Chapter Seventeen
The searat shore party positioned itself in a staggered line north of the now-extinguished Gawtrybe campfires, stringing themselves across the beach and foothills in a living blockade of archers and swordsbeasts. If their enemy tried to escape this way, the searats would be waiting for them in the dark.
Dawn came without a skirmish, or any sign of the squirrels. Rat scouts probed out under the brightening sky, quickly confirming what was already suspected: there were just the Gawtrybe tracks going south, and none headed north again. Their quarry was either still at their camp, or else they'd resumed their southward march under cover of darkness.
The landing party piled into their two boats and rowed down to where the woodlanders had last been seen. The Sharktail still lay at anchor offshore there, awaiting final word from her shorebound scouts before taking up the chase again. The two landing boats grounded north and south of the camp so that their crews could approach the Gawtrybe from two sides at once. If the squirrels hid there still, the smaller number of searats could catch them in a pincer maneuver to even the odds a little more in their favor. There was no sign of habitation or movement visible from sea or from the shoreline, but the rats proceeded with caution in case their wily and warlike foe lay in wait for them.
The rats coming in from below the camp saw the southbound tracks of many marching paws, and sure enough the would-be attackers closed in on an empty campsite, with not a squirrel or former slave to be found. Their enemy had indeed bugged out during the night, perhaps even before the shrews and otters had struck south in their logboats.
The assault team hurried back to the Sharktail, and not long after the sun had cleared the mountaintops, the pirate dreadnought was under full sail, the fully-crewed rowing galley adding to her speed.
It was nearly midday before the searats caught up to Urthblood's troops. The squirrels still marched along the mid-coastal plain making no attempt to hide themselves, the black-and-red badger banner snapping in the shore breeze above their vanguard. The shrews and otters hugged the shoreline, steering their logboats as close to the beach as they could without getting caught in the forming breakers. As soon as the Sharktail came into view, the waterbeasts kept a very close eye on her, ready to make for shore the moment the searats showed the slightest indication of closing in for another pass at them. They'd learned their lesson the hard way, and would not easily be taken by surprise a second time.
Captain Rindosh had resumed his station of command on the high deck of his ship, studying his adversary through his long glass. He still felt a little lagged from his interrupted sleep, but took a modicum of satisfaction from the likelihood that his enemies were running themselves ragged. To have gotten this far south, the squirrels must have departed while their decoy fires were still blazing, and kept up their pace ever since. That meant they would be both physically tired and short on sleep. Fortunately, their target destination of Salamandastron still lay at least another two days' march to the south, and Rindosh had no intention of letting them get any closer.
"Well, you was right, Cap'n," Bodor told him. "They didn't scatter, even after what we done to 'em yesterday."
"The squirrels haven't," Rindosh corrected his first mate, "'cos they think they're high enough up on the beach t' be safe from anything we can throw their way. But look at th' logboats - they're keepin' closer to shore than they was before, an' they're even more strung out, with lotsa space 'tween 'em. Wouldn't be so easy to box 'em in like we did yesterday. See? They're learnin' on th' fly, adaptin' to our strategies as they need ta. That's what real warriors do."
"You don't sound too upset about it, Cap'n."
"That's 'cos our attack on 'em yesterday was a feint - just as much a ruse as them lightin' those campfires then runnin' away in th' night. They just don't know it. This's a game we're playin' with each other ... an' it's time fer us t' make our main move!"
Rindosh compacted his spyglass and bounded down from his command deck to the port side, where the catapults had been rolled into position on their tracked platforms. Kegs of the stormpowder - one of the two secret weapons of Tratton's that the Sharktail carried - were being brought up from belowdecks and lined up along the railing. The four catapults, each a full-sized siege weapon, had been angled to aim at their onshore adversary. But before they could reveal this surprise to the enemy, the searats had to fine-tune the targeting of their long-range weaponry to make sure they wouldn't waste any of the precious powder - or the element of surprise - on wild shots that missed the woodlanders by a wide margin.
Bosun Gumbs approached Rindosh with a cask. "Y' reckon this'll do fer th' test, Cap'n?"
Rindosh took the cask and held it in his paws. A liquid within gurgled and sloshed. "Is it th' same weight as th' weapon kegs?"
