THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Seventy-One
On the inland side of the southern slopes, Urthblood's mouse-hedgehog lines were likewise being engaged, but in a different manner than their counterparts off to the seaward flank of Salamandastron. Here, Machus and his swordfoxes were at their most lethal, exacting a heavy toll upon the Long Patrols as they duelled back and forth across the mountainside. When the six surviving foxes from the assault on Major Safford's flank raced over to join the battle on this side, matters grew even more dire for the hares of the shattered right lines. On top of it all was Urthblood, charging through the chaos like a force of nature, obliterating any group of Long Patrol who tried to stand against him.
The only advantage the hares had left to them was their speed. The field of battle had grown sparse enough of warriors, down here where the slaughter had been worst, that the hares had plenty of room to dodge and weave amongst their less fleet-footed foes. This they did, whenever an unyielding press of foxes threatened to overwhelm them or the indestructable, unstoppable Urthblood bore down on them. The few remaining rats and weasels were all but ignored as the hares ran around them to elude the far deadlier badger and foxes. The Long Patrol were definitely on the defensive now, literally running for their lives between brief clashes.
To give themselves more area in which to range, the hares made several forays up into the region defended by the mice and hedgehogs. One of these probing groups was led by the young runner Hanchett. He had spotted one creature standing tall among the mice, its long-necked head sticking up high above the shorter rodents around it. Hanchett and his two companions fought their way past several mice and 'hogs, making a beeline toward the incongruous stoat.
The young hare had some unfinished business to attend to here.
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"'ere they come, Jansy mate."
"I see 'em, Broggs. An' I see an old friend leadin' the charge up this way. Looks like he's got a mind to settle that score we left up in the air back at Redwall."
Jans and Broggen, standing in the midst of the mouse lines, tensed for combat, as did all the mice around them. A dozen or so paces below, the charging trio of hares scattered the mice and 'hogs in their way with bludgeons, thrusts and flying kicks. And then they were through, facing this portion of Abellon's lines.
"The stoat's mine!" Hanchett yelled to his two fellow hares. "Watch my sides, chaps! Eulaliaaa!"
Armed with only a spear, Hanchett launched into the chained mouse and stoat duo with a vengeance. Jans and Broggen had all they could do to ward off the hare's furious blows. This wasn't like their encounter at Redwall; now that Hanchett knew both creatures were in the service of Urthblood, and the heat of battle was upon him, he was more than a match for the twin fighters.
After a few moments, it became clear that Jans was at a serious disadvantage. He was as fine a swordsbeast as any mouse was, but not nearly in the same league as Machus and the swordfoxes, and his short blade was not equal to the challenge of meeting the hare's much longer spear. Unlike most of the battles they'd fought in the Northlands, Jans was only getting in the way here, and he knew it.
"He's all yours, Broggs!" the mouse shouted, and stepped back to let the stoat have the full freedom of fighting Hanchett on his own terms. Jans continued to hold his sword at the ready, keenly alert for any move by the hare that might allow him an opening. None of his fellow mice would be coming to their aid; Hanchett's two immediate comrades were keeping this section of the line busy, and elsewhere other small groups of hares could be seen battling along the mouse-hedgehog ranks. He and Broggen were on their own here.
And then it happened. Hanchett's Long Patrol expertise was simply too much for the stoat's Northlands training to overcome, and Hanchett was able to knock Broggen's legs out from under him. The stoat fell to the ground, partly pulling Jans along with him. Not that this made any great difference to the mouse; the moment he saw his partner go down, Jans leapt forward to cover Broggen. But his awkward haste left him in no position to use his blade to full advantage, and the hare's spear thrust that was meant to dispatch the stoat ended up taking Jans through the belly as the mouse jumped between Hanchett and Broggen.
For many heartbeats Hanchett simply stood and stared at what he'd done. Moments before he'd been battling both these creatures as mortal enemies, but the sight of the Northlands mouse lying slain atop the companion to which he was permanently chained had broken through the hare's battle frenzy. A mouse had sacrificed itself for a stoat ... a woodlander giving its life for a vermin, without thought or hesitation. It was not a thing for which Hanchett had been prepared - least of all when he was the one responsible for taking the mouse's life.
