Chapter Thirteen
Under the golden late-morning sun, a large assembly of Redwallers had gathered upon the east lawns, paws to brows and necks craned upward as they strove to make out any sign of activity from Warbeak Loft.
"I don't like this at all," Vanessa worried aloud to her friends. "Even if those Sparra are all too sick to cause Highwing any harm, he could still catch the fever from them. It was very foolish of him to fly up there like that."
"I tried to tell him that," said Alexander, "but he was gone before I could get three words out. You know how that bird of ours gets when an idea takes a hold of him."
"Yes, we know." Abbot Arlyn patted the young squirrel reassuringly on the back. "Nobeast is to blame in this; Highwing will do what he will do."
"Guess it's outta our paws now," Montybank said. "I shore do 'ope that li'l featherscamp's awright - I'm mighty fond of 'im."
"We all are," Geoff agreed. "I don't care if he calls me 'Pinky' every day from now until doomsday, as long as he makes it back down from there okay."
The Abbot turned to Alexander and the other squirrels. "You were speaking earlier of a plan ... "
Alex nodded. "Way I see it, we squirrels are the only ones who might be able to go to Highwing's aid. There's no way up to Warbeak Loft from inside the Abbey, so it would be impossible for any other creature to climb up there. We could, from the outside ... "
Vanessa's eyes went wide. "That would be a very dangerous feat."
Alex nodded. "Fortunately, the outside of the Abbey's got lots of intricate carvings and stonework which would provide plenty of good pawholds. It won't be easy, but I'm sure we could do it."
Arlyn nodded his assent. "Very well. If it's to be done, it must be done quickly, for every moment counts. Alexander, you may help organize the team who'll make the climb, but I don't want you or Barkpaw taking part in it; you're both still too weak from your bouts with the Greenwood Fever. The two of you will have to remain down here."
The two squirrels were devastated. "I'm recovered enough to do this!" Barkpaw protested.
"Me too!" Alex chimed in. "Besides, Highwing's my friend! I can't just stay here when he might need my help!"
"We're all Highwing's friends," the Abbot said firmly, "but I've made my decision. You won't do him any good if you place yourself in jeopardy too, when we have enough other able-bodied squirrels to get the job done. You and Barkpaw will stay down here, and that's an order."
Alex hung his head. "Yes, Father Abbot," he muttered.
Another of the squirrels, a big female by the name of Elmmarsh, put a companionly paw around Alexander. "Don't be so glum, we need a good head like yours down here with all the non-climbers. Now, let's get this expedition organized, double-quick! Highwing might need us, and time's a-wastin'!"
00000000000
Highwing was prepared for Grym's attack. His jousting matches with the otters had taught him important things about balance during a fight, and those lessons now came into play.
Grym struck Highwing in a move intended to drive him onto his back and pin him against the floor. Anticipating this, Highwing locked talons with the older Sparra and used Grym's momentum against him. Together they tumbled head over tailfeathers in the middle of Warbeak Loft, making several complete somersaults before Grym, realizing this would be no quick and easy victory, disengaged and rolled clear of Highwing, lest he end up pinned beneath his would-be victim.
Breathing heavily, Highwing stared down his foe. "Where are your bully friends?" he challenged Grym. "Are they all too sick to help you now?" He risked a quick glance at the nestfuls of birds off to either side; all eyes were upon the two combatants, but no other sparrow showed any sign of stirring to Grym's assistance.
"Grym Sparra no need help, me killee you myself!" The enemy bird danced forward as if to attack, causing Highwing to dodge to one side, but it was just a feint.
"Listen to me, and don't be a fool," Highwing said. "If you kill me, you could be condemning every Sparra here to death! You can't want that."
"Sparra proud, me proud, no take help from groundworm lowcrawlers!" And with that, Grym attacked again.
The raving, bloodthirsty sparrow had learned from their first tussle that Highwing was no helpless innocent, and altered his strategy accordingly. By the same token, Highwing knew it would not be so easy to misdirect Grym a second time, and sought to hop and dodge away. But the maddened Sparra leader was determined to press this attack until his adversary was slain. Lunging, flapping, raking and pecking, Grym harried Highwing across the Loft floor to one edge, toward the row of nests alternating with the eave openings and their perilous drop to the ground far below.
Highwing was only too aware of what Grym was attempting to do, and only too powerless to stop it, driven back by the onslaught of slashing beak and talon. He did not want to be forced back against the nests, not knowing which of these Sparra might leap to Grym's aid. The alternative was little better; no doubt Grym would relish the chance to cripple his enemy and then cast Highwing out of the Loft to a presumably fatal fall, just as he'd done in an earlier season.
It was all Highwing could do to keep his footing as he fended off Grym's relentless pursuit, knowing it might prove a lethal mistake to allow the larger sparrow to get fully on top of him. Backing away from Grym as he was, it was impossible for Highwing to watch where he was going. Suddenly, the smooth floor beneath his dancing talons gave way to an obstacle-course jumble of cluttered objects: buckets and small tools, craftworks and containers, pots and jars, and all manner of other miscellany - all things which the Sparra had foraged and pilfered from the Abbey grounds and the surrounding woodlands over the course of many seasons. The floorspace all around the nest areas was littered with such debris, the castoff and neglected mess of creatures who neither learned nor cared about storing their belongings in any sort of proper manner. Now Highwing stumbled upon the shattered half of an old split pail, and fell back onto his tailfeathers.
It was all the opening Grym needed. In the blink of an eye, the warlike sparrow was atop Highwing.
