Chapter Nine
Days later, no rat at the lumber yard imagined that a silent red circle of death was closing about them.
Two huge vessels lay moored at the dock extending into the sea from the mill site. One, the Wavehauler, was a flat-bottomed, tall-sided sea barge of immense proportions, so gigantic that it could carry enough wood to build two of Tratton's largest pirate dreadnoughts.
One of those dreadnoughts, the Scorpiontail, lay in the choppy shallows across the pier from the lumber ship. It was a warship such as this which had established a beachhead here four seasons earlier, spewing out an army of nearly three hundred rat warriors who'd spread out in a wave of destruction, killing or enslaving every creature within half a day's march, burning homes and dens and dreys and holts, and digging in so that no woodlanders would have a hope of recapturing this land. It was common for at least one of Tratton's largest attack vessels to be taking shore leave here at any given time, both to give the crews recreational time on dry land and to bolster the defensive forces stationed here permanently.
While many of the Scorpiontail's crewrats lounged and gambled and drank in the dockside tavern, and others were content to get their land legs back with strolls along the shore or up into the wooded hills overlooking the main mill, the dreadnought's captain Lutar and the wood barge's captain Drecksage shared a cup of grog with Ostrok, the overseer and manager of the compound. The three rat officers sat in the third floor office of Ostrok's command tower, the only building on site constructed of stone rather than wood.
The large windows in all four walls of the top-floor office gave a panoramic view of the yards and sea and hills in all directions. From this vantage, Ostrok could at a glance take in everything that was going on in his little domain. Slaves and workers who knew that their overlord was always watching were productive laborers indeed.
The portly mill manager snorted as he gazed out over the site. "I still says 'is Majesty should've waited to have us expand our territory until there was more of us 'ere. No tellin' what resistance we might run inta as we get deeper inta these woods."
Lutar regarded Ostrok. Like all of Tratton's high captains - and like the Searat King himself - Lutar was a lean and muscular armsmaster, skilled in many weapons and lethal to oppose. He did not feel entirely at home with Ostrok or the equally girthsome Drecksage. The demands of a timber mill manager or a pilot of a glorified cargo barge were not the same as for a warrior who might be required to engage an enemy or crush an armed insurrection time and again. All three rats in Ostrok's office had taken lives, but Lutar was the only career soldier and mass-murderer among them ... and that made the other two soft in Lutar's eyes.
"The Sharktail is on her way," the dreadnought captain assured Ostrok. "She should be here any day now. An' once she is, we'll have five hundred fighting rats t' send out in a wave, as far into the forest as we please. Any resistance these feeble woodlanders might put up will be completely overwhelmed. King Tratton has a great deal invested in this operation, too much to abandon it just 'cos we've cut down all the trees that're within easy reach. There's still a whole forest out there fer the taking, beyond your perimeter fences and guard towers ... and King Tratton means to make it his."
Drecksage rubbed his paws together greedily. "We'll gain 'nuff new wood t' build another ten dreadnoughts!"
"An' another ten on top o' that, no doubt," said Lutar. "An' garrisons, an' supply boats, an' furniture. But Tratton needs metal ores much as he needs boats, an' there might be some prime deposits 'neath all those trees. Once they're cleared, we can see about doin' a little mining 'round here."
Ostrok continued to stare out the windows. "I'll breathe a great big sigh o' relief when the Sharktail gets 'ere, an' we c'n get these woods all properly cleared out."
"They'll be clear, all right," Lutar assured him. "Not that I 'spect we'll find more'n families ripe fer slave pickin'. We're too far north o' Salamandastron fer that bloody badger to worry us, an' Redwall's even further. An' those damnable squirrel archers ain't gonna come down 'n' across from th' Northlands while it's still winter. By th' time word spreads of what we've done here, it'll be too late fer anybeast - even Urthblood 'imself - to do naught about it. That forest will be ours."
"What he said!" Drecksage heartily agreed, slapping Lutar on his well-muscled shoulder. "Whatcha worryin' yer whiskers fer, Osty matey? Y' got th' loggin' trails all clear cut, an' not so much as a mousebabe with a slingshot's said boo ta us! These woodlanders - if'n there's even any left in these 'ere woods - they knows better'n ta stand up ta us! Why, if'n I was you, Lutar matey, I'd be more worried 'bout all of 'em hightailin' it outta there when you start yer sweep, an' deprivin' us of all those extra slaves we coulda had!"
