THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Twenty-Two

Brother Geoff was surprised to see Winokur standing at the entranceway to the underground archives. The recorder mouse was bustling about in the lantern light, straightening the latest journals and scrolls that he and Cyrus had been reading up on the walltop.

"Oh, hello, Winokur. I haven't seen you down this way since your Dad arrived at Redwall with Urthblood's army. Sorry, I can't stop to chat now. The Abbess wants all the Abbey leaders in Cavern Hole for the questioning of that hare, and I'm sure they'll want to start right away."

"Doesn't look that way, Geoff sir," the young otter reported. "Lord Urthblood just went outside to confer with his captains. Doesn't look like he'll be coming back in anytime soon. Perhaps not until after sundown."

Geoff stared at Winokur, the book he'd been about to file forgotten in his paws. "What? Are you sure? Urthblood seemed to want to interrogate that hare as soon as possible. We were all getting ready to drop everything we were doing to accommodate him."

Winokur shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. Guess he changed his mind."

Geoff slid his book into its proper place on the sagging shelves. "Are any of his troops still in Redwall?"

"Are you kidding? Just passed half a dozen of his shrews when I was coming down the tunnel to see you. They almost didn't want to let me pass."

"What? Urthblood's shrews, down here in the tunnels?"

"Skipper Montybank decided to stash the hare in one of the old cellar rooms, with a door that can be locked. Lord Urthblood insisted that some of his soldiers be allowed to help guard him. It actually got a little contentious from what I heard - the Abbess telling him we were perfectly capable of safeguarding one creature, and Urthblood telling her she didn't understand security matters. In the end she agreed to let him send a few down to help Monty's otters, but only if they were mice, hedgehogs or shrews. Urthblood went with the shrews."

"That's odd," Geoff remarked. "I'd have thought Urthblood would assign some of his otters for that task, since Monty and Captain Saybrook have been getting along so well."

"Again, I can't say one way or the other," said Winokur. "My Dad says that badger always knows the right thing to do in any military situation. So I guess he knows what he's doin'."

"I suppose. So, what brings you down here, Wink?"

"Um, I was wondering if I might be able to borrow some of the accounts we have of the various battles fought by the Badger Lords of Salamandastron?"

"Well," Geoff pushed his spectacles further up his snout, "there have been many of those over the generations, from Boar the Fighter in the time of Martin the Warrior all the way through to Cregga Rose-eyes and the battle at the Ridge of the Thousand. They're not all gathered together in any single volume, or group of volumes. I'd have to do quite a bit of looking. Why, has something occurred to you that you think might help us with what we've been looking for?"

"No, it's not that, sir. I have other reasons for making this request of you. But I'd really appreciate it if you could help me with this."

"Very well. I suppose I'll have the time, now that Lord Urthblood has postponed our session with our unexpected visitor. Tell you what. You promise me you'll run right down to alert me the moment anything happens or I'm needed for a council, and I'll set about finding you what you've asked for. Deal?"

Winokur smiled broadly. "Thank you very much, Geoff sir. I'll let you know straightaway, you can count on me."

"I'm sure I can. If nothing calls me away before suppertime, come on down to collect the records from me - I should have them all pulled by then. If I'm not overrun by contentious shrews in the meantime."

00000000000

Cyril poked his head around the doorway of the Infirmary. Seeing the coast was clear of adults likely to chastise him, he scooted over to where Broggen and Jans lay. He'd been given all the grief a young mouse could take for one day, and he was eager to rejoin his two new friends who treated him like a warrior in training instead of a naughty bellringer child.

Two beds had been pushed together for the mouse and stoat. Chained as they were, it was the only possible arrangement, and even then they both had to remain on their backs. If Broggen wanted to recuperate by getting some bedrest, Jans was left no choice but to join him. Their linked paws suspended over the narrow gap between the beds, Jans was clearly restless, and trying to make the best of the situation. He brightened at the sight of his young protege. "Hey, Cyril! Get over here an' keep us sorry louts from dyin' of boredom!"

