Chapter Twenty-Four
Browder and Klystra waited until the sun was well up before commencing their assault on the misty basin.
The hare had not slept well. For one thing, he'd dozed away so much of the previous day that he didn't really feel the need for slumber. For another, the prospect of venturing into possible danger was most unsettling to the pacifistic player; Browder hadn't felt such a case of butterflies since just before he'd departed for Salamandastron the summer before, to play the part of agent provocateur to lure Urthfist out of the mountain fortress to Mossflower. Also, their night had been spent on the cold, open plains without benefit of any warming flames. This time, Browder had not needed any other beast to tell him what folly it would be to attract attention to themselves with a campfire under the circumstances.
Browder finally drifted off halfway between midnight and dawn, only to come shivering to wakefulness again before sunrise. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed, but knowing further sleep would be impossible, he reluctantly roused himself and shared a meagre breakfast with Klystra from the diminishing supply of provisions in his travel pack.
"At least we made it through the night without gettin' gassed an' snatched ourselves, wot? I say, do you really think there's some nefarious tribe o' savages behind this whole bloomin' rigamarole?"
Klystra had already explained to Browder how Urthblood had once in his travels encountered a tribe of weasels who lived underground and used smoldering herbs to put asleep and capture hapless travellers. The Badger Lord had discovered their secret and used the compounds within the narcotic herbs to refine his own Flitchaye gas, named for the tribe from which he'd borrowed the idea. It was this gas which had allowed him to conquer Salamandastron so effortlessly.
"Cannot be coincidence," the falcon asserted. "Smell of Flitchaye gas, you falling asleep ... must be Flitchaye here."
"Yes, but didn't you say those frightful nasties were way up in the northern reaches of Mossflower? Wot th' devil would they be doin' all the way down here on the bally Western Plains?"
"Know not," replied Klystra. "Is mystery."
Their breakfast concluded and the sun fully risen above the distant gray trees of Mossflower Woods to the east, hare and falcon began making their preparations for the rescue of their companions. Their first step was to return to the lip of the basin. Sure enough, the misty vapors still hung unchanging over the valley floor, the same as always. Even though the new day was blossoming into another clear and mild foretaste of spring, the beshrouded lowland maintained its own aura of gloomy menace, now that Browder knew what was probably going on here.
"Well, no time like the present, wot?"
Browder moistened a kerchief and tied it tightly over his snout, reminding himself that he would have to be careful to breathe only through his protected nose once he was down amongst the mist. Similarly outfitting Klystra was more of a challenge, owing to the bird's bill and the shape of his head, but with Browder's assistance, the falcon too was soon masked with a damp cloth.
While Klystra made a series of low circles and swooping crisscrosses over the basin, Browder descended the slope on footpaw to retrace his tracks as best he could. He still held out hope that he might discover all the former slaves lying where they'd fallen, asleep and unharmed.
Those hopes were quickly dashed. Not only could he find no trace of the other woodlanders, but their tracks had virtually disappeared as well. The springy moss and grass didn't hold pawprints long, and those made by the travellers yesterday were already gone. The rocky stretches were no better, since wet paw marks had had plenty of time to dry. It was as if the earth had simply swallowed them up.
It didn't take long at all for Browder's eyes to begin stinging and watering. The damp kerchief across his nose filtered enough of the sleep-causing vapors to keep him from falling unconscious, but for his eyes there was no help except constant blinking, and that provided only partial relief. The fumes hadn't bothered him nearly as much when he'd been moving quickly through the basin and avoiding the denser banks of fog, but now that he was scouring the ground step-by-step with the mist all around him, Browder was suffering. He only hoped the moist cloth over his face would be enough to protect him from the stupefying gas.
It occurred to him that this mist must be coming from somewhere, since it clearly wasn't evaporating off the bare rock or being breathed up through the grass and moss. Venturing into one of the thicker regions of the fog, eyes asquint, Browder uncovered a low mound of earth that was visibly venting the narcotic smoke. The pile of earth crumbled under one solid kick from the hare's powerful hindlimb, revealing a narrow well of sorts that went deep into the ground - how deep, Browder couldn't tell through the obscuring haze that slowly billowed up the shaft. He guessed it was a chimney of some kind that led up from some underground chamber where the villains must be burning batches of their sweetly noxious herbs. And, to judge by the quantities of the smoky mist that perpetually hung over the valley, Browder estimated there had to be vents like this one dotted all over the basin floor and constantly tended by their nefarious caretakers below.
Browder staggered out of the mist into a clearer patch of air. As he stood there rubbing his eyes, he heard Klystra calling to him from across the basin. Unable to make out the falcon through the fog, Browder began running toward the cawing voice. "Keep soundin' off, Klystra chap!" he shouted ahead of him as he ran. Can't make you out, don'tcha know! Gonna hafta follow your bally chirps!"