"Aye, Cap'n. We emptied some outta those so's they'd be near as like t' identical ... "
"Fine. Load one in each catapult an' - "
"Cap'n, Cap'n!" the lookout shouted down from the crow's nest through his megaphone. "They're goin' ashore!"
Rindosh looked up from the keg in his claws. Even without his long glass, he could clearly see that the squirrels had come to a stop and were taking seats in the sand, while the shrews and otters were beaching their logboats and joining their landbound comrades.
"Of course, of course," Rindosh said with a spreading grin. "They been marchin' half th' night an' all this morn - they hadta stop fer a rest an' a meal sooner or later, 'specially after how they been pushin' themselves. An' now that they know we know right where they are, they got no reason t' hurry or hide. This might just work out. Lessee how it goes ... "
The searat captain's grin grew even wider as he watched the woodland warriors array themselves on the beach, squirrels and otters and shrews and slaves all mingled together in one large and relatively compact gathering. Rindosh had all he could do to keep from breaking into a joyful jig of anticipation.
"Lookit that! They're all t'gether now! All them scurvy shrews an' ornery otters and scallywag squirrels! We'll be able t' hit 'em all at once! They're makin' this too easy! Too easy! Bring us about an' drop anchor so we're directly abreast of 'em! I want this done right!"
Under his barrage of commands, Rindosh's crew had the Sharktail lined up parallel to Urthblood's forces before the woodlanders were halfway through their meal. The squirrels, otters and shrews thought nothing of this, since the pirate ship had done the exact same thing during their previous rest stops. Had Matowick or one of the others bothered to glance through the Gawtrybe captain's long glass, they might have been able to make out the quartet of catapults deployed on the port deck of the dreadnought. As it was ...
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"Watch out!"
One of the sharp-eyed squirrels saw the cask arcing through the sky toward them. Creatures scrambled this way and that, and somehow Urthblood's troops and the freed slaves managed to get out of the projectile's way. The small wooden keg broke apart upon contact with the soft ground, so high had its flight been. Its dark contents spilled across the sand, staining it the shade of a ripe plum where the liquid splashed and soaked in.
"What th' fur was that?" Matowick declared, pulling out his telescope. "Do they have catapults or something?"
"Whelp, those ARE pretty big ships," Saybrook said, stroking his whiskers. "S'pose there's room fer Tratton t' install such a contraption on his dreadnoughts."
"Make that four such contraptions," Matowick corrected, taking stock of the situation through his long glass. "All lined up pretty as a - Look out, they just launched another one!"
Now that they knew to expect the incoming missiles, the marchers had no problem dodging the next three small kegs. An otter suffered some bruises when he misjudged one cask's trajectory and it glanced off his thick tail. That cask failed to smash open as a result of this ricochet, and came to rest upon the sand intact.
They stood tensed beneath the gray winter sky, eyes raised and reflexes on alert, but no more of the cumbersome projectiles came at them. A shrew crawled on all fours, sniffing at the spilled fluid. "Wine?" he guessed from the aroma. "Red wine?"
A squirrel unbunged the intact cask with his knife and took a swallow, swishing the liquid across his tongue. "Yup," he confirmed, "red wine it is. Rather nice bouquet to it, too. Those rats musta pillaged it from some goodbeasts - can't believe scurvy seascum could vint something so fine."
"What're y' thinkin', matey?" one of the otters exploded. "They coulda poisoned th' stuff!"
The squirrel shook his head. "Nope. No poison in this."
"How can y' know fer shore? Most poisons can't be tasted."
Matowick laid a paw on the anxious otter's shoulder. "Not to worry, my friend. Barclom here has been personally trained by Lord Urthblood himself in the ways of poisons. He can taste even trace amounts of the most subtle posions in any food or drink you give him. If he says it's safe, it's safe."
"Besides," Barclom added, "they were breaking open when they hit. That'd kinda defeat their whole purpose, wouldn't it, poisoning wine an' then launching it so it sprays all over the place ... "
"Maybe these wine casks were the only thing they had to fling at us that were small but heavy." Matowick resumed his study of the searat ship through his long glass. "I mean, you can't expect a seagoing vessel to be hauling around large stashes of rocks, now, can you?"
"Then, why would they have catapults at all, if they don't carry any ammunition for 'em too?" Saybrook wondered.