"Aw, Jansy, enjoy it while y'got it," Broggen urged. "Next time ol' Urthblood has us on one of his forced marches, you'll wish yew're back in one o' these nice comfy beds." The stoat snuggled deeper into the soft mattress. "Ahhh, this's the life! Everybeast should have one o' these, an' time t' enjoy it!"

"Don't sound too happy - you're supposed to be recovering from an injury," Jans cautioned. "If Lord Urthblood were t' hear you, he'd have you on yer paws doin' punishment laps around Redwall ... which wouldn't be so bad, if I didn't have to run 'em with you." He looked up at Cyril. "So do tell, lad. What's been up while we've been lying here rottin' away?"

Cyril sat down on the edge of the next closest bed. At the moment, the Infirmary was empty except for the three of them. Sister Aurelia must have been downstairs, grabbing some supper for herself.

"Well, Maura and the Abbess weren't too happy when they found out about me sneaking outside with you. Gave me a real dressing down ... " Cyril gritted his teeth. "They lectured me all about responsibility, but they won't give me the responsibilities of an adult. Why, I'm almost as old as Matthias was when he faced down Cluny the Scourge!"

"Hey, sorry if we got you in trouble," Jans said.

Cyril shook off the apology. "No, it was my idea. I talked you into it. And I'd do it again! I'm no milk-whiskered infant!"

"Nay, that you ain't," Broggen agreed.

"Lord Urthblood said I could be a warrior if I wanted to. He said, if that was my destiny, then no power in the world could stop it from happening."

"If anybeast knows about destiny, it's him," said Jans. "From what I've seen, you've got the makings of a fighting beast, if that's what you want to be. And I'd stand up and tell that to anybeast who'd say otherwise, even your dear Abbess and that badger Mother of yours." Cyril's sour expression gave way to a grudging smile at these words of encouragement. "Now, what about Gratch's sword?"

"Oh, I snuck it to one of Lord Urthblood's shrews. He said he'd get it back to Gratch before he got in any trouble."

"Good thinkin'. Although, with all the commotion caused by that hare, I doubt Lord Urthblood would go outta his way to make an issue of Gratch losin' his sword while he slept. Bigger fish t' fry just now."

Cyril was much relieved. "I sure hope so. I don't want to cause anybeast problems ... "

"So, wot's th' story with that nasty hare who clobbered me?" Broggen inquired.

"We don't know any more than he told us when he was first brought in," Cyril informed the two Northlanders. "They stuck him down in one of the cellar rooms. And he's under guard of Montybank's otters and some of Lord Urthblood's shrews. Redwall doesn't have any dungeons, you know."

"Urthblood hasn't tried to interrogate him yet?" Jans asked.

"Not last I heard. Remember, the Abbess said she'd only allow the hare to be questioned at a full council in Cavern Hole? Well, that hasn't happened yet."

"Strange." Jans turned his head to look out the Infirmary window. "It's well past sundown. Must be sleeping on it. But that hare said some pretty rough things about our chief. Lord Urthblood won't let it rest at that. He can't."

"Well, that's why 'ee's the chief," Broggen said, resting his chin on his chest and closing his eyes. "He makes the decisions an' gets t' handle problems like this 'un, an' we jus' do wot we're told. Now, this ol' stoat's ready fer some shuteye."

Jans sighed. "Well, Broggs is right about one thing: we foot soldiers don't get much chance for resting our weary bones in beds this nice. Might's well make the most of it. Best be off with you, Cyril. Warriors need their sleep."

"Uh ... if you don't mind, Jans, I'd like to stay here with you for awhile. I ... I don't feel like I belong anywhere else in this Abbey tonight."

Jans gave the younger mouse an understanding smile. "Why, sure. I'm not all that sleepy just yet myself. And I got lots of stories about the Northlands I bet you'd love to hear."