"I'm not worried about anything," Lutar replied stiffly. "We will stick to the timetable His Majesty has given us. The new trails are nearly finished, and the Sharktail will be here soon. Then me 'n' Captain Rindosh will clear out these forestlands and claim 'em in the name of King Tratton. An' then - " Lutar's grip tightened on his cup of grog, " - then mebbe I'll get an assignment where I'll be able t' do some real fightin'!"
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Crute the Timbermaster didn't believe in taking chances.
Ostrok may have been the top-ranking rat assigned to Tratton's northern timber mill, but it was Crute who made it run. The tall rat was built a little like a tree himself, sturdy and wide, and always dressed in greens and browns. It was said he could tell the inner grain of a tree just by running his paw across its bark, could smell hidden rot with just a sniff, and detect hard knots by placing his ear to the trunk. And when it came to roping, sawing, felling and dragging trees back to the yards, or milling them to yield the most valuable timber, he had an almost instinctive knack for doing it right every time. No other rat in Tratton's vast hordes possessed a comparable talent; Crute was truly unique.
He was also highly distrustful of woodlanders, and overly cautious about sharing the forest with them. Crute always sent out advanced scouts, always stationed hidden archer rats up in the branches of nearby trees, and never, ever ventured forth on his logging excursions with teams of fewer than a score of loggers.
On this fine winter's day, Crute was out with a score and a half of his fellow timber rats, with four others fanned out in the trees as guards and lookouts. Ever since the orders had come to extend the logging trails farther into the forest, Crute had been bolstering the number of rats in his daily expeditions. And even though winter kept the days short, he would not lead his teams past the perimeter fences until the sun was fully in the sky, and always called a halt to the day's labor in plenty of time for them to be safely back within the compound by twilight. These precautions had served him well so far, and he had no reason to suspect they would ever fail him.
The late-winter sunshine bathed the forest floor in coldly brilliant light. The leafy canopy that would in other seasons have made these woods into a realm of dancing shadows and dappled sunspots was now last autumn's memory, the dead dry leaves crinkling and crackling underpaw with each step. The bare branches and empty limbs did little to block the rare winter sun, nor did they provide much cover for the lookout archers up in the trees. The few scattered pines held their needles, but their branches weren't thick enough to support the rat archers, and the dense growth would hinder their aim as much as it would camouflage them. So, the arboreal watchers settled themselves onto the exposed limbs of oak and ash and elm, content to make a show of force and scan the surrounding woods from their lofty vantages.
By midday most of them had shouldered their bows and stretched themselves out on their respective perches to soak up what warmth from the sun they could. None dared fall asleep - there was the immediate danger of a long fall to the ground along with the even less cheery prospect of having to face Crute's wrath afterward - but their vigilance definitely suffered from the lack of action.
Crute had just finished roping up a stately ash so that it could be guided down to fall into the cleared path, where it would be easier to haul back to the compound. He didn't really like logging in the winter, and not just because of the lack of cover. In winter, the trees felt dead, and it was more difficult to gauge which ones would yield the best lumber - not that it really mattered, since Tratton's plans called for this entire area to be clear cut eventually. But Crute found the felling of trees slumbering in the midst of their winter dormancy somewhat disheartening.
The ash was severed at its base, and was halfway to the ground when one of the treetop sentry rats a short distance away beat it to the forest floor. "Hey, look!" one of the ropers called out in a half-laughing voice. "Susca's fallen out of his tree!"
Crute blew out an exasperated sigh. "Reckon somerat oughtta go see if'n he's awright ... and' if he is, then I'm gonna kick 'is scurvy tail 'round th' forest fer fallin' asleep on duty!"
Then another archer rat fell from its tree.
Moments later a comrade who'd reached the first fallen rat cried out, "He's got an arrow through 'im! Suska's been shot!"
"What!" Crute exploded.
A third rat fell from its tree, and a fourth on the ground, standing at the head of the trail, also fell, transfixed.
The last remaining archer rat yelled, "It's squirrels! I see 'em, comin' in from th' east!" He was already climbing down his trunk as the words left his lips. Crute, crouching low to present less of a target, raced over to interrogate the descending archer. He narrowly avoided the ash, which came crashing down as the rats steadying the guide ropes let go to dive for cover.
"Whaddya mean, squirrels?" he demanded of the archer. "How'd they get within arrow range? You was supposed t' be watchin' out fer things like this!"
"They got soot or sumpthin' rubbed inta their fur, sir," the flustered lookout said. "They ain't red like usual. They blend right in with th' trees an' dead leaves!"
Crute ground his teeth. Fiendishly clever of these squirrels, camouflaging themselves like that. Which suggested this wasn't some spur-of-the-moment attack from a passing woodlander or two. "How many'd y' see?"
