Chapter 9
It was at that very time that the horde of Skarliff Krigg the ferret Warlord had trekked all night across the western plains, driven on and on by their torrential leader. Not even Durg, the head captain dared speak to him as he brewed with silent rage. "Lookit ol' Krigg up there, willya, marchin' on an' on like a fox wid' 'is tail afire," a horderat at the back of the horde whispered to another of his kind.
The rat nodded as they marched on, adding with a smirk, "Aye, he looks like a boilin' toad an' fit t'burst!"
They were shushed by a nearby stoat who had heard their comments. "Shh, quiet back there me hearties, don't let the ferret or one o' his cap'ns hear ye talkin' like that. He may be fit t'burst, but I don't wanna' be around when 'e does!"
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It was a little before dawn when the exhausted horde reached their destination. Immediately after Durg got the order and called a halt, some threescore vermin slumped to the ground, panting and pawsore. Skarliff ignored them, standing a distance off and staring into the darkness. Durg approached him. "Wot is it, sire?"
"Something's not right. Usually scouts are sent out to meet us on our way back, but we didn't see any the whole way here."
"Wot d'yer reck'n's goin' on?"
"I can't say offclaw, but if it's what I think it is, they're going to be in for a surprise," he said simply. Summoning Longtooth, the other captain he had brought with him, they left the weary hordebeasts and headed off into the darkness; fatigue was not a thing the ferret Warlord felt at the moment. In a very short time they reached a camp alongside the River Moss, which the marching horde had marched parallel to since they reached it a few hours before. Embers of the previous evening's campfires lay cold and unstirred, with the exception of those of the sentries posted. This was where camped the body of Skarliff Krigg's great vermin horde.
Hundreds of sleeping vermin were strewn all over the camp, sending up a considerable din of mingled snores. The ferret, stoat, and rat stealthily stalked around the camp in a wide arc, finally reaching a large tent designated Krigg's headquarters. At this moment it was the headquarters of the stoat Scurlegg, the captain Skarliff Krigg had left in charge while he was gone. The Warlord had been just that, a Warlord, long enough to know never to take any chances; he was no fool. It was quiet-- but almost too quiet. After a few whispered words from Skarliff, Durg cut back and disappeared, avoiding the few lookouts at the camp. The sun was now beginning its rise up the eastern horizon, spilling a palette of colors over the landscape, but this was lost on the Warlord. Flanked by his rat captain Longtooth, he approached the tent from behind, quietly slitting a small flap at the bottom of the canvas with his sword. Ducking to get in through the newly-made hole, he thought on it and checked himself, letting his captain enter first. Nothing happened, even after Krigg himself entered. The tent was empty, save for the snoring captain. Noiselessly, they split up, approaching Scurlegg from both directions.
Now they were ready to reveal their presence. Skarliff Krigg, sword sheathed, made a slight tap on the ground with his footpaw, as if by accident. The stoat heard it. Through half-closed eyes Scurlegg saw Skarliff sneak up towards him with his sword undrawn. At the moment he judged the Warlord was close enough, he turned on his side and reached for his cutlass. The stoat found his throat being tickled at the end of Longtooth's blade; the one sure way to guarantee obedience from a captain was rivalry. "Quiet now, my captain," the Warlord said under his breath at scarcely a whisper. "Wouldn't want to wake anybeast up on such a pleasant morning, would we?" The stoat shook his head nervously. "Good. Now, would you kindly join us outside my tent?" They half-dragged the captain outside the tent by way of the hole in the back. Scurlegg was shaking all over; it was unwise not to be scared when Skarliff Krigg pretended to be cordial but openly wasn't. They pushed the struggling captain around to the side of the tent furthest from the camp, where thick grass concealed them easily. Here they stopped, Skarliff suddenly turning and looking at the trembling captain with mock pity. "You look unwell. Perhaps you would like to go back to your tent?" Scurlegg shook his head fervently, not daring to speak with the point of Longtooth's sword so close. "Of course you would. Go on!" he said as he shoved Scurlegg forward in front of the tent.
He was dead before he hit the ground, transfixed with a dozen arrows. In a flash Durg and a score of vermin surrounded the archers before they could pull another arrow from their quivers. It was all over.
.