"Jus' keep it low, fellers," Broggen moaned, already half-asleep. "I'm convalessin'."

Cyril came around to Jans's side of the twin beds and leaned closer. "Well," Jans began softly, "there was this one time ... "

00000000000

"Ahoy, mateys, an' make way! Comin' through with some grub!"

Rumter and Brydon had been slouching against the tunnel wall outside Hanchett's makeshift prison cell. Now they snapped to attention as their Skipper came toward them. Montybank was carrying a large tray from the kitchens, piled high with breads, cheese, pastries and two tall mugs of October ale.

"Sleepin' on watch, eh? That'll never do! We got a potentially dangerous beast in yonder chamber, and 'ere you two are, snoozin' away on yer rudders!" Monty's tone was playful. Nevertheless, Rumter and Brydon stood as straight as their javelins in proper military attitude.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Skip, but it's late, an' we haven't had a rest since mornin'. We could use some relief." Brydon's eyes strayed to the tray of food. "An some vittles wouldn't hurt none, either."

"Ah, ah, ah," Monty shook his head, "this 'ere's fer the hare. I'll wager our flop-eared interloper hasn't had a decent meal in a lot longer time than you lazy ponddogs. Pore beast must be famished. So, make yerselves useful - open that door an' lemme in!"

"Uh, wot if he tries to escape?" Rumter asked.

"Then you stop him. That's wotcher here fer, ain't it?"

Five of Urthblood's shrews, camped out farther down the tunnel to help guard Hanchett, now rushed over to the Redwall otters. "Don't you worry 'bout nuthin', you riverdogs. That bigfoot tries anything, he'll taste a bellyful of shrew steel!"

"And wot a rosy image that is!" Monty muttered. "All right, take up positions, arms ready - this tray's gettin' mighty heavy - you, Brydon lad, get the door ... "

Brydon unlocked the cell door and swung it open while the others stood at the ready. When no furious kicking beast tried to bully past them, Monty calmly stepped forward and entered the chamber. The door promptly slammed shut behind him.

It was well into the night, and many of the Abbeyfolk had retired for the evening ... and still Urthblood remained outside with his captains, his earlier insistence on interrogating Hanchett inexplicably forgotten. The Abbess was not content to wait on the Badger Lord's pleasure for some answers into this mystery, not while a creature was being denied its freedom in the cellars of Redwall.

Vanessa, out of fairness to Urthblood, didn't want to question Hanchett on her own. But the hare would have to be fed, and if the beast bringing him his food just so happened to share some innocent conversation with him, well, where was the harm in that?

Montybank had volunteered for the task, and was the logical choice for the job, since his easygoing manner was most likely to disarm their unwilling guest. A full-grown otter was also the only Redwaller, other than Maura, who could go toe-to-toe with a hare of the Long Patrols if Hanchett gave his server any trouble.

Hanchett sat up on the straw bedding that had been hastily provided for him. Monty regarded the hare in the low light cast by the single lantern in the cell. "Ah, just as I 'spected ... a proper upstandin' feller like yerself would never dream of causing any ruckus by tryin' to escape!"

Hanchett studied his visitor with a jaundiced eye. "You a Redwaller, or one of Urthblood's stinkin' horde?"

"Montybank Q. Slipstream, Skipper of otters for Redwall, at yer service!" He set the tray down on the floor before Hanchett, causing the hare's attentions to split between Monty and the food he'd brought.

"Hm. Urthblood's drafted some misguided woodland folk into his service too, so you can't take anything for granted these days."

"I've gotten t' know quite a few of those Northlanders," Monty said, "an' they're quite decent, fer th' most part. 'Specially th' mice an' otters. Mebbe you should get to know a few of 'em yerself."

"Perish th' blinkin' thought, chap. Fraternizing with the enemy, simply not allowed, wot?" Hanchett leaned over the tray. "Say, this looks good. Mind if I sample a trifle?"