It was a good run to where the raptor stood, and being able to breathe only through his nostrils, Browder was feeling giddy and lightheaded by the time he drew up to Klystra. Even in this state, the hare needed no explanation for the summons; he could see well enough for himself why Klystra had called him to this spot.
One of the slave's travel cloaks lay discarded upon the ground.
"Well, that's jolly nice," Browder opined. "Too bad there's nobeast in it. Don't suppose you happened to spy out any actual bonafide creatures while you were up there?"
Klystra shook his great feathered head. "No creatures, no other clothes or supplies. I cover entire basin. This all."
"Well, then. Guess we'll hafta work with wot we got?" Browder knelt to examine the cast-off cloak more closely. "Hmm ... looks mouse-sized. Don't know which one of our chappies was wearin' this particular cape, tho'. But with all th' clothing we've got being wot was on our backs when we left the searat lumber thingy, nobeast in our little parade would just go an' leave something like this behind. So, either this is where they fell, or else this cloak came off when those rude blighters came to drag 'em away, or else this is where they were dragged to. Let's hope it's the second scenario, since knowin' where our pals were last will be th' best help in puzzlin' out where they are now."
Browder stood and began walking around the immediate area. "Now, if these're th' same kidnappin' ruffians you told me 'bout, they'll be livin' underground, right? So, they must have some way of comin' an' goin' 'tween their diabolical lair an' th' surface, stands to reason. Wot would make a good door? A rock, maybe?"
While Browder tramped around the vicinity, testing the solidity of various rocky patches and formations with footpaw thrusts and bodily shoves, Klystra began picking at the softer ground with his talons. He found what they sought mere paces from where the cloak had lain, much closer to the discarded garment than the area Browder was presently searching. "Here, craagh! Here!"
The hare scout rushed over at the falcon's excited cry. Klystra hooked his sharp claws into a section of mossy ground and pulled. A whole swath of it came up in one piece, revealing itself to be a cleverly concealed hatch.
"Ah! These savages do know a thing or two 'bout camouflage tactics, wot? Let's hope that's the only thing they're skilled at, wot?" Browder crouched, paws on knees as he gazed down into the revealed tunnel. "Um ... wot now?"
"We go down."
Browder glanced up at the bird. "Uh, it's pretty jolly dark down there ... "
"Then make torches. But we go down."
The hare looked around them. No trees or bushes grew within the small valley. If they wanted to make torches, they'd have to trek all the way up out of the basin to find dry wood, then come all the way back down to this spot. Some inner voice told Browder that taking such extra time would not be the best thing for his captive companions.
"Naw," he concluded with a wave of his paw, "nobeast can see in total darkness. Must be some light down there, wot? Otherwise, they'd all be stumblin' 'round blind, runnin' into each other. Besides, this tunnel looks pretty narrow. We'd be as like t' set ourselves on fire as light our bally way. Now, wot've we got in th' way of weapons?"
"I am weapon," Klystra reminded the hare, clacking his sharply curved beak and flexing the deadly talons which held up the mossy hatch.
"Ah, yes, well then, I'll leave most of th' fightin' to you, if it comes to that." Browder pulled from his pack the closest thing to a weapon that he had: a small utility knife, its entire blade no longer than his paw was wide. "Well, I s'pose this'll be good for cutting loose our friends, if they're tied ... " He looked to Klystra. "These Flitchy folks, you happen t' know what kind o' fighters they are?"
"No." Klystra again shook his head.
"Oh. Not very jolly informative, wot?"
"Go now," the falcon commanded. "You first, I follow."
"Me first? Why?"
"Smaller than me. I get stuck, you can go on."
"Oh, now that's a cheery thought." Browder hefted his poor excuse for a blade. "I'll just take on the ol' enemy horde with this, shall I?"
"You will do what you can. You go now." Klystra gave Browder a soft blow in the small of the back with his closed beak, sending the hare one footpaw down into the sloped tunnel.
"Okay, okay! No need to be a hooligan about it!" Gripping his knife tightly in paw, Browder flopped onto his belly and started crawling his way down the tunnel, since there clearly would be no room to stand within the cramped passage.
Within several body lengths, almost all light had disappeared ... and that was even before Klystra folded his wings tight against his side and squirmed into the tunnel after the hare. Ropey weeds protruded from every surface of the tunnel wall, trailing against face and body like limp, damp fingers giving lifeless caresses.
