18

Kalzmar the lizard had many plans, many machinations, which she explained thoroughly to Conredd in the shade of the trees outside the Abbey. Ruminating on her claws, she gesticulated wildly, hissed with fury at every utterance of the name Kludd, trod with absolute scorn and derision upon the loamy soil. Conredd spoke little and listened much, trying to compose an image of the character and temperament of this much-too-intelligent lizard, who had lurked in the shadows for most of the duration of the little farce embroiling the Abbey.

As she spoke more, the trademark hiss of all reptilian stock that so elongated their speech and made everything they say either ominous or plaintive and stupid waned, until it seemed more of an accented quirk than an actual defect. "Firzt, I zhall enter from the zide, with you behind me. Thiz zhall be zimple, Kludd in his infinite ztupidity haz not ordered my kin to zlay me or even watch for me, and thuz they zhall do nothing but nod at my arrival. And if I zhelter you, they zhall do you no harm either. Gaining accezz to the Abbey thuz becomez a minor feat, but there remainz the izzue of nearing Kludd himszelf. If he zeez either of uz he zhall not hezitate to bring hiz army crazhing upon our headz."

Conredd nodded along, paying less attention than usual. He couldn't overcome the sheer intelligence of this lizard. And not simply a type of innate clever intelligence. That kind of intelligence even the lowliest beast, even an insect, could possess. But here Kalzmar was enunciating multi-syllabic words with relative ease, deploying vocabulary that would have been shocking to hear amongst most vermin. That was learned intelligence, words and sentence structure. Learned intelligence did not come naturally, it was a social construction. And Kalzmar did not learn it amongst her reptilian brethren, that was for sure. Which meant some outside creature most have encountered her, and only her of all the lizards, and had spoken with her until she learned to speak the way she spoke now.

A creature of roughly Conredd's own intelligence, although perhaps a smidgen lower.

He started to form an idea of who that mystery creature might be, a certain creature last seen bumbling her way toward the swamp and given up for dead long ago.

Conredd held up a paw to interrupt Kalzmar. "Excuse me. Somewhat unrelated, but by any chance 'ave you ever seen an' spoken with a vixen, similar in color and disposition to meself, callin' herself Sosostris or some such rot?"

Kalzmar blinked. Her scaly jaw hung agape. Her eyes narrowed at Conredd and she continued for a moment as if she had not stopped. "What we need is a… diztraction."

In an instant Kalzmar evaporated into the woods. Conredd, even with his better-than-average perception, missed the movement completely; she seemed to vanish into nothingness. A moment later he heard a rustle in the underbrush, followed by a few breathless grunts and yelps, before a vixen, tied with vines and bearing a bloody scratch on her skull, was thrown to the ground in front of him.

Kalzmar strode out behind the vixen, prodding her with a claw. The vixen shivered and looked up at Conredd, her mouth open in stunned silence.

"Do you know," asked Kalzmar.

"Aye," said Conredd. "'Tis my sister, Pitkin."

"It's Sosostris now!" hissed Pitkin/Sosostris. Acerbity leaked from her quaking voice.

"Nobeast'll take Sosostris seriously, 'tis not a real name."

"An' Pitkin is?"

"'Tis homely, at least. Modest. It don't aspire to be no more'n it is. How's the seer profession treatin' you lately, anyhow?"

"Better'n the soldier profession's treatin' you, I reckon."

Conredd stroked his chin. "I'm not the one tied up 'n bleedin', now am I. Life in the swamp pleasant, is it?"

"Lovely!" said Sosostris. "Ain't got madbeast warlords t'fear, 'tis for sure."

Kalzmar ogled them in disbelief. Conredd held a paw up and said, "Excuse us a moment, family business." Returning to his sister: "Alagadda ain't mad now an' ne'er was, you were just foolish t'try and pass the fake seer schtick on 'er an' it didn't work out well."

"You undermined me every step of the way!" said Sosostris.

"If I had to I sure would've, but as it stands I didn't. What amazes me is yore pure stupidity in it. Our marm was a seer. Exposed as a fraud, executed. Our three elder sisters were seers. Exposed as frauds, executed. Each by a different warlord in a different season under different circumstances. An' yet, you saw this spectacular record of failure an' thought in your dumb vixen head you might oughtta try your paw at soothsayin' as well. Unreal."

"I was in Alagadda's good graces, I was her most trusted confidante, more than Vellis, an' you betrayed me!"

Conredd rolled his eyes. "The fact that you thought you were e'er closer to the lady than Vellis means you ain't got a lick a sense atween yore two eyes and the bogus third one either." He turned to Kalzmar. "You and she were mates out in the swamp, was it? She's where you learned how to speak, at least."