Broggen sprang back to his feet, javelin gripped tight in his paw and teeth bared. There were tears in his eyes as he glared at Hanchett, silently daring the hare to come at him again.
Hanchett did not resume the attack. His hatred of the stoat had not abated, but this turn of events had momentarily robbed him of his battle enthusiasm, and he held his ground across from Broggen.
And then the other hares were at his side, pulling him away from this scene of carnage. "Oh, good, you got one of 'em, Hanch. But we gotta go now - foxes comin' this way, an' fast!"
Hanchett let himself be led away from his stoat enemy, and was soon running back downslope with his comrades to stay ahead of the lethal swordfoxes.
Broggen stood unmoving, watching the hares receding from this area of the battle. Then the javelin slipped from his grasp, and he fell down over Jans, protecting the small sad bundle with the upper half of his body, and wept.
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Elsewhere in the mouse and hedgehog lines, the Long Patrol did not have it so easy. Like Safford's force, they seriously underestimated the ferocity and ability of these smaller woodland troops. They paid for this miscalculation in blood: three hares perished when they were caught between a line of steadfast hedgehogs above and the swordfoxes who'd pursued them from below. Another hare, of Captain Taywood's fighting group, fell to mouse swords before the Captain realized that this territory of mice and 'hogs was hardly the haven he'd supposed it would be. He called a retreat, kicking a mouse in the head and spearing a hedgehog through its belly to clear an escape route as two determined foxes wove through the shorter creatures to get at the hares. Taywood's group left the foxes in the dust as they sped back downhill.
On their way down they practically collided with the trio led by Sergeant Dardanelle. "Stay away from those foxes if you can, Sergeant!" Taywood warned his fellow hare. "For every one o' them we put down, they take two or three o' us with 'em! Never seen anything like it!"
"Don't I know it, Cap'n." Dardanelle waved a paw at his two companions. "Us three's all that's left o' two groups. Thought we'd best pool our bally resources, wot? By th' way, Lieutenant Hockaby's dead, sir."
"Oh, snuff!" Taywood growled. Earlier he'd passed Captain Polifly's lifeless body lying upon the slopes. They were running out of hares, and they were running out of officers. There certainly wouldn't be any time for in-the-field promotions in this melee. The surviving Long Patrols would just have to get along as best they could, same as they would if they engaged an enemy on patrol without an officer present. He wondered how things were going with the Major over on his side of the fighting. If only Lord Urthfist hadn't charged into this like he did, and they'd been able to draw up a real plan of attack!
"Hullo, wot's that?" Sergeant Dardanelle was looking past the Captain, farther up toward the tunnel entrance. Taywood turned and followed his gaze.
Up and across the slope, Major Safford's force was visible where it had broken through the mouse-hedgehog lines and now stood squared off against the final defenses of shrews and otters.
Taywood's heart lifted. "Looks like the Major's suffered pretty heavy losses, but they're still all together, and they've almost made it inside! Sergeant, I think we're about to get Salamandastron back!"
"Should we go try 'n' help them, Cap'n sir?" Dardanelle asked.
Taywood glanced down across the mountainside. He spotted Lord Urthfist, who seemed once again to have run out of vermin to slay; the badger stood amidst piles of the dead, all alone, casting about him for fresh prey.
"Actshully, Sergeant, I think some of us oughtta stay down here in case His Lordship comes under heavy assault an' needs us t' draw 'em off again. This war won't be won 'til he's back inside an' in full control o' this bally mountain. With these killer foxes swarmin' all over th' place an' his fur-forsaken brother on th' move, he might need our jolly help yet."
Taywood scanned the slopes around them. "Wot we should really do is get all o' us who're left back t'gether, an' head down t' where Lord Urthfist is. Like t' see how those bloody foxes fare if we an' Urthfist all come at 'em at once!"
"Right, sir! I'll spread the word!" Dardanelle's group took off, leaping and dodging around charging foxes who tried to block their way. Their adversary having escaped them, the foxes honed in on Taywood's quartet instead, while a knot of weasels charged from the other side.
