THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Thirty-One
Wolfrum had had enough quarterstaff practice for the time being, Machus decided, and now it was time for a little bare-pawed wrestling. Veach the ferret was replaced by a weasel named Smallert, who was indeed small for a weasel and hence made a perfect practice opponent for the rat. Unfortunately for Wolfrum, Smallert was also a champion wrestler in Urthblood's army, more than a match for even the largest rat. Wolfrum groaned in dismay as he found himself relieved of his staff and facing Smallert, who stood limbering up before launching into his latest victim. Wolfrum was bruised and bumpy all over from the hits he'd taken from Veach, and was sure to get even worse from Smallert.
Spying the two other rats lying on the grass a short distance away, eyes closed and blissfully unaware of his plight, Wolfrum stormed over to them and gave first Speeg and then Gorsul a swift kick in their thighs. "Hey, you ninnies! Get up an' lend yer fellow rat a claw! I'm about t' be slaughtered 'ere!"
Speeg and Gorsul were most indignant about being disturbed in such a manner. "Hey, you shouldn't a' gone an' done that, mucker," Gorsul growled. "I were jus' about asleep."
"Yeah, we're off duty," said Speeg, and they both lay back down, closing their eyes again.
"Why, you lazy, no good - " Wolfrum never got to finish his name-calling. Strong weasel claws grabbed him from behind and flung him to the ground so hard that the breath was knocked out of him. Twisting around to look up at his tormentor, he saw Smallert grinning maliciously down at him.
"Remember, no biting," the weasel taunted, reciting one of Lord Urthblood's cardinal rules of paw-to-paw combat. Wolfrum closed his eyes and braced himself as Smallert reached for him once more.
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Cyrus jogged across the lawns in the glorious late summer sunshine, habit flapping as he ran toward his brother.
Off to his left, a rat and a weasel were fighting tooth and claw. Cyrus didn't pay it much heed. After all, there were creatures fighting all over the south lawns - otters, weasels, stoats, ferrets, even Machus was standing near Cyril, although the swordfox captain seemed more to be supervising the proceedings than participating in them. To Cyrus's young eyes, focused on Cyril, the scuffle between rat and weasel was nothing of any special concern, just another part of the general melee of the drills. He did not pick up on the fact that this particular piece of fighting had nothing friendly or courteous or professional about it. He was not close enough to see that blood was being shed between the two combatants, or to clearly hear their enraged words. All aspects of soldiering were equally strange to the young novice, and he was thinking only of racing over to join Cyril.
And so on Cyrus ran.
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Smallert threw Wolfrum about this way and that, slamming the rat into the ground harder each time. Wolfrum sought and scrambled for a good defensive hold on the weasel, but Smallert's paw-to-paw expertise was enough to counter every move that Wolfrum attempted.
At last Wolfrum could stand no more. Waiting for Smallert to grab him again, he opened his mouth wide and sank his fangs deep into the weasel's wrist. It was a gross violation of Urthblood's rules, but Wolfrum didn't care; he just wanted to belay Smallert's assault on him before he was knocked senseless.
Smallert screamed and released Wolfrum, clutching at the vicious wound above his paw. Wolfrum spat out the foul taste of weasel blood and dirty fur, then stumbled out of Smallert's enraged grasp back toward the two supine rats. Smallert was mere paces behind, screaming for blood.
Gorsul and Speeg were brought rudely awake. No sooner had they opened their eyes than Wolfrum was crouching down between them, wrenching Gorsul's sword free from its scabbard. "Hey, that's my blade!" the drowsy rat complained.
Not waiting to gauge the situation, Wolfrum stood, spun and swung the sword blindly in his pursuer's direction. Smallert screamed anew as his left ear was cleanly severed at the scalp. For a moment the weasel just stood there, staring at the slice-off extremity which had fallen into his paws, while Wolfrum pointed the sword unsteadily at him.
Smallert's face went rigid with fury. "You are a dead rat!" he snarled, and flung his bloody ear into Wolfrum's face. In the instant that it took Wolfrum to recover from this most unexpected move, Smallert dodged past the weaving swordpoint and grappled with the rat, using his superior fighting skills to knock Wolfrum to the ground and wrest the sword from his grasp. The weasel started swinging the weapon as soon as he got a sure grip on the hilt.
Wolfrum fell between Speeg and Gorsul, and the three rats were quickly in a confused tangle, struggling against each other to get clear of the furious weasel. As Smallert, less experienced with swordplay than many of Urthblood's troops, lashed out wildly for vengeance, Wolfrum grabbed Speeg and thrust his fellow rat forward to take the blow. The unfortunate bystander rat never knew what hit him, as the errant blade sliced halfway through Speeg's neck, and he fell back onto the grass, instantly slain.
Smallert was too consumed by his insane wrath to be affected by his killing of an innocent rat. Wolfrum was on his feet now, fleeing across the lawns to escape the bloodthirsty weasel. Smallert had eyes only for his quarry, and immediately set off in pursuit.
Wolfrum's legs were shorter than Smallert's, and he still smarted from all the physical punishment he'd taken that morning. There was no way he could hold his lead for very long; already he could feel the wind from Smallert's sword swings ruffling the back of his tunic and grazing his tail. If he stopped he would be slaughtered, if he kept running he would be caught and killed anyway. In his panic, he cast about for something, anything, that he could grab to hold up between himself and Smallert.