Kalzmar nodded, still speechless. Conredd gave his sister a look at her poor choice in company.

Sosostris, indignant, spat at his footpaws. "You try livin' in a swamp fer who knows 'ow many seasons an' not havin' a single intelligent beast t'speak to, see 'ow it rubs on you, yeah?"

"I make it my business not to get into positions where I have to hide in swamps to save my own hide," said Conredd. He gave a flippant wave of his paw to signal he was bored of the conversation and addressed Kalzmar. "So she's yore plan fer a distraction, is it?"

Kalzmar nodded again. The power of speech, which she had employed so eloquently before, was robbed of her.

"Well," said Conredd. He nudged Sosostris's kneeling form with his paw. "Color me surprised, it seems after all this time you'll prove your worthless sack of carcass useful after all."

He and Kalzmar finalized the last portions of the plan.

Kludd/Tuscarawas stood at the door to the cellar alongside Darkscale and a few other lizards. The door was predictably jammed with something, but inside were all the Redwallers, somehow miraculously saved from the carnage his lizards had wrought upon Alagadda's horde. Kludd decided not to ponder the seemingly divine intervention that had saved the woodlanders from such despair for so many seasons. Instead, he knocked on the door.

"Listen up, anybeast there?"

Nobeast answered. Kludd knocked again, impatient.

"'Urry it up already, I was only askin' outta politeness, yew louts!"

Eventually a small voice came from the other side of the door. "…Who are you? You don't sound like a lizard, but you don't sound friendly, either."

"I'm Tuscarawas of the One Blade, the boss of these here lizzerds, the one who tells 'em exactly what to do an' when t'do it. Ain't that right, Darkscale?"

Darkscale's head bobbed up and down. "Yezzz, Lord Tuzcarawaz…"

"Tuscarawas of the One Blade," said the voice from the other side of the door. Whoever it was, he sounded old and wizened. "I assume, then, you've come to offer terms?"

"Ain't no terms t'offer," said Kludd. "I know ye ain't got no food down there, nor water neither. Y'ain't got no weapons, nor much a' anythin', really. All ye got is a lotta junk piled in front o' this door. Junk I can plow through given enough time, so ye might as well save me the trouble an' come out now."

"We will not leave simply to be devoured by your lizards," said the voice from the other side. "As the Abbott of this Abbey, I can speak for all of us. Given the choice between fighting until our last ounce of strength and surrendering to certain death, we will choose the former."

Yeah, yeah, Kludd had figured as much. He turned to his right claw, Darkscale. "Break down this door with whatever force necessary. Bring me the creatures inside, alive. Ev'ry single one o' them, y'hear? If you eat even the tiniest one I'll have your scales fer armor, got it?"

He brandished the Sword of Martin menacingly at Darkscale and the other lizards, but they only regarded it with dumb, unblinking eyes. Well, Kludd figured they got the message well enough. Maybe he ought to stay around and supervise the door-battering, though. In fact, now that he thought about it, hadn't he ordered these same lizards to batter down Alagadda's door? What happened with that plan?

"You dumb beasts know how t'open doors, don'tcha?"

They stared back. Kludd ground his paws against his forehead. "None of you are any good at anything!"

Darkscale tilted his head. "Why can we not eat ze mouzebeaztz?"

"Because I need somebeast to talk to who ain't yew stupid dumb idiot moron lizzerds, y'got it?" said Kludd, of half a mind to cut down Darkscale right then and there for his insolence. But he regained his composure. "Look. Here's a better idea. Door's made of wood, ain't it?" He spoke aloud mostly for his own benefit. "We burn it down, smoke 'em out. Piece a fresh apple pie."

"Burn," said Darkscale.

"Yes, burn, y'know, like fire? Ash? Smoke? All the good stuff? Back when I was but a mite, I remember my ol' papa's clan came across a walled village a' some sort. Creatures wouldn't let 'em in, they was just 'ungry an' cold. So they lit a few things aflame to warm 'emselves up, yeh?"

He chuckled at his own joke, because nobeast else was going to. Flopping a displeased paw at his underlings, he ordered them to find him some dry timber.

In the dark cellar, the creatures were abuzz.

"Didja hear? He's gonna burn the door!"

"How d'we stop 'im?"

"We ain't got no way! We can't douse the flames!"

A few creatures began to panic. Footpaws scurried over the stone. Abbott Walden, seated by the stairs to the barricaded door, tried to raise his voice for peace and calm, but nobeast would listen. The old vole didn't know what to do himself. Even if he did manage to get their attention, what could he tell them that would abate their frenzy? Where else could they hide? They had reached a dead end… A dead end… Wait. Walden stood up and began to survey the cellar. Perhaps… Perhaps a dead end was just what they needed.