"Well, chaps, teatime's over!" Taywood yelled, and the four hares shot off, leaving the foxes and weasels staring at each other across empty ground.
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Machus was gashed and bleeding from half a dozen different places. But he had slain four hares, and prowled the battlefield looking for number five.
The swordfox limped badly. Strive as he might to ignore the pain, his body could not be fooled. Machus had taken a javelin thrust deep into his left thigh, and lost two toes on the same footpaw. The javelin had missed any major arteries, but the muscle damage was bad enough that it would have removed many a less dedicated warrior from this battle. The other injuries were minor flesh wounds by comparison, and Machus was determined to fight until the victor was decided, or until he could fight no more.
Machus came across Urthblood standing over the bodies of four hares. The badger seemed distracted as he glanced up at his swordfox chieftain. "How goes it, Machus?"
Machus reported his score, making no mention of his own state; Urthblood would be able to observe that easily enough for himself.
"But we have a problem, Lord. The seaward flank of hares has reorganized itself into an attack thrust. They've already breached Abellon and Tillamook's lines. If they get through the otters and shrews, they'll be inside Salamandastron."
"Yes, I know," Urthblood stated. "I saw them."
"Should we move more forces back to protect the entrance?"
Urthblood shook his head. "It means nothing now. My destiny lies here, on the mountainside. This is where the battle will be lost or won. Leave the defense of the tunnel mouth to Saybrook and Bremo. If some of the Long Patrol get into the mountain, it will avail them little."
"As you say, My Lord." Machus hobbled over to his master's side. "If what you say is true, I would like to stay with you."
Urthblood gave Machus an appraising look. "You're injured. Can you still fight?"
"Oh, I can fight." Machus forced a laugh. "Just don't enter me in any footraces! Any hare who comes within reach of my sword will regret it."
Captain Mattoon came jogging over to them. "M'Lord, my platoon's about half gone, an' th' rats got hit even worse. Cermak's dead, an' I don't know if any of th' stoats 'n' ferrets are still alive. Them hares won't stand still long 'nuff fer us to engage 'em proper. They're pickin' off us remainin' weasels 'n' rats one or two at a time, then runnin' away. We can't catch up with 'em! Whatcha want we should do?"
"Consolidate your remaining forces as much as you can. Form a wedge you can defend from all sides. Let the hares come to you, if they are so inclined. Otherwise, stand ready and do not engage them."
"An' if yer brother heads our way?" the weasel captain asked with obvious worry.
Urthblood gazed downslope to where Urthfist stood. "Too many of my beasts have died already. It is time to put an end to this. Come along, Machus. If you wish to remain at my side, I will walk slowly."
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Urthfist had slain every rat, ferret and stoat who'd carried the badger-made armaments, and quite a few more who hadn't. The frenzied pace of his killing spree had left him drained, and now that there was a break with no vermin within striking range, the pure instinctive rage of the Bloodwrath began to recede. His reason and rationality reasserting themselves in his fevered brain, Urthfist took a clear-eyed look at what he had wrought.
Countless dead vermin lay all about him. But in the midst of them could be seen the twelve hares Major Safford had lost from his flank before breaking out through the side of the fighting and heading upslope. Across the way, more Long Patrol corpses lay scattered amongst the many enemy dead. They were easy to spot in the tangles and piles of bodies, with their long ears, long legs, standard-issue Patrol garb and mostly-white scut tails. But their blood was just as red as their foe's.
"Oh, Great Seasons," Urthfist groaned as he absorbed the carnage, "what have I done? What have I done?"
His gaze climbed up to where heavy fighting was still underway. There, among the earthy colors of clothing of both sides, was an island of bright crimson, flashing in the late day sun. The beast who wore that red steel stood out not only because of its armor, but also due to its height and bulk.
Reason fled, as the full fury of the Bloodwrath once more took over Urthfist, controlling him like a marionette on the strings of a vengeful puppetmaster. Waving his great broadsword before him, he charged up, up to meet the evil creature who had brought all this to pass.
"Eulaliaaaaa!"