"My guess," said Matowick as he squinted through his telescope, "is that those catapults were being delivered to the mill. Remember, that site was in the process of being expanded, and Lord Urthblood thought they might try to fortify it into a full military stronghold. Catapults would fit with that. These searats must have broken them out of storage to harass us with them. But if jugs of wine is the worst they can throw at us ... Well, they don't seem to be getting ready to launch anything else right away. I think I see more casks on the deck ... can't be sure. Maybe they see how little effect it's had ... "
"I say we show 'em how badly they've failed," Barclom proposed. "Wine, anybeast?"
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"Why ain't they a-scatterin'?" Gumbs puzzled aloud. "They seen we can hit 'em ... "
Rindosh shared his bosun's mystification at first, peering intently through his long glass to see how the woodlanders would respond to his targeting tests. The searat captain had his armaments lined up and ready to fire, anticipating that his enemy might quickly disperse upon realizing they were under bombardment. He'd thought that he would probably have to start launching the powder weapons within a matter of heartbeats in order to inflict the maximum harm upon them while they were still all gathered together. But some instinct had made him pause to gauge his adversary's reaction. He was now very glad that he had. Very glad indeed. "I ... don't ... believe ... this ... "
"Wha ... it looks like they're all sittin' back down!" Bodor said from Rindosh's other side.
"That they are," Rindosh confirmed, grinning wickedly. "And they're enjoying our little gift ... " Through his eyepiece, he could clearly see several of the squirrels and otters raising their travel cups and mugs of wine in his direction in a silent toast, carefree smiles upon their faces.
"They're daft!" Gumbs declared. "Total gull guts in their skulls! Why, they're even closer t'gether than afore!"
Rindosh slowly lowered his spyglass. "They don't realize th' wine was just a test," he said in dawning enlightenment. "They must think that's all we got t' throw at 'em. Oh, this's perfect! Perfect!" He sprang up onto the nearest catapult platform where he could command the attention of every rat along the port deck. "Awright, get a powder cask in each catapult, light th' fuses an' let 'em rip! Winchers, be ready t' crank back fer another shot soon as yer first one's away! I wanna hit 'em again 'n' again, pound 'em until that beach is red with their blood! Blow 'em t' bits! I wanna see paws an' legs an' tails an' heads litterin' th' sand, corpses strewn about so thick y' can't walk wi'out treadin' on 'em! Death t' th' woodland murderers! Death! Death! DEATH!"
Four clunks! were clear in the sea air as the weapons were loaded, and Rindosh heard the sparking fizz as the fuse nearest him was lit. He jumped down to the main deck to give the gunners room to work. "An' try not t' blow up my ship," he added under his breath.
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"Heads up! Here come some more!"
By now Urthblood's troops felt they knew the routine. The flying casks weren't really that difficult to dodge, once you knew to expect them and could pick them up while they were still high in their trajectory. The overcast sky helped, since there was no chance of losing them in the sun's glare.
On the other paw, the gray cloud cover hid the tenuous smoke trail spiraling out from each projectile ... not that the woodlanders would have known what to make of such an anomaly even if they had noticed it, nor how to react even if they'd suspected what horror was about to be rained down upon them.
In the very last moments before impact, as everybeast stood and tried to anticipate the exact landing spot of each keg, Matowick sensed that something was wrong. "I've got a bad feeling about - "
The first explosion tore at his tufted ears and rocked him on his footpaws. He glanced to his left, from where the blast had come, and saw a huge plume of smoke and sand and dust - and yes, there might have been a slight pink tint to it as well - rising from amidst the gathered beasts, obscuring fully a third of the fighters behind its impossible veil.
The second blast hit even closer, throwing the Gawtrybe captain off his feet. A roaring deafness filled his skull, a resounding ringing that drowned out all noises from the beach around him. He had trouble drawing breath, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
He felt rather than heard the next two explosion. They were not as close to him as the second had been, but lying full-out on the sand as he was, Matowick could feel the seismic whoomp! against his chest through the ground, the concussions further conspiring to rob him of his ability to breathe. It felt as if the whole beach was being flung up into the air with each massive burst, like some giant fist was hammering at him from deep beneath the earth.
