THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Thirty-Three
"Speeg is dead."
Just over a score of rats, stoats, weasels and ferrets stood assembled before Machus on the Abbey lawns, not far from the spot where Cyrus had been wounded. While Machus had labored to save the mousechild, Speeg's body had been promptly carried outside the wall by his foxes for a proper warrior's burial in the woods beyond the meadow.
All but one of the soldiers stood stiffly at attention, ranked in a neat double row, eyes staring straight ahead. Wolfrum was held apart from the rest. Literally held, by two of the swordfoxes who pinned the rat's claws tightly behind his back.
Machus paced back and forth before his line of vermin troops, his ice-cold gaze traveling from one fear-rigid face to another.
"Speeg is dead, and this is the sword that slew him." Machus held up the old, dull, crude Northlands blade. "Now, which beast here does this belong to?"
Gorsul the rat tried to speak up, but only an unintelligible croak emerged from his throat.
Machus snapped his head around at the pathetic sound, closing in on the trembling rat with four quick strides, a hunter zooming in for the kill. He stopped with his face a mere paw's width from Gorsul's.
"What was that, Gorsul? Did you say something?"
"I, er ... " Gorsul's voice was dry as sandpaper. "It's mine, sir. But I didn't kill nobeast!"
"No, I don't suppose you did. But you know Lord Urthblood's rules ... and the penalty for any soldier who is careless enough to let his weapon be taken from him, and used for ill."
Gorsul swallowed the lump in his throat, his face deathlike.
"Luckily for you, Lord Urthblood was not here to witness your irresponsible conduct. And I have more greivous behavior that I must address."
Gorsul had more sense than to protest that he'd been lying half asleep when Wolfrum had stolen his sword. He didn't want to draw down any more of the swordfox's wrath upon him.
Machus stepped two paces down the line to stand before the weasel Smallert. Machus shoved his face into that of his new target. "You slew Speeg, didn't you?"
The missing ear gave Smallert's head a lopsided appearance. He met the fox's gaze with tears in his eyes. "Yes, sir," he rasped.
"Now, what would make you kill one of your fellow soldiers?" Machus held the sword blade up close to the weasel's face.
"I ... it was an accident."
"An accident!" Machus barked. "Oh, that's not so bad then ... at least it wasn't cold-blooded murder. Anybeast can have an accident. Perfectly understandable. I'll go ask Speeg if he'll forgive you ... no, wait, I can't. He's dead."
Smallert burst out, "Don't do this to me, sir! I feel bad enough about that liddle mouse ... jus' kill me, and be done with it!"
"Mouse? I wasn't talking about any mouse. I was talking about Speeg, who's dead now, thanks to you and no other. Before you receive your punishment, I want to be sure you understand just what it is you've done."
"I'm sorry 'bout Speeg, sir, an' I know killin' him's enuff to get me death. But it's that mouse I ... oh, why'd he hafta be there, in our way? I'd be happy t' give you my life, twice over, if it would undo what I done!"
"Unfortunately, executing you won't begin to repair the damage this incident has done here at Redwall." Machus stood back from Smallert, addressing all the vermin. "These good creatures have invited us into their wonderful Abbey, given us food and clean beds to sleep in, not to mention the courtesy of their hospitality ... and how do we repay them? By fighting amongst ourselves like savage idiots, slaying one of our own out in clear view of these peaceful folk, and then nearly taking the life of one of their children!" He stared sharply at Smallert. "Yes, nearly ... The young one still lives, for now. Whether he will survive his grave injuries is uncertain. With luck, he will. But even if he does, what could we possibly do that would erase the memory of this bloody day from the hearts and minds of this fair place and the goodbeasts who live here?"
Off to the side, Wolfrum could sense that Machus was working himself up, and the rat fidgeted nervously in the grip of his captors, knowing he must be the fox captain's ultimate target.
Machus stalked over to the pinioned rodent. "And just what part did you play in this, Wolfrum? Remind me."
"I was jus' defendin' meself, sir!" the rat pleaded. "Smallert, 'ee swore t' kill me dead, right in front o' everybeast! Jus' ask Gorsul! Why, lookit the back o' me uniform, slashed where 'ee was thrashin' at me with that sword!"
"What, you mean this sword?" Machus held the ugly, old blade up to Wolfrum's face. "But this is Gorsul's weapon. How, pray tell, did it come to be in Smallert's claw?"