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Major Safford and his hares never heard their master's final battle cry. Even as Urthfist bellowed his challenge and raced upslope toward Urthblood, the Long Patrol far above him let loose with a war call of their own and launched themselves at the shrews and otters barring their way into Salamandastron.
The hares held nothing back. Their experience with the mice and hedgehogs had taught them to regard all of Urthblood's soldiers as deadly enemies, who would slay the attacking Long Patrols without a second thought. Safford meant to assault this last tier of Urthblood's defenders with no less force than they'd shown their vermin opponents.
Unfortunately for the hares, who had been seriously fatigued even before the first drop of blood had been spilled in this battle, they were now fighting on their last reserves of strength. Their prolonged stand-off against the vermin, followed by their desperate engagement of the foxes and their flight from them through the thick of the enemy, and then the unexpectedly fierce resistance from Urthblood's mice and 'hogs, had left Safford and his fellow warriors so drained that they swayed on their feet from the dizzying weariness if they stood in one spot for too long. The pain from their various leg wounds actually helped them stay focused on the task at paw; the aches and twinges cut through the creeping bleariness of mind like a bucket of cold water in the face. Still, these injuries would be a mixed blessing, hindering the hares in battle even as they helped keep the Long Patrols alert through their exhaustion.
And against the foe they faced now, they could not afford to be in anything less than top fighting form.
The otters outnumbered the hares nearly two-to-one, and every member of Saybrook's squad would have been a beast-for-beast match for the Long Patrols even in the best of times. Now, encumbered by injury and fatigue, Major Safford had no idea what he and his hares were charging into. The only saving grace for them was that the otters felt a certain kinship with the Long Patrol, and were more reluctant to use lethal force against them than the other creatures of Urthblood's army had been. They sought only to keep the hares from entering the mountain fortress, and would kill only if they were left no other choice.
The shrews, however, felt no such reluctance at using deadly force, and the hares had to get through them first.
It did not happen at all like it had when the hares charged into the forward lines of rats, ferrets and stoats. Bremo and his shrews had been watching that first engagement very closely, and saw how the hares' battering-ram approach had given the taller defenders no chance to fight over the swordrats' shoulders. Even though these otter-shrew lines were arranged along a similar plan, Bremo had no intention of following a strategy that had failed miserably once already. He would not make his shrews hold to their line only so that they could be driven back against the otters by the more powerful hares, to be pinned down and slaughtered in numbers.
When the two opposing forces met, the shrews did not even try to hold their formation. Their strategy was simple. Three or four shrews would scream and leap atop a single hare, slashing and stabbing with their shortswords. Any hare so besieged would only be able to slay one of its attackers, or two if they were very lucky, before it was slain itself. Then the surviving shrews would pick themselves up and join a massed assault on a new hare. Bremo's shrews were, ounce-for-ounce, perhaps the nastiest and most vicious fighters in Urthblood's army, and did not shy away from dying in battle. They were only too willing to sacrifice themselves now in their suicidal swarms over the attacking hares. As the arc of otters stood fast, the shrews closed in on the Long Patrols from both sides, leaping into the fray with complete abandon.
The hares were no better prepared for this savage tactic than they'd been for the stiff resistance from the mice and hedgehogs. Three of their number went down even before the first otter javelin clashed against its hare counterpart. The burly waterbeasts were easily able to hold their line against the Long Patrols, due mainly to the unexpected shrew strategy. When Safford's hares saw what the shrews were up to, they had no choice but to turn about to the sides in an attempt to stem this living tide that threatened to wash over them.
The shrews could not keep it up. Once the tightly-packed hares began protecting each other, it became impossible to single any one of them out for the shrews' group tackles.
"Kick yer way out from th' sides, hares!" Safford yelled. "Scatter these nasty li'l blighters so they can't gang up on us! Concentrate on the otters, across a wide front - we gotta break their line!"
The Long Patrols were quick to follow their commander's orders. Legs and footpaws that were already gashed, pricked and bruised would suffer further abuse as the hares kicked their way through the milling shrews. Even in number, the tiny beasts were no match for the powerful hares, who kicked at the shrews and swatted at them with spear and javelin and basically just plowed right through them. Two more hares fell before the press of shrews was thoroughly smashed and dispersed; provoked by these losses, the Long Patrol returned the shrews' savagery in kind, slaying enough of them so that they would not be able to regroup easily.