"Think there's at least three of 'em, sir. Could be more ... "
"Sea salt 'n' damnation!" Crute spat. Even if there were only three or four attackers, squirrels could outshoot any rat. And now that all his rats had been chased down from the trees, those bushtailed devils could come at them from in front or above. A squirrel moving through even leafless treetops would make a much harder target than his stationary archers had been. "Ya sure they're comin' in just from th' east, an' not movin' to surround us?"
"Only saw 'em to th' east, sir." The archer pointed to all their fellow rats, who'd taken shelter behind various trees. Five lay dead, including the three who'd been in the branches. "We seem t' be safe behind these trunks, so they can't be all around us. Not yet, anyways ... "
"So let's not go givin' 'em a chance to do just that!" Crute cupped his paws to his mouth and called to his comrades, "Fall back! Toward th' compound! Scatter through th' trees, an' we'll rendezvous back below th' last rise in th' trail! Every rat fer 'imself!"
Needless to say, Crute led the staggered retreat.
A few stray arrows fell harmlessly among them, but it quickly became obvious that the squirrels were not pressing the pursuit. By the time the withdrawing rats reached the rise Crute had named, all the survivors had congregated on the trail again, although they kept to a half-run in their haste to be out of the forest and safely back behind the knifewire fences and guard towers of their compound. More than one threw anxious, panicky glances over their shoulder.
Crute was fuming. "Killin' me rats ... interruptin' my loggin' ... they'll pay dear, by claw, them bushtails will! I'll get Cap'n Lutar ... t' send out a hunnerd ... of his fightin' rats! Then we'll see ... how those crouchin', camouflaged, lily-livered cowards fare!"
Leading the retreat and puffing heavily - although not as heavily as most of his less physically fit rodent comrades - Crute rounded the final bend in the logging trail that would take them out of this accursed forest and back into the stump-filled, clearcut zone around the mill grounds. The sight before him made the Timbermaster stagger to a standstill.
At first glance Crute thought a large gray tree had fallen directly across their path. It took several moments for him to realize he was looking at a line of the grim-faced, ashen-furred squirrels standing shoulder-to-shoulder, perfectly still in their concentration, their every bowstring notched with an arrow and pulled back taut.
There were more than three or four of them. Many, many more.
"Oh, spit," Crute muttered to himself.
A score of Gawtrybe bowstrings twanged as one.
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Captain Matowick stood surveying the results of the ambush. Thirty-seven rats and not a survivor among them. Those who had not died instantly from the hails of arrow fire had been dispatched by Gawtrybe daggers as the squirrels moved through the dead and dying to finish their business here.
Matowick had not lost a single fighter in the engagement.
Browder stood as many paces from the carnage as he could without straying beyond earshot of the squirrel commander. The hare scout leaned against a treetrunk, facing away from the scene of the slaughter, sucking in deep breaths of the crisp winter air. Urthblood had assured him that he wouldn't be taking part in any actual battles, but this was already closer to the fighting than Browder cared to be, and the main engagement had yet to begin.
The squirrel sergeant Grapentine reported back to Matowick with a salute. "Looks like we got 'em all, sir. But I think they're gonna be missed pretty soon. No tents, no blankets, and only day provisions. This team planned on being back inside their compound by nightfall. There'll be questions when they don't return on schedule."
Matowick nodded. He'd noticed the rats' dearth of supplies himself. "Can't be helped now. But this logging crew was probably coming out here every day to work, so we would've had to take care of them sooner or later. And this is three dozen rats neatly killed that we won't have to worry about facing later on."
"But if it raises the alarm to the rest ... "
"We'll just have to move up our own schedule," Matowick decided. "If the camp commanders are expecting this lot back by evening, they're gonna get us instead!"
"A night assault, sir?"
"Might be a better idea than the dawn attack we'd been planning anyway. Our first goal will still be to capture the watchtowers around the mill perimeter, and those will be easier to approach under cover of darkness. Once we have control of those, we'll have a commanding view over the entire compound and be able to shoot down on them."
Grapentine snickered. "Bet that scum never figured on their guard tower positions bein' used against 'em!"
"No, but seizing the towers at night presents problems for us too," Matowick reminded his sergeant. "We'll be shooting into the dark ... "
Grapentine grinned maliciously. "Oh, don't worry 'bout that, sir. Once th' rest of us sneak into the compound an' start setting all those buildings ablaze, there'll be plenty of light to see by - an' plenty of panicked vermin runnin' every which way for our archers to choose from!"