There was a game that the Warlord Skarliff Krigg enjoyed playing with his condemned prisoners: set them free and watch as a score of archers shoot them down as they try to run away. Today his fun would be doubled-- they were near a river.
It was midmorning after the horde had eaten breakfast-- cold gruel and fish, no less-- when Skarliff had the horde assembled by the river with their respective captains. Skarliff himself had a score of his best archers lined up in front of him along the side of the river. Then, in full view of the horde, he had the prisoners brought out to him.
Of the dozen vermin caught up in Scurlegg's conspiracy, most were rats, with the exception of two weasels and a stoat. The ferret Warlord addressed the horde. "These prisoners you see before you today are traitors, caught in a conspiracy against your own leader." As if on cue, shouts and jeers at the conspirators rang out from the horde. The Warlord raised his paw. "Under normal circumstances these traitors would be executed, but I, Skarliff Krigg, am a merciful leader. I will give them all a chance to escape-- they will have the opportunity to swim for their freedom. Unchain the prisoners and march them into the shallows."
After this was done, Skarliff Krigg raised his sword above his head for all to see, saying, "I give you your life and your freedom; they are both in your own claws. Swim!" The dozen vermin dove into the water, some going west and some east, even pushing each other out of the way in their frenzy to get out of range of the archers. After a few seconds Krigg lowered his sword, signaling the archers to fire at will. The furthest of the escapees had not swam five feet when they were hit with a volley of arrows, slaying many before they had even swam as far as the shallows. Those who survived did not have to wait long before the deadly shafts found them also. Volley after volley shot down at the river, some slicing the water, some hitting their targets, all the while the Warlord looking on at the sport with satisfaction. In a trice the gruesome game was over; once again, the archers had won. The losers lay scattered in the shallows like pincushions or floating midriver like gnarled pieces of driftwood. Such was the mercy of Skarliff Krigg.
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The threescore hordevermin who had gone to Mossflower Wood with Krigg and the two captains, and had actually come back, had been set aside from the rest of the horde and put on breadcrust-and-water rations as a sign of the reward for incompetence, until either Skarliff Krigg decided on a punishment for their cowardly performance against the woodlanders the day before, or he forgot his anger and restored their former positions in the horde. Two-thirds of the unlucky hordebeasts had been sent out to forage upriver or fish, although the supply of aquatic life had decreased dramatically since the arrival of the large horde at the river. The remaining score of vermin were given the undesirable task of throwing the bodies of the dead "escapees" who lay in the shallows into the middle of the river, so they could join their floating comrades on their journey out to sea by the current. Although Durg supervised the operation closely with Longtooth gone with the foraging party, this did not stop them grumbling behind his back.
The weasel Knobear spoke under his breath to a water rat called Fercot as they lifted a rat corpse from the water and threw it midriver with a sickening splash. "Lookit lord 'igh an' mightiness o'er there, orderin' away while we do all th' laborin'. 'E 'asn't done a lick o' real work for as long as I can 'amember."
"Aye, 'tis so, matey," agreed Fercot. "An' didyer see wot 'appened t'these poor hearties? They was only followin' that scurvy blaggut Scurlegg's orders, an' now they're dead. An 'ow they died-- if'n that's mercy, I'll be striped wi' me own cutlass."
"Well 'old on wi' that blade o' yers-- 'ear comes that stoat t'order us 'round agin." As they went about their business again, Knobear added in an undertone, "Reckon th' ferret 'as t'be cruel like that, so's the vermin'll be afeared of 'im an' do wot 'e says."
"I reckon so, mate. I jest 'opes 'e don't start lookin' at our crew now that 'e don't have nobeast t'make a h'essample of."
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The reeds and rushes on the north bank of River Moss stood motionless, besides an occasional breeze stirring, as if they were waiting for something. Then, as if fulfilling the anticipation, a noise could be heard-- a sort of dragging sound. There, on the edge of the bank, Griptrill, a dark lean-bodied weasel was pulling himself up onto the bank from the shallows. Two different arrows stuck out of him at his shoulder and leg from his supposed execution, but he had still managed to retain consciousness and stay afloat until he was out of sight from the camp on the south bank. Now that he had brought himself a safe distance up the northern bank on his last reserves of strength, the dark weasel collapsed, exhausted, the arrows still in his side, but-- despite all else-- alive.