"That's wot I brought it for. Scoff away, matey!"

"Don't mind if I do. Hmm, is this cheese fresh? Don't get much of that at Salamandastron. Mmmfp!" Hanchett stuffed a wedge of the cheese into his mouth and chewed heartily.

Monty lowered himself onto the floor opposite the hare. "Are you really from Salamandastron?"

"Certainly I am. Been a member of the Long Patrols for seven seasons now. Before that I was a leveret under Captain Taywood - Lieutenant Taywood then, he only became a squad captain after I'd been a full Patrol runner for two seasons. Can't remember any bally time when I wasn't livin' at Salamandastron."

"Wot's it like there?"

Hanchett took a deep draught of October ale. "Ah, good stuff, that! Must get the recipe." He set down the tankard, wiped his lips with one paw, and studied Monty. "Well," he concluded after a few moments' silent deliberation, "I guess it's no secret that there are presently a hundred hares at Salamandastron. Lord Urthfist has us divided into five platoons of twenty, each with its own captain. Each platoon squad can break up into six standard patrol groups of three hares apiece, with the captain and his lieutenant coordinating between all six. It works pretty well, once you get the hang of it."

"Yes, I can see how that system would take some gettin' used to," Monty said, helping himself to a vegetable pastie. "But I wasn't askin' 'bout tactical matters an' such. Wot I meant was the feelin' there. Why d'you an' Lord Urthfist see Urthblood as an enemy?"

"'Cos he's evil, you dunderhead! Can't you see that yourself when you clamp yer jolly peepers on 'im?"

"Oh, I'll be first t' admit he ain't exactly cheered up Redwall since comin' here. But he has strengthened up our defenses, just like he promised he would. I was always given t' understand that Badger Lords are a grim bunch in general. I'll bet yer own Urthfist doesn't win any awards fer sunny personality."

"That's 'cos for twenty seasons he's had to guard against searats from the west an' Urthblood from the north. Can't be easy on a beast's soul, knowin' you might hafta destroy your own brother someday."

"But why?" Monty demanded. "Why is Urthfist so convinced that Urthblood is his enemy? Did they have some kinda royal falling out? What started all this?"

Hanchett was silent awhile. "It's like this, chap. There's this prophecy up in the throne room of Salamandastron. Urthblood carved it just before he went bonkers and ran off. When Lord Urthfist read it, he declared his brother the enemy and ordered us hares to slay Urthblood if he ever again came to Salamandastron. Now, I'm not much of one for prophecies an' that sort of stuff, that's badger business. But wotever Urthblood wrote must've been pretty dire to make Lord Urthfist issue such a mandate."

"Urthblood told us about that prophecy the day he arrived at Redwall," Monty told the hare.

Hanchett gaped in amazement. "He did?"

"Yup. Said it foretold of some great crisis comin' soon, an' that Redwall 'n' Salamandastron would hafta become allies. That's why he's been helpin' make our Abbey more secure. Now, that doesn't sound like the kind o' thing that would make Urthfist issue a death warrant on his brother. Couldn't it be that Urthfist is reading the prophecy all wrong?"

"Wot, ye're suggesting Lord Urthfist has spent the last twenty seasons of his life in a virtual state o' siege, simply 'cos he didn't read a few lines carefully enuff? Give him some credit, chappie! He is a Badger Lord, after all, not some country bumpkim!"

"Oh, I'm not sayin' he's not a clever one. But mebbe he's more concerned fer himself than anything else. Way it strikes me, that order he issued 'gainst Urthblood would be a good way t' keep the throne of Salamandastron fer himself. Ain't Urthblood the older brother, an' wouldn't Urthfist hafta yield Lordship of the mountain to him if he returned?"

The color drained from Hanchett's face. "I think you'd better leave now," he said through clenched teeth.