The first thing that came to paw was Cyrus.
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The young novice mouse sprinted over the south lawn, revelling in the joy of the moment and utterly oblivious to the fate about to overtake him. Cyrus was a mere stone's throw from Cyril when he felt powerful claws grab him at his sides and lift him off the ground. His world spun halfway around in a dizzying blur, and then Cyrus found himself facing a weasel - a small weasel, to be sure, but still far larger than any mouse - swinging a sword straight at him. There was no time to cry out or even feel the terror of the situation. Before he knew what was happening, the sword had slashed him across the belly just above his waist cord, rending the fabric of his habit and slicing a long gash across his stomach.
The horror of what he'd done penetrated through to Smallert as he raised the sword for another swing. Staring mortified at the mouse child suspended limply in Wolfrum's claws, the weasel's jaw went slack and the weapon slipped from his grasp. "Oh, no," he muttered.
The pain hit Cyrus all at once, a sharp pain that burned like fire across his middle and deep into him. Still he did not cry or scream, for such agony must be unreal. His eyes glazed over, and the world of the sunlit Abbey grounds and blue summer sky receded far away from him.
Other beasts were screaming. Cyril, realizing what he'd just seen happen to his brother, ran wailing toward the scene. Machus was at his side, paw on the hilt of his sword.
"Wolfrum, put that mouse down!"
Wolfrum still had Cyrus upraised in his claws as he backed away from Smallert, concerned only for his own safety. "Sir, he's tryin' t' slay me!"
"I'll slay you myself if you don't put down that youngster at once! And do it gently!"
Wolfrum hesitated in uncertainty, then laid Cyrus on the grass and turned to run. He hadn't gotten very far when he was clubbed to the ground by two foxes who'd raced down from the walltop at the first sign of trouble.
Smallert's throat had gone dry as he stood staring at Cyrus lying still upon the lawn. Blood soaking through the slashed habit was turning the green fabric dark; the sight made the weasel forget his own injuries. "S-sir, I'm sorry. I didn't mean ... "
"Shut up!" Machus knelt beside Cyrus. Cyril was already there, tears coursing down his cheeks as he clutched his younger brother's paw in his own, squeezing it, trying to will some of his own life and energy into his stricken sibling. Cyrus was in shock, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, his paw as limp as any deadbeast's.
"Oh, Cyrus, don't die! Please don't die!"
Geoff hastened across the lawn, having seen the incident from a different angle. "Oh, no!" he wailed. "That wicked beast has slain Cyrus!"
Smallert sank to his knees, burying his face in his paws.
Machus tore the ripped habit wide over Cyrus's stomach, revealing the wound. It was a horrible gash, wide and deep, gushing blood. Wasting no time, the fox began pulling strips of bandages from an inner pocket of his black tunic, working like a madbeast. When he'd produced several, he reached into Cyrus with his paws, feeling around through all the blood and gore until he was up to his wrists in it, much to the startlement of the Redwallers.
Geoff started forward. "What are you doing? Get your paws out of there!"
Veach the ferret laid a restraining claw on Geoff's shoulder. "Hold up, Mr. Mouse, sir. Nobeast knows more 'bout healin' than Cap'n Machus 'ere, Let 'im work, it's th' lad's only chance."
Geoff swallowed and forced himself to stand back while Machus tended to Cyrus.
While Cyril continued to hold his brother's listless paw, Machus probed around inside the wound. His face was a picture of concentration, since he could not see but ony feel his way around the damaged body. After what seemed an eternity, Machus withdrew one paw, thick with the blood of the young mouse, and began snatching up the bandage strips and stuffing them down into the yawning gash.
"The intestines are cut in several places," he said as he worked. "This packing will slow the bleeding from inside, but we must get this young one up to the Infirmary at once."
Cyril choked, "Can you save him, sir?"
"It will be a near thing, but I've seen beasts survive injuries like this before, with the right treatment." Machus withdrew both paws, having used up all his bandages. "Quickly now! Somebeast take his shoulders, and I'll get his feet. Every moment is crucial!"
"Here, I got 'im," Montybank volunteered, stepping around to Cyrus's head and lifting the novice mouse from under the shoulders while Machus took him by the footpaws. "Reckon it's safe t' move 'im this way?"
"No time to get a stretcher, even if there's one ready for use," the fox answered. "We must get him to a sickbed at once!"
They were already shuffling toward the Abbey. One of the other swordfoxes had come over to grab Smallert. "Sir, what do we do about these two misfits?"
"Keep 'em from causing any more trouble," Machus snapped. "I'll deal with them later ... no time now!"
Cyril stayed at his brother's side while Cyrus was bustled across the lawn by Machus and Monty; all throughout this ordeal he had yet to relinquish his grasp on his sibling's paw. Geoff, jogging alongside the entourage, glanced at Cyril with a frown of uncertain worry. "Cyril, perhaps you should stay out here ... "
"No!" Cyril cried. "I'm not leaving Cyrus!"
"It's all right, let him come along," Machus said to Geoff. "I might need him up there."