Standing up, he called for order. Predictably, nobeast listened, and Walden slumped his shoulders with an aggravated sigh. He had never been the best at commanding the respect of his wards. Certainly, they never showed flagrant disrespect, but… He was of the opinion he would not go down in the books as the Abbey's most popular leader.

Cellarhog Gilmer stepped in to do what Walden could not. Projecting his booming bass voice, the hedgehog managed to quiet the crowd with his first syllable. "Hear now! If ye go bumblin' in the dark, all yer liable t'do's hurt yerself or some other creature. We got Dibbuns around, remember, or are ye all too scared of a blusterin' nobody fool t'think logical-like?"

Walden stepped in during the momentary lull as the woodlanders regarded Gilmer. "Indeed, Redwall has faced foes tougher than this Tuscarawas character many times before. A little fire's not enough to scare us, is it? But now we need to think what we shall do."

"Burr," said Foremole Griggs, "Thurr's still that hole'n th'roof, oi."

"Yes," said Abbott Walden, "But ever since Laramie and the vermin left, the kitchen's been swarming with those lizards. Then escape is out of the question as anything other than a last resort," said Walden. "I believe the time has come to stand our ground and fight."

Many of the woodlanders gasped. Cries of protest rose from the crowd.

"Fight? Against so many? We'll be slaughtered!"

"What about the young and elderly, Father? We can't risk them…"

"There must be a better plan."

Walden did not need Gilmer to reclaim their attention. "Now now, my friends. Hear me out. I'm no military strategist, but I think I have a suitable plan of action." He pointed to the doorway leading out of the cellar, barricaded with wooden detritus. The doorway stood at the top of a small stairwell, narrow enough that only one creature could feasibly descend at a time. "You expressed concerns that they outnumber us. Certainly, that is true. But numbers are meaningless when they are funneled so that they must approach one-by-one—as they would at that doorway. The lizards can only strike with fang and claw, and thus must be right next to their prey to become effective. But we have a different kind of weapon."

He motioned to Gilmer, who handed over a knotted flail constructed from the ropes that had once bound their paws. "With this we can lash out from a distance beyond the reach of the lizard. We can have three creatures attacking the lizards at once as they are forced to enter one at a time, while also keeping far away from their most dangerous aspects."

"But the Dibbuns!" said a mosuewife. "We cannot possibly conduct warfare with them nearby!"

"We can and we must," said Walden, adjusting his spectacles. "Fortunately, the cellar is of some length. We can keep the young and infirm in the back while the stronger creatures fight in the front."

The Redwallers demurred, many still unconvinced of Walden's strategy. The lizards were fast and powerful—could even three Redwallers hold off one of them? And should even one make it through the defenses, everything would crumble. But at the same time, they knew what Walden himself knew: they had no choice. They all remembered the stories, which Laramie and other Recorders had told them by the fire in Cavern Hole. Stories where Redwall Abbey had been tested by hordes innumerable as grains of sand, to which champions had to rise to defend their idyllic way of life. Not all of them had survived the ordeal, but were it not for their sacrifices the Abbey and all it stood for would be left for rot. This was their time, their story; and they could not fail their predecessors. They could not allow the Abbey to fall completely.

Cellarhog Gilmer was the first. Patting a paw to his broad chest, he said, "I'll 'elp." With a nod, Walden handed him back his flail in a ceremonious gesture.

Foremole Griggs stepped forward. He indicated the pile of dirt that his crew had excavated when they dug the hole in the ceiling. "Oi ain't one furr foightin', no zurr, but oi 'kin pile up that thurr durrt boi the door—durrt ain't known furr burnin'."

A young mousemaid raised a paw to be seen amongst her taller fellows. "I'll stand an' fight!"

She was immediately followed by a stout squirrel. "Me 's well!"

More voices rang out, until it seemed as though the entire Abbey spoke as one voice, determined to fight until the bitter end. Willing to die before their Abbey did.

They thronged around Walden, all offering aid, even those who were in no shape for fighting. Some suggested helping dig up stones from the floor to construct barricades; others volunteered to construct wooden shields out of the planking of the table and the cider barrels. Even the Dibbuns whirled sticks in the air like swords.

At the sight of it, Abbot Walden felt a stirring in his snout. Tears began to stream down his face. "Very well," he said, his voice quavering. "First, we shall…"

Finally—FINALLY—Kludd's lizards had scrounged together the basic items necessary to kindle a blaze, as well as several quite useless things that they had brought as well. In fact, when he sent the lizards on their little fetch quest, they seemed to have returned with the first thing they could grab with their grimy claws. Bones, utensils, pots, blankets loomed high in a pile before his exasperated form, his voice long gone hoarse from shouting. A precious few—either smarter or luckier than their fellows—had brought dry reams of parchment or bushels of leaves, and these had received as much of his favor as he was willing to impart.