Wolfrum wasn't sure how much of the fight Machus had actually seen. "Why, that nasty weasel just grabbed Gorsul's sword right away from 'im, an' started layin' about the place, killin' poor Speeg, chasin' after me - "
"Oh, and I suppose he sliced off his own ear?"
Wolfrum stammered to an awkward silence, having trapped himself in an open lie.
"And what about that deep wound on his paw? Looks like a bite mark to me. A bite mark that, unless I miss my guess, would match up pretty close to your own jaw. You know the rules against biting, Wolfrum. Or am I to believe Smallert put those fang marks into himself? Would that have been before or after he cut off his ear?"
"But ... but he was tryin' to kill me! Slammin' me into th' ground 'til I thought I was gonna pass out, or have me ribs cracked. I tell yer, that damned weasel's got no place in a proper army o' fightin' beasts, beatin' on a fellow soldier like that!"
"I told him to do that," Machus said coolly, "as punishment for your behavior yesterday. You'd have done better if you had let yourself get knocked out."
The fear in Wolfrum's face began to give way to indignant anger. "Then it's your fault that Speeg's dead, an' that mouse got split open," he spat at the fox.
For the most fleeting instant, Machus's expression became a snarl of terrible fury. Quick as a lightning flash, his features relaxed back into the calm mask of a professional officer ... but not before he'd turned down the sword and driven its point through Wolfrum's unprotected footpaw.
Wolfrum howled in pain. Machus slapped him hard across the face to silence him.
"Shall we try that again? You bit Smallert - a violation of our fighting rules. You took Gorsul's sword and used it to inflict injury upon a fellow soldier - two more violations. And then there is the matter of the mouse child. What have you to say to that?"
"You damned fox! Now I'll never walk right again!"
"Oh, walking is the least of your worries right now."
"Smallert's the one who cut that mouse open! You can't blame that on me!"
"Watch me. Smallert was aiming right at you. As inexcusable as his behavior was, yours was far worse. That young mouse had no part in this idiotic mess. And he never would have come to any harm if you hadn't grabbed him and thrust him into the path of that swinging sword. And don't dare try to deny that's what happened - I was only a few paces away!"
"I ... I didn't know what I was doin'! I ne'er meant t' hurt the mouse - I was in fear o' me life! I panicked!"
"You didn't know what you were doing? Then you're too much of a hazard to be any part of this army. At least Smallert has the decency to take responsibility for his part in all this, and to show remorse for the harm he has done. You have shown me neither."
Wolfrum gritted his teeth against his pain and rage and fear. "You gonna kill me?" he glared at Machus.
"What do you think?" Machus stepped back to address the entire line. "Wolfrum says it's my fault that these terrible things happened today. Perhaps he is right. Unlike him, I will accept responsibility in this matter ... and I will take action, as your commander, to make sure no such thing happens again. From this moment on all rats, weasels, stoats and ferrets are prohibited from this Abbey and its grounds. You will all sleep outside the walls. You will all eat outside the walls. You will drill outside the walls, and you will still stand watches. Anybeast here who has a problem with that can take it up with Wolfrum, because he'll be out there with you. Andrus, Blevin, get these sorry excuses for soldiers out of my sight before I change my mind and gut them for throw rugs!"
"Uh, even Wolfrum, sir?" Andrus the fox asked.
"Yes, but not Smallert - that weasel stays here. All the others, outside the wall, now!"
While Smallert stood, head hung in shame and certain that he'd been singled out for execution, the rest were led by several of the foxes through the south wallgate, which was locked behind them once they were all outside. Wolfrum had received a reprieve ... for the moment.
00000000000
Tolar, a senior fox of the brigade, came over to Machus after the vermin were gone. "Are you sure about this, sir? I was certain you'd give Wolfrum the harshest penalty."
"In case you hadn't noticed," Machus answered, voice low, "there are Redwallers watching us now, from the walltop and the windows. These good folk have witnessed enough bloodshed within this haven of theirs; I'm not about to spill any more. Not here, not now. But I want this night to be Wolfrum's last."
"You want me to take care of it?" Tolar asked.
Machus gave a nod. "Tonight, in the first hour after midnight, when most of the Abbeybeasts are asleep. Wolfrum's fellow outcasts very well might have finished him off before then, but if not ... "
"I understand, sir. You aren't afraid he'll try to make a run for it?"
"Not on that footpaw I left him with. Besides, he knows what Lord Urthblood does to troops who desert. His life wouldn't be worth anything even if he could escape. He may be lulled by the appearance that I'm done with him for now, and be satisfied to sit tight and nurse his wound. That's what I'm counting on."