And lifeless was how the root-clogged burrow seemed to be. Although he could see nothing, and hear nothing except his own breathing and the struggles of his larger comrade behind him, Browder felt certain there was no other creature anywhere near them. In time, emboldened by the lack of resistance, the hare got up onto his feet and picked up his pace, proceeding in a crouched walk rather than a belly crawl. He wasn't sure whether it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, but Browder imagined he could see a faint green glow coming from somewhere ahead. The tunnel had sloped downward the entire way, and Browder guessed they were now quite far below the surface. He held his knife paw up over his brow to ward off the worst of the dangling vegetation and keep it from hitting him in the face, and kept his sensitive ears cocked back as well.
"Hey, Klystra chap," he whisper-called over his shoulder, "have a care you don't let these roots 'n' weeds snag yer kerchief. I'll need you awake down there, don'tcha know."
"I ... remember ... that," the falcon grunted from farther back along the passage, torturously pushing his way through the clinging tunnel with just his powerful legs, since his wings were worse than useless in such tight quarters.
"I say, sounds like you're laggin' behind me a fair jump. Maybe I'll just slow my bally step a bit until you can - whoaaa!"
Browder hadn't been watching where he was going, and suddenly found himself stepping out into empty air. A dim green netherworld tumbled about him, and he hit the rock floor of the cavern hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and his small knife went clattering away from him.
Something sharp jabbed him as he sat there, blinking away the stars. "I say, Klystra chappie, watch where you're sticking those talons of yours! Ow!"
More jabs came, and Browder's vision suddenly cleared like a veil being lifted aside, to reveal a circle of unclad weasel-type creatures encircling him. All bore primitive spears or metal blades aimed in his direction, and the fang-filled smiles on their faces as illuminated by the ghostly green glow were not at all friendly.
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"Killee longears!" the chief of the Flitch-aye-aye commanded from the outside of the circle. "Make 'im dead!"
Recovering his wits, Browder started using all four paws to ward off the spear thrusts of the slight weasels, avoiding the metal blades altogether as best he could. Although the player hare was unversed in the ways of the warrior, the Flitch-aye-aye were little better, and he was able to dodge or fend off the worst of their lunges with his superior strength and naturally quick reflexes. But his opponents had the advantage in numbers, and under their leader's exhortations they were being whipped into a killing frenzy. Browder knew his time was short, and that at any moment one of the more audacious weasels might get lucky and sneak a crippling or mortal blow past his flailing paws.
Browder threw back his head and yelled, as loudly as he could through his mask, "Redwall! Redwaaallll!"
Instantly all the weasels paused in their assault, regarding the hare quizzically. Browder, breathing hard, returned their stares.
"Hey, wotcha know? I'd always heard that works ... "
"Dontcha stop, Flitch-aye-aye!" their chieftain urged from behind them. "Slayee longears, quickquick! Killim dead!"
Browder popped up onto his footpaws and pressed his back to the rockface, paws raised in a faux boxer's stance. "Back, I say! Back, you beastly rascals! Before I hafta jolly well lay some o' you out flat!"
To his immense surprise, this show of bravado gave the horde another momentary pause, although the bloodthirsty expressions of anticipation never left their faces as they stood with spears and blades raised. Browder glanced up. The opening from which he'd fallen was directly over his head. One good leap might be enough for him to get his paws on the lip of the tunnel mouth securely so that he could haul himself to safety. Then again, he might get a spear in his back before he could effect his retreat.
His avenue of escape was suddenly cut off as a large feathered head, formidable curved beak partially masked beneath a kerchief, poked itself out of the tunnel above. "Creeaaaagh!"
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. At the first glimpse of the mighty raptor's head and the deafening warcry it unleashed into the cavern, every spear and blade fell to the floor with a clatter. Half the weasels fled into other tunnels, while the remainder dropped to their knees cowering and bowing before the bird of prey.
"Hey, this works, wot?"
Klystra, having had to wriggle his way painstakingly through the vegetation-choked passage, was moving slowly enough so that he didn't fall from the hole as Browder had. Now, with his kerchief-draped beak and head protruding from the aperture and the enemy effectively cowed, Klystra squirmed the rest of the way from the confining shaft. At first it looked as if he might fall, and Browder positioned himself to brace the bird by its tunic-clad breast (although in truth Klystra more likely would have crushed the hare with his sheer weight had he come down atop Browder), but it turned out the falcon needed no help. With his front half liberated, Klystra hooked first one talon then the other over the lip of the tunnel mouth, then pushed himself out into empty air, unfolding his majestic wings in the scant moment before he began to plummet, and flapped his way to a reasonably soft and dignified landing.
Browder and the weasels alike scattered to make room for the descending bird. But while the vermin remained bowed, the hare sauntered right over to the falcon and gave Klystra a companionly pat on the wing. "Sure took your bally time, wot? I was beginning to wonder whether you'd ever show." He surveyed the prostrate weasels, who seemed to have struck almost reverent poses toward Klystra. "Looks like just what th' situation called for. Um, I do believe that frightful sourpuss in th' back there's the leader o' this rude rabble ... "
The kneeling ranks of Flitch-aye-aye parted as Klystra stepped right up to their chief. "No hurtee, Lord of Stoneheads! No hurtee, pleeez!"