Monty opened his mouth to utter some calm reassurance, then realized too late that he'd offered the hare a mortal insult. Hanchett had sworn life and limb to the service of Urthfist, and to suggest that his master had wrongly seized the throne and would employ force of arms to keep it for himself ... Monty could not have offended Hanchett more deeply if he'd been trying. The otter Skipper quickly stood and backed toward the door, not daring to turn his back on the prisoner. The hare's muscles were tensing as if for battle, and Monty was afraid Hanchett might spring at him. Strong as he was, Monty didn't relish the idea of a tussle with an enraged hare of the Salamandastron Long Patrols.

Struggling to keep his voice calm, Monty banged on the inside of the cell door. "Yo, Brydon, Rumter! Open her up, I'm comin' out!"

The latch clicked with the turn of the key and the door opened. Monty stumbled out into the tunnel. Before the two younger otters could slam the door shut again, the hare leapt at the opening, but halted at the threshold when he saw the knot of armed beasts in the corridor beyond. Urthblood's shrews in particular looked as if they would welcome a go at him, their shortswords raised to meet an attack.

Hanchett stared past them at Montybank. "You think what you want, otter. But if you ever get the chance someday to talk to a hare named Traveller, ask him what Urthblood's been up to in the north. Then come back and tell me if you think Lord Urthfist is concerned only for himself." Hanchett turned and went back to his bedding and sat down heavily, ignoring the rest of the food. Rumter and Brydon secured the door, locking the hare safely within the cell.

"I say, Skip, wot was that all about? Are you okay? You look a tad shaky."

"Huh? Oh, I'm fine. Never better! Uh, you just keep a close watch on that hare. An' I'll see about sendin' some relief down. Mebbe Turoh and Wink can spell you until mornin'." Monty hurried off down the tunnel, leaving the two otters and Urthblood's five shrews to carry on their vigil. Abbess Vanessa was awaiting his report, and he would only be able to tell her that things had not gone as smoothly as they'd hoped.

00000000000

When Cyril awoke, the white light of the three-quarter moon was shining into his eyes through the Infirmary window. He sat up with a start, realizing he'd fallen asleep on the bed next to Jans and Broggen's. Cyril flung aside the blanket that somebeast, probably Jans, had thrown over him. The young mouse stood and smoothed out his rumpled habit, his face flushed with embarrassment. He'd nodded off and had to be tucked in like an infant dormouse, and by the very warrior he'd wanted most to impress! These two Northlanders had been the only creatures who'd taken seriously his desire to be a warrior, and now he'd gone and made a silly fool of himself in front of them. Now they'd just laugh at him like all the others.

Cyril quietly slipped off his sandals. Holding them in one paw, he tiptoed across the floor and out of the Infirmary. The chained companions both appeared to be in deep slumber, and Cyril wanted to make his exit without rousing them. He'd be mortified to have to face them now, after what had happened.

He made his way through the darkened Abbey toward the room he shared with Cyrus, but when he reached it he kept on going, down the stairs to Great Hall. He didn't want to climb into the bed he'd slept in since coming to Redwall as a small mousechild, not tonight. The same restlessness that had made him seek out Jans and Broggen in the Infirmary was still upon him. Yesterday he'd wielded the sword of a warrior, and been complimented by other warriors. Even if it was only play fighting, he'd tasted a life that had never been open to him before. The bed of a bellringer child no longer held much attraction for him.

The moonlight was brighter in Great Hall, streaming through the stained glass windows that turned the pale shafts all colors against the sandstone floor. Cyril wandered over to the tapestry, stopping before it. The image of Martin the Warrior stood out clearly, even in the wan illumination. Nobeast was about; all his fellow Abbeybeasts must have been tired out from the excitement of the hare's arrival the previous day, and fast asleep in their beds, except for the night watch out on the walltop.

It was then that Cyril did something he'd never done before: he spoke to the woven image of Redwall's founding warrior.