"That's the spirit, Sergeant. But we don't have those towers yet, and there are the shrews and otters to consider as well. Ah ... and here comes the creature who can tell us how things stand with our comrades."
Klystra the falcon captain came gliding in from the east, weaving his way between the widely-spaced treetrunks, so low to the ground that he was actually flying below the bare limbs. It was a maneuver that his larger cohort Altidor probably could not have managed, and necessary to keep the searat lookouts from suspecting that there might be military activity so close to their base of operations.
The falcon settled onto the trail before Matowick. "What word from the otters and shrews?" the squirrel asked.
"Saybrook in place south of mill, waiting in sea cave," Klystra reported. "Riveroll's larger force, Flusk's shrews just north of mill, hiding around curve of shore behind jetty. All can strike when you say."
"Good. Tell Riveroll and Flusk we attack at nightfall. We'll let Saybrook know - it would be too risky having you fly to his sea cave, it might tip our paw if the searats see you there. Good flying, Captain!"
"And good fighting to you, Captain." Klystra turned and got a running start along the logging trail back the way he'd come, away from the searat compound. When he left the ground, the falcon still stayed below the treetops to avoid detection. He was soon lost to even the squirrels' keen vision amongst the bare gray trees.
Grapentine flicked a paw at the corpses that lay all about them. "What should we do with them, sir?"
"Leave 'em. They've got nothing on them we can use, and they sure don't deserve any kind of decent burial. Let nature have 'em. We've got to get back to the main force and get ourselves into position for the assault. Let's get a move on - this daylight won't last forever! Browder! Browder, where'd you go? Oh, there you are, hidin' over there ... "
As the twoscore squirrels of Matowick's diversionary detachment faded through the forest to rejoin the rest of their army to the south, the Gawtrybe captain sought out his hare scout. "Browder, get down to that sea cave and let Captain Saybrook know there's been a change of plans, and we attack tonight."
"Me, Captain?" The hare seemed confused.
"Yes, you. I can't take a chance sending Altidor or Klystra out along the open coast to deliver messages, and you're a faster runner than any of my squirrels."
"But, it's jolly well open coast for me too! How'm I supposed t' get to that bally cave without bein' seen m'self?"
Matowick rolled his eyes skyward. Browder had been like this for the entire march; the squirrel captain couldn't believe that anybeast in Lord Urthblood's service could be so cowardly or troublesome, or that Browder was of the same species as the legendary Long Patrol. Running was about the only thing Browder was good at, and Matowick was confident that he would use that talent to run away from an honest fight as fast and as far as his legs could carry him.
"You're a hare," Matowick said in exasperation. "You're supposed to be good at going to ground and not being seen when you don't want to be. Just ... do what hares do."
"Easy for you to talk, chap. I haven't got that gray ash from our campfires smeared all through my fur, makin' me some kind o' flippin' gray ghost shadow warrior!"
"You're no kind of warrior, Browder."
"Well, I wasn't sent here t' be one!"
"No, you were sent here to follow orders. I was hoping you'd be enough of a hare to follow them without making a fuss about it every time, but clearly I was wrong." Matowick looked his reluctant messenger over from head to toe. Browder's fur was a uniform drab gray-brown, his travel tunic a dull green. Even without any of the soot on him, he was still better camouflaged than any of the ash-covered squirrels.
"You'll be fine," Matowick snapped off curtly. "If you're really worried about it, lie low in the scrub grass just above the cave until evening. You should still be able to deliver the message in good time. Saybrook's only got fifteen of his otters here, so if they're a little late joining the fray, they won't be missed that badly. But don't wait too long after sundown to let 'em know - if Saybrook misses this party after marchin' so many days to get here, you'll feel his javelin smacking down between your floppy ears."
Browder's paw went to the fuzzy dome of his beloved skull. "Oh, ah, point taken, wot? Um, wot should I do once I've delivered th' dispatch an' all that ratfur starts flyin'?"
"You can cower in that cave until springtime for all I jolly flippin' bally well care," Matowick snorted, and stalked past Browder to rejoin his fellow squirrels.
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From the wide windows of his third-floor office, Ostrok stood watching the blood-red late winter sun fall slowly into the western sea.
"Crute is running late," the mill manager said. "He's usually back by now."
"Prob'ly found 'imself a real big tree an' fell claws over tail in love with it!" Drecksage guffawed. "Or else he got it in mind t' take sev'ral 'cos t'was such a nice day. You know that rat an' his trees!"
"P'raps." Ostrok nodded halfheartedly.