Tolar inclined his head toward Smallert. "And what about him?"
"I'll see to that right now." Machus strode over to the trembling weasel, paw ominously upon his sword hilt. "Smallert, come with me."
Head down, Smallert followed Machus toward the Abbey, obediently and without question.
00000000000
Hanchett heard voices outside his cell.
That in itself was nothing unusual. He was being guarded night and day, by both Redwallers and Urthblood's foxes and shrews. Meals were delivered to him frequently; clearly the Abbeyfolk were trying to bestow upon him whatever hospitality they could, in spite of his being held here against his will. And when the food came, there were always the typical sounds of conversation and pawsteps and shuffling and other telltale noise. Hanchett was a trained patrol hare, and knew how to make note of the most minute details.
But something was different this time. The sounds of movement, the voices ...
The Salamandastron hare paused in his stretching exercises, which he'd been doing regularly during his captivity to keep himself limber. The beasts outside the cell had fallen into an atypical quiet, and a new voice could be heard issuing instructions. When the door lock clicked, Hanchett popped up from his splayed workout position against the wall and stood in the middle of the cell to face the door.
It opened wider than usual, two creatures filling the threshold - a weasel, and the fox that Hanchett recognized as the captain of the fox brigade. They were backed by a crescent of shrews with their swords drawn.
"I've brought this for you," the fox said to Hanchett, shoving the other beast into the cell. "This weasel used a stolen sword to inflict a dire wound upon a mousechild of this Abbey. That child lies up in the Infirmary now, hovering between life and death."
Hanchett studied the pair quizically. "Well, that's a sad wrinkle, not that I jolly well couldn't have predicted it. Can't have such types mixin' with decent folk an' not expect such things - downright silly to even try, if you ask me. But wot's this got to do with me? I'm a bally prisoner here."
"You'll find it has quite a bit to do with you. How would such a beast be treated according to the rules of Salamandastron?"
"Why, we'd slay the rotter before he had the chance to cause such mischief, just like we would with all filthy vermin ... and foxes."
"That's what I thought." The fox prodded the weasel further into the cell. "Say hello to your new roommate. His name is Smallert. Keep in mind this terrible thing he has done. He will share this space with you for as long as you decide to let him live. If you should decide to end his life, no reprisal will be made against you. This beast has no more value to me. Do with him as you will."
"Wot, you want me to kill him for you?"
The fox captain backed out of the doorway. "By the way, he also slew one of my rats, for what it's worth."
And then the door slammed shut again, the lockbolt latching noisily back into place.
Hanchett blinked against the renewed dimness of the sealed chamber. The tenseness of battle-readiness had not left his muscles; if this weasel tried anything in these close quarters, Hanchett wanted to be able to clobber him to the floor.
But Smallert just stood there, staring fearfully at the hare.
"Hey, did you really do what that bally brushtail said you did?"
"Yes." The reply was a whimper.
"Oh ho. Then I really ought to snap your blinkin' weasely neck, wot? Wot'd you do if I tried?"
"You can if y' want. I won't try to defend m'self."
Hanchett did not expect such a reply. Was this vermin trying to put him off guard with this act?
"Hey, that's a nice belt you're wearing, chap. Sorry if I can't take you at your word, it's my training, don'tcha know ... " With that, Hanchett leapt high off the floor, aiming a brutal two-footed kick at the head of his new companion. Smallert smashed into the stone wall and slid to the floor, stunned senseless.
Hanchett hastily bent down and unbuckled Smallert's belt, yanked it off from around the weasel's waist and used it to bind Smallert's paws tightly behind his back.
"You prob'ly deserve death, but I won't kill a beast in cold blood, an' I sure as shivers ain't no fox's hatchet hare! Nerve o' that one, expectin' me to do his bally dirty work! Besides, if you really did slay a rat, you can't be all bad."
00000000000
A hush lay over Redwall all that afternoon. Even the Matthias and Methuselah bells held their silence, respectful of their young ringer who lay so gravely injured in the Infirmary. Maura spent the time with the Abbey children , who were unusually subdued. The smallest infant could sense that something awful had happened, and knew not to fidget or make a fuss. Maura comforted them with her steady strength, but they were equally a comfort to the badger matriarch, giving her a sense of purpose and helping to keep her mind off Cyrus.