The next thing he felt was a pair of strong paws lifting him to his feet and half-dragging him across the sand. Matowick was left no choice but to stumble along as best he could to keep up. He opened his eyes, but that effort benefitted him little; it seemed as if the entire world had gone away, and been replaced by a shifting, swirling curtain of beige dust and gray smoke that obscured all. The hanging detritus stung the eyes, and the burning smell of brimstone and charcoal clogged the nostrils - the same odor that had filled the night air when the Scorpiontail blew up alongside the lumber mill dock. Matowick blinked to clear his vision, and was able to make out his paw in front of his face, and the stalwart otter next to him who bore most of his weight, but everything else was hazy and indistinct. He could discern a few other shadowy figures stumbling through the false twilight, lurching this way and that without any clear direction or destination in mind. Worst of all was the occasional still form that his footpaws found beneath them, a former comrade who may have been dead or merely stunned. But his otter guardian did not slow their hurried pace or spare a moment's hesitation for those who were beyond help, or would have to help themselves now. This otter clearly did have an objective in mind, and that objective became clear as Matowick saw the dirty mist part before him to reveal the sea.
He was guided between beached logboats and propelled down to the tideline. Cold water lapped around his ankles, helping to shock him back to reality. But the otter urged him farther out into the surf, until the waves were washing across his chest. Only then did his protector leave Matowick free to stand where he was, although the otter kept a firm paw on the squirrel captain's shoulder for support.
The surf was filling with otters. In times of stress and danger, it was their natural instinct to seek the safety of the water. Now, all who'd survived this bombardment and could still walk made their way to the waterline and entered the briny sanctuary. Whether it would truly be any safer than the beach, only time would tell.
Several more squirrels joined the refugees as well, borne into the water as Matowick had been. Although Matowick didn't know it then, Captain Saybrook had, after the second explosion, ordered his otters to charge into the cloud where he'd seen the Gawtrybe commander go down and rescue every fallen squirrel they could find. Saybrook was determined to keep at least himself and Matowick alive so that the survivors of this hellacious event would not be left without leadership.
The otter captain stood several beasts down from Matowick, frantically scanning the faces around him. Upon spotting his fellow officer, Saybrook made his way to Matowick's side and began conversing with him. The squirrel could see Saybrook's mouth moving, but not a word of his comrade's speech penetrated the dull roar in his ears. Matowick shook his head and said, "I can't hear you," pointing at his ears. He could only faintly discern his own words, even though he knew he was practically shouting.
Saybrook regarded him blankly for a moment, then gave a nod and flashed the "okay" sign with his paw. He turned and barked silent orders to his fellow otters on either side. Those who did not have a squirrel to support immediately dove into the waves and swam away to the north or south. Matowick assumed Saybrook meant to scatter his forces so that they'd be less vulnerable to a second barrage - something Matowick would have been doing with his Gawtrybe, had he been in any position to do so.
That barrage came even as the thought occurred to him. The smoke and dust from the first bombardment still hung thick over the devastated, body-strewn beach when new geysers of death blossomed amid the haze, hurling sand and creatures high into the air. Although he could barely hear the explosions, the force of each one rattled his lungs and vibrated through the sea floor into his footpaws, while the blast waves rushed against his face like puffs of summer wind. As horrible as the explosions had been up close, they were even more nightmarish at this slight remove. The thought of how many goodbeasts must be suffering and dying within those sulferous clouds ...
What in Hellsgates had Tratton unleashed upon the world? Not even Lord Urthblood possessed a weapon like this.
That thought awakened a new resolve in Matowick's breast. Now more than ever, Lord Urthblood must know of this. It was imperative that somebeast among their present company survive to tell the Badger Lord what had happened here. Looking at the destruction that had been wrought upon the beach, it was easy to suppose that no creature could emerge from that alive.
Matowick glanced skyward and glimpsed Altidor soaring high above the scene of battle. Well, word would reach Urthblood one way or another. But Matowick felt the badger would really need a report from somebeast who'd been on the ground and experienced the attack firstpaw. Felt the blast, smelled and tasted the sharp powder tang in the air, seen the mist of blood mingled with the smoke and dust ... and the beasts being thrown up into the air like so many children's toys. The eagle scout probably didn't even know what was happening down here, from that altitude. No, it would have to be one of his squirrels, or Saybrook's otters, or Flusk's shrews. Only they could do justice to the horrors they'd experienced this day.