Then the hares turned back into the otters with a vengeance.
This time the otter line did not hold. Bremo's remaining shrews were too widely strewn about to substantially hamper the hares now. More than that, the shrews' brutal actions had fired up the Long Patrols as they hadn't been since the battle began. Now Safford's troops were keyed to kill or be killed, and they were not about to show their foe the slightest mercy. With shouts of "No Quarter!" and "Eulaliaaa!" they smashed into Captain Saybrook's line across a front several otters wide.
The ferocity of the assault left the otters pushed back, bowled over, knocked aside and, in more than one case, slain. The hares poured through the gap they'd created. The otters turned about to face the enemy who was now behind them, while the anchoring ends of their arc rushed inward from either side to try to block the Long Patrol before they could gain the tunnel entrance. The neat defensive lines were quickly reduced to a shambles as hares and otters began fighting each other wherever they met.
Captain Bremo had been slain, but that didn't stop the surviving shrews from mustering their meagre forces and charging into the melee after the hares.
Warnokur shouted his battle cry as lustily as anybeast there, legs pumping as he sprinted over the rockface to add his javelin to the cause. Winokur watched from the tunnel above; there was no way that he couldn't.
Warnokur had the misfortune of choosing to square off against Captain Longmeadow. The hare captain was livid over the loss of his Lieutenant, Cleburne, at the paws of the shrews, and was out for blood. Longmeadow was one of the few hares of the Patrols to favor a sword over spear or javelin, and his mastery of that weapon was nearly perfect.
This particular contest was over almost before it began. As Winokur looked on in horror, Longmeadow parried aside Warnokur's javelin thrust, then scored a deep slash above the otter's knee. Warnokur recovered and renewed his assault, ignoring the pain of his leg wound. The hare swept aside several more javelin thrusts and swings, then spun in like a whirlwind past the sharpened shaft and expertly ran his blade through Warnokur's throat. Longmeadow vaulted over the fallen otter and set off in search of anymore who stood between him and the entrance.
Winokur could not stop himself. In a flash he was out of the tunnel and sprinting down toward his father, his habit flapping around his thick tail as he ran. "Redwall!" he screamed until it strained his burning lungs. "Redwalllll!"
Longmeadow had come up against Brot and Olimpo, who battled the hare as one, and so Winokur was able to speed past the Long Patrol captain and reach his fallen parent's side without meeting opposition.
The young otter knelt down beside his father, but Warnokur's eyes gazed sightlessly up at the sky, already glazing over with the mist of death. The wound in his neck was horrendous; nobeast could have survived it.
Winokur picked up his Warnokur's javelin, leaning on it for support even as he knelt there, oblivious to the battle raging all around him. The weapon felt reassuring in his paw, a reminder of his own training under Montybank. Tears coursed freely down his cheeks for the father he was only just beginning to know after so many seasons.
Major Safford came upon Winokur then. The fire of battle was in his eyes; he saw only an otter holding a javelin, and that equalled an enemy who would kill him if he didn't slay it first. The fact that this particular otter was wearing a Redwall habit didn't register on the Major's frenzied awareness. Winokur didn't even see the senior Long Patrol commander coming as Safford raised his javelin to put it through the top of Winokur's skull.
But Winokur did hear the distinct hiss of the arrow, even through the tumult of the surrounding battle. He glanced up, and saw Major Safford standing over him, still as a statue, javelin raised to deliver the mortal blow. A single feathered shaft protruded from the hare's bloody left eye. As Winokur watched, Safford fell backward upon the mountain slope to join Warnokur in staring, unseeing, up at the blue sky.
Winokur struggled to lift his father in his arms and carry Warnokur back up to the tunnel; somehow he felt he must remove his slain parent from this maelstrom of death and violence. Nobeast stopped him as he staggered up the slope and to the mountain entrance. Winokur didn't know whether it was Alexander or Lady Mina who had loosed that shaft from the crater rim above. But whichever one it was, Winokur knew he owed them his life.