"Prolly draggin' 'em back right now, an' he'll be through our gate before y' can pour yerself another cup o' grog." Which is what Drecksage immediately set about doing for himself.
"Is he often late?" Lutar inquired of Ostrok. He and the crew of the Scorpiontail had not been staying at the mill as long as Drecksage had.
"He likes t' be back inside by full night," Ostrok replied. "Which means gettin' a start while th' sun's still in th' sky, 'specially now that they're cuttin' down trees further inta th' woods than ever before. Crute's overly cautious 'bout such things."
"Yah," Drecksage gulped at his drink, "never could figger that one's fear o' woodlanders that ain't even there!"
Ostrok shrugged. "Couple o' times he's misjudged, takin' a tree bigger'n he realized or more'n one at a time, an' it's taken him longer t' haul 'em back 'ere than he counted on. Prob'ly what happened this time too."
Lutar studied the mill operator. "Any cause fer alarm, y' think?"
Ostrok hesitated, then shook his head. "Naw. It's just that Crute also runs th' processin' lines too, where th' raw wood gets cut 'n' sectioned 'n' finished inta proper planks an' boards. He always does a thorough inspection ev'ry night after grub. Later he gets back, th' later that'll hafta wait."
"I thought you had slaves doin' all that work?" Lutar asked.
"Only th' hard 'n' simple labor," Ostrok replied. "Lotsa machines in our mills, nothin' you'd expect stupid woodland creatures t' unnerstand. Them mice 'n' 'hogs 'n' otters're always foulin' up th' works. An' when they do, it's up to Crute t' straighten out th' machines ... an' then straighten out th' slaves."
"An' that 'ee does," Drecksage nodded. "Meself, I'd hate t' be th' woodland slave standin' 'tween Crute an' our quota. More'n one of 'em's found out th' hard way that wood saws c'n be used fer cuttin' more'n just wood!"
"I'd imagine that'd gunk up th' blades somethin' awful," said Lutar.
"Oh, it does, it does," Drecksage affirmed. "But then y' just get some o' th' other slaves t' pick out all the' bits 'n' pieces from th' teeth, an' wash up all th' blood. Crute berlieves in settin' examples, an' no slave who sees one o' their own meet a footpaw-pumped table saw head on - or even tail-first - ain't ever gonna step outta line if they c'n help it, no they ain't!"
"Crute's th' oil that keeps this mill runnin' smooth, no doubt o' that," said Ostrok. "Couple o' times, when he's been laid up with fever or sickness, we've fallen way b'hind. Generally works out that one day wi'out Crute puts us two days off schedule."
"Then why do you let 'im go out inta th' woods, if he's so valuable?" Lutar asked.
"'Cos 'ee knows th' best trees fer cuttin', th' best ways to cut 'em, th' best ways t' haul 'em back here ... " Ostrok shrugged. "'sides, he likes goin' out inta th' forest, even if he is scared o' woodlanders." He turned his gaze eastward, toward the forest in which Crute no doubt toiled at that very moment. "If it gets much darker, I'll send out some more rats t' see if they've hit trouble. Just hope he hasn't gone an' broke a leg or sumpthin'. That'd be a disaster fer us."
If the three rat officers had known then what they would know later that night, they would have been very happy indeed if a Timbermaster with a broken leg was the worst of their problems.
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The Gawtrybe were already in place for their assault when the four rat scouts emerged from the gate of the lumber compound and jogged up the trail toward the forest.
Sergeant Grapentine was ranking squirrel of those positioned nearest the gate. The gathering twilight, along with the graying ash rubbed into their fur, had allowed the Gawtrybe to creep through the deepening shadows from bush to treestump to grass tuft, until they were a stone's throw from the perimeter of the mill site. Now the belly-to-the-ground squirrel archers watched the small party pass right by them on their way to see what was delaying Crute's crew.
"Oh, blast!" Grapentine muttered.
"Should we inform Captain Matowick, sir?" asked the squirrel on his right.
"Hmm ... no. No, we can handle this. Those four probably won't matter, but the Captain doesn't like loose ends, and neither do I. Blerim, Saberry, Arway ... disengage and go after 'em. There's always a chance they could discover the bodies and raise the alarm before we're ready, and I don't want anybeast forcing our paw. Make sure their tongues are stilled forever."
"Aye, sir!" The three assigned squirrels cautiously crept back away from the mill and went after the scoutrats.
Which still left nearly a hundred Gawtrybe encircling the compound, coiled to spring as soon as the falling night grew just a little darker.