. A pair of young creatures, a weasel

and a ferret, appeared around the dune.

The garrulous Pikkle winked and grinned cheekily at them. "What ho, chaps. Who

are you?"

The weasel smiled back. He was a handsome-looking beast, with the brightest

blue eyes Mara had ever seen. "Hello there! I'm Klitch and he's Goffa. We've

come up from the Southwest Lands."

Mara sized the pair up. The ferret was a shifty-looking creature, dressed in a

long tunic that had obviously been cut down to fit him. He carried a spear and

wore a dagger in the piece of rope that served him as a belt. The young weasel

was a different matter altogether. His clothing fitted perfectly. He wore a

smart yellow tunic, and on his woven belt hung a short sword, complete with

case. He also sported a pair of thick white bone bracelets. All in all he

appeared quite dashing. Mara felt self-conscious; both she and Pikkle were

Brian Jacques - Redwall 05 - Salamandastron

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