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The sun hung high in the sky that afternoon, blazing down on the waters of the great western sea unrelentlessly as the lone survivor of the forgotten summer. There beneath the glare of the afternoon sun stood Captain Bloik, leaning against the railing of his vessel, a dark schooner dubbed Blackhull. Shading his eyes with one paw, the ferret corsair peered out across the watery horizon. After a few seconds he turned and called across the deck to the steersbeast, "Still nothin' yet, matey, but keep 'er due north 'til evenin'; then we're 'eaded nor'east."
The steersbeast, a pine marten called Signa, merely nodded as Bloik paced the deck once more and returned to his cabin; he had already told her the same thing since they left Kortron, each time searching the eastern horizon restlessly and returning to his cabin. "Seems uneasy, like 'e 'spects somethin' to 'appen," she commented to her sister Sainla, who was standing nearby.
Sainla, who was the bosun of the crew on the Blackhull, looked out to the eastern horizon. "Ain't ye 'eard? 'Tis the fiery mountain o' the northern shores, ruled by great badger warriors'n'rabbit type beasts, so I'm told. I don't wanna be caught near there anymore'n Cap'n Bloik do."
"What're yew bildgescrapin's jawin' about up 'ere?" a searat called Ringnose yelled impudently at the two pine martens upon coming up to the stern deck on his rounds.
Sainla's teeth ground audibly together with hatred. "None o' yore business, rat," she growled with her back still turned, pawing at the cutlass at her side.
"As first mate on this ship, everything's my business, sea-weasel."
The insult hit Sainla's back like a knife from the hot-headed searat. This was not the first time that day since they had left Kortron that things had heated up between the pine marten and the inexperienced seafarer Ringnose. "Oh, that's right. The fox made ye first mate 'cuz yore 'is pet, ain't is so, Signa? Guess 'e didn't know what a coward ye really re, or 'ow much ye really know 'bout sailin'."
The air rang with the sound of Ringnose drawing his itchy cutlass as he challenged, "I'll bet yew could teach me a thing er two, couldn't ya', eh?"
Sainla whirled around, blade drawn and eyes blazing. "Aye, that I could, rat, but it'll be yore last lesson!"
All of the sudden their captain Bloik was among them like a flash, ending their quarrel with a raised voice. "None o' that, yew two! The Fox didn't send us out to get the entire crew carved up afore we land. Our job is only t'find this Abbey o' Redwall, an' nothin' else, me hearties. Now if y'don't want ter answer to me blade, then git back t'word an' don't let me see either o' yew startin' anymore trouble."
Still glaring at Sainla from beneath his furrowed eyebrows, Ringnose climbed down the ladder to the lower deck. After Bloik had left for the captain's quarters Sainla made as if to take a step towards where Ringnose had gone to with her cutlass still drawn, but her sister Signa stopped her. "Leave it be fer now, mate. Yew 'eard wot Cap'n Bloik said. B'sides, we'll git our chance soon anuff-- you'll see." Still holding the helm with one claw, the steersbeast drew her own blade, a straight sword, and licked its keen edge slowly. "Maybe not now, but the time will come, sister o' mine." With Sainla listening closely, the pine marten explained her plan. Besides just their differing blades, the sisters shared many complimentary differences: among them, Sainla's violent temper and great skill with a blade to Signa's keen eye and calm composure, which was why she was steersbeast, Sainla's completely tattooed right arm to Signa having no tattoos whatsoever, and the two god earrings which Sainla always wore to Signa's preference of wearing no jewelry at all.
"So it will be, sister o' mine," Sainla said after hearing Signa's plan. "The proper day'll come, and it's for that day we will wait. As it 'as been, so will it be." Despite their many differences, the two rarely trusted any else, and often times would combine against common odds as a fearsome and powerful duo-- and it was woe to the beast who started trouble with either of them. Sainla too raised her drawn cutlass, and licked the edge of it in a like manner; she then swung forward her sword in front of her, where both blades met with a clang of metal while their voices shouted as one to the sea:
"Death to our enemies!"
Trouble was coming to Mossflower; so was the Blackhull.