"What should I do, Martin? I can't help the feelings inside me ... I don't want to be just a bellringer anymore. I can't be. Somebeast will have to take up your sword in the crisis to come and become the next champion of Redwall. I know I could do it, but no one here will take me seriously! How can I prove myself to them? What would you have done in my place?"

The mouse in the tapestry made no reply.

Cyril shrugged and turned away. He didn't feel the least bit sleepy, so he walked toward the door that led out from Great Hall to the Abbey grounds and the warm summer night, his sandals still dangling from one paw.

He was taken somewhat off guard to see a wash of light coming from the steps down to the lawn. Winokur sat upon the top step, one of the archive journals open upon his lap, a small lantern flickering dimly at his side. But the young otter was gazing up toward the west ramparts. It took him a moment to tear his attention away from the walltop and acknowledge the mouse who'd intruded upon his solitary readings.

"Oh, hello, Cyril. Brought me some sandals? Sorry, I don't wear them."

Cyril was surprised to encounter Winokur in such an odd place at this late hour. Wink had been spending most of his time these days with his father Warnokur, outside amongst Urthblood's otters.

"Uh, no, these are mine," Cyril said, clumsily slipping his sandals back onto his feet. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, but I won't. Actually, I came out to enjoy the night's peace and calm while I caught up on my reading, but there've been some distractions."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Oh, not you, Cyr." Winokur returned his gaze to the walltop. "Urthblood is talking to his birds again."

Cyril followed Winokur's gaze. Sure enough, the badger warrior stood high upon the westrn ramparts, his huge bulk and burnished armor distinct in the moonlight. A feathered giant sat alongside him on the battlements, and the two creature seemed to be conferring.

"Is that an owl?" Cyril asked.

"Looks like it. Urthblood's been standing up there most of the night, waiting for it, apparently. It just flew down a minute ago."

"Oh." Cyril didn't know what else to say. "Um, what time is it?"

"I'm not sure. Well past midnight and halfway toward dawn, I should imagine."

"Did Lord Urthblood ever get around to questioning that hare? He seemed so determined that it be done right away, but then he suddenly got busy with other things." Cyril remembered that Winokur had been among the first Redwallers to gather around Hanchett when Jans and Broggen escorted the hare into the Abbey. And with his father Warnokur being a part of the Badger Lord's army, Wink was surely more informed about the situation than Cyril was.

But Winokur simply said, rather cryptically, "It would seem he's had a change of priorities. Something's happening, something big. I felt it in the army when I was outside this afternoon, after that hare was put down in the cellars. Urthblood's been meeting with all his captains. I think that what happened today is more important than we realize."

"Do you think Hanchett really is from Salamandastron?"

"I just don't know, Cyril. But Lord Urthblood's acting almost like it doesn't matter one way or the other. It's as if things have moved beyond that now. I have a feeling that events are going to be moving rapidly from now on."

"I don't understand."

"You're not alone."

The owl spread its wings and launched itself from the wall, beating its way north in the night sky. Urthblood descended the wall stairs and made straight for the south wallgate, bidding the otter guards to let him out of the Abbey.

"This should be interesting," Winokur said, setting aside his journal and rising from his seat on the warm stone step. "Let's go see what's up out there."

Cyril and Winokur jogged across the lawns and scampered up the south wall stairs. From there the ramparts afforded a panoramic moon-washed vista of the soldier-strewn meadow. Urthblood roused one of his swordfoxes, who went to wake a rat officer while the badger moved on to others. Soon the meadow was alive with stirring fighters, coming awake wraithlike in the pale moonglow.

"And now it starts," Winokur murmured.

"What starts?" Cyril asked.

"What indeed. We'll find out tomorrow, I suppose." Winokur rubbed at his eyes. "Well, I've been up longer'n any otter oughtta be. I'm gonna go get some sleep. G'night, Cyril."

Cyril remained on the walltop after Winokur departed, staring down at the mobilizing army. For his own part, he very much doubted he'd be getting anymore sleep this night.