"There we go, mates, pile it all by the door, like that, very good—No, not over there, you mind-flayin' moron!"

Eventually a considerable quantity of flammable material had accumulated before the cellar door. All that was required was a spark and the whole thing would be set ablaze, and soon the wormwood-rotten door would be consumed, allowing his lizards to recapture the Abbeydwellers. And then—and then he would finally have somebeast halfway intelligent to carry out his demands. Kludd rubbed his paws together, envisioning a future waited on by docile woodlander slaves. He could ask for a leg of woodpidgeon or a butter tart and they would not look at him with unfeeling and unblinking eyes as if he had asked them to leap to the moon. No, they would say a demure little "Yes, master" and fetch him the thing he asked sans scruples.

But for now he would contend with lizards. Having collected the requisite detritus, they gathered off to the side and stood watching Kludd with their omnipresent eyes, anticipating orders. He gave none. They would not comprehend the intricacies of an element as tricksy as fire. The conflagration would have to come from his own paws.

Fortunately, he was equipped. He reached into his coat and retrieved a slick, sharp, black flintstone and held it before the lizards with theatrical flair. "Fire stone," he said, slowly, at a pace they might actually understand. It was a valuable learning experience. "I can burn with just this little rock. D'ye believe me?"

To his disappointment, every single lizard head bobbed yes. As if they already knew the secrets of fire. As if they knew his parlor trick before he showed it. Kludd's eye twitched and he thought about throwing the stone at the nearest idiot lizard (which as usual happened to be Darkscale), but he soon saw the awe hidden within their unexpressive features. They were not nodding because they knew creating fire from stone was a simple feat. They were nodding because they knew he was a conjurer powerful enough to conceive it.

He grinned, his confidence restored and his anger abated. One had to be careful with these lizards, who knew what they were thinking.

With one quick motion, Kludd slashed the flintstone against the sandstone of the Abbey wall. As a lowly hordebeast for most of his life, Kludd had used many materials and methods to start fire, some better than others. After seasons of testing, he had come to the conclusion that the quick friction of two hard objects smashing against each other was unparalleled in its efficiency. The red walls that gave the Abbey its name were of stuff seemingly suited for the task of fire-making; with but one swipe a spray of sparks rained upon the pile of fuel. The lizards collectively stepped back, gasping. Or hissing. Or whatever you called those stupid sounds they made.

But none of the sparks caught, so Kludd tried again, with a faster motion, altering the angle he struck the sandstone slightly. A billow of sparks shot out, and this time one did not fade as it drifted onto the detritus. Kludd fell onto his paws and shielded the precious ember, blowing it gently. The ember flared, grew, and began to flame.

The fire spread to the entire pile of dry, flimsy junk, engulfing it almost immediately. Kludd stood back to admire his handiwork. Some creatures had been good fighters, some good hunters, some good at games of chance. Kludd had always prided himself on his ability to get a blaze going. It took a finesse that he fancied his soft touch could muster more readily than the brusque motions of his fellows. Well, ex-fellows. They were all dead now.

"Ah ha ha," he said. "Soon, see, that flame'll cut straight through that dead ol' door. Very soon indeed. You lot better be ready to get in there an' subdue 'em woodlanders, yeah!" He turned to his lizards. "D'ye remember wot I tol' ye t'do?"

They blinked in unison.

"I tol' you t'take 'em alive! Alive! Meanin' not dead, meanin' still breathin', an' with all their limbs intact! Think ye can manage that'un?"

They continued to blink sporadically.

Before Kludd could drill it into their thick skulls, Darkscale approached. "Mazter!" he said, with a degree of urgency shocking if only for its rarity. "Mazter, mazter!"

"Go on, spill yer guts," said Kludd.

Darkscale pointed past the throng of lizards, toward the south rampart. "Buzhtail!" he said, pantomiming a long snout with one claw. "The one you zaid to find!"

At first Kludd didn't understand what his lieutenant was trying to say. Bushtail… like a squirrel? He hadn't said anything about any squirrels, couldn't care less about their whole tree-frolicking species. But as Darkscale continued to indicate a snout, it dawned on him: a fox. And the only fox Kludd knew was—

He turned toward the south rampart. There, atop the wall in plain view, was a fox in a big hooded cloak. Conredd.

Kludd flung a finger at the lone fox. "Kill 'im!" he shrieked. "Kill the bushtail!"