Now, all they had to do was stay alive long enough to reach Salamandastron.
Saybrook took charge of Matowick and steered them south of the battle so that they would not be standing directly between the searats and the helpless victims ashore. Aboard the Sharktail, meanwhile, Rindosh had his crew readying the third volley of stormpowder kegs.
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Browder paused in mid-stride, foot hanging in the air. "Wot's that?"
"Sounds like thunder," Kurdyla said. "Distant thunder."
"Thunder? In th' bloomin' winter? Not jolly likely." The hare gazed skyward. "B'sides, doesn't look like a storm. Kinda gray an' overcast, but not stormy."
The big otter cocked his head. "Well, there 'tis again. If it ain't thunder, whaddya reckon it be?"
Browder and his procession of former slaves were into the true Western Plains by this time, but still many days north and west of Redwall, and still closer to the coast than to Mossflower proper. The mountains were at their backs, and although they couldn't know what was happening miles away, they were at that moment directly opposite the stretch of beach where the Sharktail was unleashing Tratton's terrible new weapon upon Urthblood's marchers. Had the mountain range not stood between them and the sea, they might even have been able to see the clouds of smoky sand dust rising from along the shoreline.
As it was, the refugees from the searat lumber mill could only hear, and that faintly, the results of the turmoil on the coast. But for their winged escort, circling high above, the mountains posed no impediment; both Plains and seacoast lay spread out below Klystra, and the falcon's keen hunter's vision missed nothing.
"Well, wotever it was, it seems to've stopped ... which is just fine by me." Browder resumed his forward pace. Kurdyla and the rest of the slaves followed along after him, as they'd been doing for the past two days.
The player hare's spirits were considerably higher now that Kurdyla was allowing them to light campfires at night. That meant freshly-cooked food in their bellies for supper and breakfast, and a warm blaze to stave off the winter chill when they were snuggled in their bedding at night.
The otter was also insistent that they take turns standing watch at night. What he expected their group of mostly untrained woodlanders to do if they were set upon by an enemy force wasn't entirely clear, nor was the reason he had for suspecting they might encounter trouble out here on the deserted winter plains. But after the murderous tendencies Kurdyla and a few of the others had displayed at the searat camp, Browder had little desire to argue the point with him.
The company hadn't gone very far when the faint booms were heard once more echoing across the sky. "Now that is bally unnerving," Browder decided, casting his gaze about him once again.
When their procession was stopped a second time, it was not to puzzle over this phenomenon further, but because a large bird blocked their path. Klystra had glided down from his airborne outpost to land right in front of them. "Big booms," the bird announced.
"Yah, we heard 'em too," said Browder. "Don't know what they are, tho'."
The falcon cocked his head toward the mountains. "From coastlands. Big clouds on beach."
"Stormclouds?" Kurdyla asked.
"Not skyclouds," the bird shook his head. "Right on ground. Right on beach."
"Oh, you mean like mist or fog comin' in off th' bally ocean? Don't know why that'd make thunder, wot?"
Klystra stamped his talon impatiently. "Listen. Searats make thunder. Searats make clouds, of dust and smoke, with their weapons. New weapons, that throw land up into sky. Very powerful."
Browder and the slaves stood agog at this revelation. The hare looked to Kurdyla. "I say, you lot are th' ones who've been spendin' so much time with searats, even if it wasn't your choice. This ring any bally bells?"
The otter shook his head, face blank. "News to us, matey." He glanced back at the sole rat in their midst. "Hey, Syrek! This anything you heard 'bout from yer fellow rats 'fore they clapped you in irons?"
The rat Syrek shrugged. "Dunno, matey. King Tratton's allers comin' up with new weapons. He don't share 'is secrets with laborbeasts like me."
Klystra broke into their discussion. "Friends need help. I go fly to them, see if I assist them."
"But, they've got their fine eagle chap Altidor," Browder countered anxiously. "You're s'posed to stay with us, wot?"
"Maybe now they need us both," Klystra said, turning to take off. "Will return if I can." And with that, the falcon flapped into the air, winging his way toward the mountains.
They all stood for several moments, watching in silence as Klystra's regal form dwindled into the distance. "Well, " Browder concluded at last, "looks like we're on our own now, wot?"