Elsewhere in the Abbey, everyday chores were forgotten and left undone as every Redwaller stood by in quiet apprehension, waiting to find out whether a young life would be taken from them on this day. Down in the kitchens, Friar Hugh let the ovens go cold, since nobeast could think much about food at a time like this. It was as if the entire Abbey was holding its breath in dread and hope, waiting to see what would happen.
If there had been room enough in the Infirmary for every Abbey resident to crowd in around Cyrus's bed, they would surely have done so. As it was, there were still a healthy number of beasts keeping vigil at the young mouse's side.
Cyril was there, of course, focused upon his brother's every shallow breath. Their best molefriend Billus sat at Cyril's right paw, frequently wiping unshed tears from his tiny eyes with a trembling digging claw. Neither youngster had ever seen any creature wounded in so dire a manner; that their first exposure to such violence involved one corner of their friendship triangle made it all the harder. Cyril, the earnest would-be warrior, did not shy away when Billus put a consoling claw around his shoulders, and Cyril returned the mole's heartfelt embrace with one of his own.
Sister Aurelia and Abbess Vanessa hovered over Cyrus, helpless to do anything but monitor his precarious condition along with the others. As Redwall's twin healers it would have been unthinkable for either of them to leave their patient's side for even a moment. But they knew that Cyrus was really Machus's patient. If not for the swordfox's advanced surgical techniques, Cyrus would not have survived even this long.
Other Abbey leaders drifted in and out during the course of the afternoon. Foremole knew how close Billus was to Cyrus, and spent some time with him and Cyril. Montybank, after seeing Machus expel the vermin from the Abbey, came back up to pay his support and best wishes. Old Arlyn stayed as long as he could, but it was clear that the incident had badly shaken him, and he soon returned to his gatehouse cottage for a fitful nap. Nothing like this had ever happened during his long seasons as Abbot.
Machus returned toward late afternoon to check on the situation. The fox seemed encouraged that Cyrus was still alive, but after a hasty examination, he would only say, "It's too soon to tell." Turning to Cyril, Machus asked, "How are you feeling, son?"
"Okay, I guess. Sister Aurelia and the Mother Abbess made me eat and drink some more, like you wanted."
"Good lad." Machus gently patted Cyril on the head. "I've seen beasts wounded on the field of battle who spilled less blood than you gave for your brother today. You don't have to swing a sword or battle an enemy to show bravery. If Cyrus recovers, it will be as much thanks to your sacrifice as to my efforts."
Cyril managed half a smile. "Thank you, sir."
00000000000
Friar Hugh put out some cheese and leftover bread in Great Hall, but most of the Redwallers ate little if anything, too upset by the day's events to have much appetite.
The Mossflower Patrol led by Alex and Lady Mina returned around suppertime. When the two squirrels learned what had happened, they went striaght up to the Infirmary to sit by Cyrus with the others. Mina and Machus traded a grim, knowing glance; the two Northlanders understood what must be done with the beasts responsible for this.
As evening approached and the shadows in the Infirmary began to deepen, Sister Aurelia got up to light some lamps so that Cyrus could be monitored after darkness fell. The mood in the room was gloomy enough as it was, and the encroaching dimness of coming night was best warded off to keep everybeast's spirit hopeful.
Cyril's eyes seldom strayed from Cyrus. A flicker of movement made him sit up suddenly. "Sister Aurelia, Abbess! I saw his eyelids flutter!"
Machus leaned forward. "Are you sure? He shouldn't be coming awake anytime soon, even if the surgery was successful."
Sister Aurelia rushed over with two lit lamps. One was placed on either side of Cyrus, allowing the vigil-keepers to plainly see what had been before them all along, masked by the dying daylight.
"Why, his color has returned!" Aurelia exclaimed.
"Indeed it has," said Machus, feeling the unconscious mouse's brow. "And his heart is beating more strongly than it was. This is better than I could have hoped for."
"Do you think he will live?" Vanessa inquired.
"He is not totally out of danger yet, but ... yes, I think his chances are very good now."
Cyril reached out to once more hold his brother's paw. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he could have sworn he felt Cyrus give a slight squeeze. Tears of relief finally broke free from his moist eyes and ran down his cheeks.
Geoff noticed this display, remembering some remarks a certain young novice mouse had made upon the walltop one day earlier that summer. "I thought real warriors never cried, Cyril," he gently chided with a soft smile.
"Then I guess I'm no warrior, Geoff, sir," Cyril sniffed. "But it doesn't matter. Cyrus is going to be okay, and that's what counts."
Although his eyes remained closed, Cyrus gave Cyril another squeeze of the paw. Cyril was sure of it.