For all that Grym might have been suffering some of the effects of Greenwood Fever, he was still bigger and stronger than Highwing, and the younger sparrow found himself pinned to the floor with Grym standing fully on his chest. With his quarry thus trapped, Grym pecked savagely at his victim's face, striving to stab out Highwing's eyes. Highwing staved off the assault the only way he could - with his own bill - and for several furious moments the two beaks clacked loudly against each other like the angry parry-and-thrust of a quarterstaff duel.
Highwing lacked the strength to throw Grym off, but his talons were still relatively free ... and his short cloak stuck out from behind his head, not under his body. In an act of desperation, he reached up with one claw, undid the simple neck clasp, pulled the cloak free and cast it toward Grym's face.
The effect was like throwing a switch. Suddenly bereft of his vision, a bird's most vital sense, Grym froze like a statue, the green cape draped over his head. Taking advantage of this momentary lull, Highwing kicked hard at Grym's breast while flapping and bucking, and succeeded in tumbling his enemy off of him.
Being sent sprawling was enough to bring Grym back to his senses. Flinging aside the cloak, he turned once more to face his enemy.
But now the odds were evened, for in the moments that it took Grym to recover, Highwing had snatched up the long half of a broken rake handle which had lain amidst the clutter, and now stood reared back brandishing the pole in one talon. The young Sparra glared at his adversary venomously.
"If you've seen me practicing down on the lawns, you know what I can do with a piece of wood like this. Now, I've come here to help my fellow Sparra, and I'll not allow you to stop me. If you attack me again, I vow that I will slay you!"
This defiance only seemed to stir the belligerent sparrow to new heights of insane rage. "Grym Sparra rule here, not you! Your eggfather try'n'challenge me, me kill'im! Your eggmother make treasontalk against Grym, me kill'er too, then throw her eggchick outta Warbeak Loft! Now stupid, lopside, groundworm eggchick come back, so me kill you again, an' this time me kill you dead, dead!"
Highwing's beak fell open in stunned shock. So now he knew the reasons behind his savage banishment from his own kind ... and he also knew he had no mother or father here who might defend him. He was truly on his own.
These thoughts scarcely had time to register before Grym leapt at Highwing again ... and this time, the red fire of pure, unreasoning, killing hate blazed in his eyes.
00000000000
Elmmarsh had appointed herself the unspoken leader of the dozen-odd squirrels making the assault on Warbeak Loft. The team of climbers had cleared the final overhang and now marched along the spine of the very highest roofpeak, searching for a way into the Sparra court.
"Cripes, did anybeast here think to bring any rope?" Elmmarsh lamented; a silent chorus of shaken heads was the only reply she received. "Those eave openings are at the very top of a sheer wall, and the roof juts out over them. That's going to be pretty hairy, even for a squirrel. We'll have to lower ourselves over the edge one by one and try to swing ourselves through the openings into the attic. One slip, and it's a long way down to the lawns."
Several of her companions quailed visibly at this comment. One said, "Even if we had a rope, what good would it do us? There's nothing to tie it around, and no good purchase for one of us to hold it for the others."
"That's not entirely true." Elmmarsh pointed ahead of them. "We could have used the weathervane up there."
"Yeah, but are there any eave openings right under it? Wouldn't work if there aren't."
"It's all just prattle anyway," said Elmmarsh, "since we don't have a rope. Any of you fellas game for nipping back down and fetching one?"
No volunteers spoke up. The climb this far had been a most precarious one; with the wind whipping briskly around them at this height, it was a minor miracle that none of the rescuers had been lost. None of them wanted to have to make this climb a second time, especially encumbered by a heavy coil of rope.
"Thought not." She started haltingly down the sloping roof tiles, taking the lead toward the overhanging edge and the precipitous drop beyond. The others followed, and soon they were all gathered just above the row of eave entrances into Warbeak Loft.
A few of the ones in front got carefully down on all fours and poked their heads over the side, taking an upside-down survey of the loft openings below them. "Okay," Elmmarsh observed, "there's a good one just to my right. Who wants to go - oh, bloody fur!"
From within the darkened recesses of the portal just below her, Elmmarsh saw two feathered figures emerge, battling furiously at the threshold. Their struggles were too frenzied for even a squirrel's quick eye to follow. And then, as Elmmarsh watched in horror, one of the birds was forced out over the deadly edge and went into a tumbling, senseless plummet toward the ground far below. Obviously either already slain or rendered unconscious, the unfortunate creature made no move to spread its wings to halt its fatal plunge.
Elmmarsh bit hard at the inside of her cheek. There amidst the rapidly receding plumage was the unmistakable novice green of Highwing's cloak.
After what seemed an eternity of heart-stopped waiting, the falling sparrow smashed into the ground and lay still, its mangled wings and legs splayed out upon the greensward, the cape of a slightly different shade of green resting partway over its shattered body in a mockery of a burial shroud.
"Oh, rot!" cried the squirrel next to Elmmarsh. "We're too late - the blighters've got poor Highwing!"
"Too late to save our friend, maybe," Elmmarsh snarled through gritted teeth, "but we can avenge his murder. I didn't make this climb all the way up here for nothing; I say it's payback time! Who's up for wringing some scrawny feathered necks?"
Nearly every squirrel there gave an unhesitating shout of support for Elmmarsh's proposal.
"All right, then." She stuck her head over the roof's edge once more, spying out the doorways into Warbeak Loft. "No sign of any of the winged villains now - don't think they realize we're up here. Okay ... time to give those nastybirds a taste of their own medicine!"