"Lord of Stoneheads?" Browder and Klystra exchanged puzzled glances in the glowing green dimness, which they could now see radiated from phosphorescent rocks embedded in walls, floors and ceiling. "Wotcha mean?"
"Oh, d' Flitch-aye-aye no forgettee Lord of Stoneheads, we don't, we don't! We 'member alla time, great owlbird we musta obey, since dim days of our tribe!"
"Explain yourselves," Klystra commanded.
The weasel chief gazed up uncertainly. "Thisee a test?"
Klystra thought about it a moment. "Yes. Test."
The vermin leader tried to put on his best ingratiating smile. "Longee long ago, when Flitch-aye-aye were just Flitchaye, familee of Stonehead, great owlbird of all owlbirds, sayee we must behave, must obeyee alla Stoneheads, f'revermore!"
Browder whispered into Klystra's feathery earhole, "Yikes! They been livin' underground so long they can't tell a falcon from an owl! Must be your mask."
"Seasons ago," the weasel continued, "bigga redbadger come, slay many o' da Flitchaye, steal secret o' sleepyweeds. Flitchaye who survive made new home here, now we d' Flitch-aye-aye. But we nevva forget Stoneheads, nevva! Flitch-aye-aye obey great owlbirds, even after redbadger makka us come here!"
Browder and Klystra stared at each other in silence for a long time. Neither had to ask who the "redbadger" was, and it fit with the history of Urthblood as they knew it. But the part about Stoneheads and owlbirds was clearly some old superstition, perhaps rooted in truth but now a fearful myth that still held these primitive beasts under its sway.
"Um ... bigga redbadger up there rightnow?" the weasel chief asked tremulously, pointing a claw toward the cave ceiling.
Klystra puffed out his tunic-clad chest proudly. "Stonehead Greatowl protect you from redbadger, long as you do what Stonehead Greatowl says."
"O, yessa, yessa, we will!"
"Good. Browder, get knife. Now we go find friends."
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The Flitch-aye-aye were as good as their word, conducting Browder and Klystra straight to the captured slaves. When it was revealed what had happened to Wexford - and what had been planned for the other slaves - the falcon had all he could do to keep himself from slaying every weasel within reach of his beak and talons. While Browder set to work slicing the bonds of his companions and the two unfriendly shrews, Klystra addressed the cringing Flitch-aye-aye in a booming voice full of menace.
"Hear me, and hear me well! Flitch-aye-aye will nevermore trap and eat innocent goodbeasts! Never again! Lord Stonehead Greatowl command it!"
"Y-y-yes, greatee one! Nevva eat nicee beasts nomore! D' Flitch-aye-aye hear 'n' obey bigga Stonehead!"
"You better," Klystra warned, leaning forward so that his beak was right next to the weasel chief's ear. "Else Stonehead Greatowl come hunt you down ... and bring bigga redbadger Urthblood with him!"
The vermin chieftain squeezed his eyes shut and let out a terrified whine.
"Now, begone from sight - all of you!"
All the Flitch-aye-aye scuttled and scurried out of the cavern as fast as their scrawny legs would carry them, leaving the main chamber all to the woodlanders.
"Impressive performance," Granholm complimented their avian savior as the player hare cut him loose. "Daresay it's better than any you've ever given, Browder ... tho' by the look of it, you've been playing warrior. I see you took a few slashes there ... "
Browder glanced down at his battered paws. "Wot? Oh, that. Yes, these hooligans tried t' make a pincushion outta me when I first dropped in on 'em. Seemed t' know I was comin' since they had me surrounded 'fore I'd even landed."
"I can guess the reason for that," the mouse Lekkas grumbled to Fallace.
"Lucky for me," Browder went on, "they're as useless with weapons as I am. Guess they've become so dependent on lullin' their victims t' sleep, they've forgotten how to fight, if they ever knew how in th' first place. An' a good thing, too!"
Kurdyla was still unconscious, so Granholm and Wharff supported the otter between them. Looking over the freed prisoners as they started flexing their legs and tails and massaging where the tight vine rope had cut off their circulation, Browder observed, "We seem t' be one rat short. Or did those heathens go an' scoff Syrek too?"
"Wish they had," Lekkas answered, and told Browder and Klystra all about the "deal" the searat had made with the Flitch-aye-aye to get himself free, ostensibly to help free the rest if he could manage it. "Looks like he told them just enough to buy you one good pummeling, Browder. I'm sorry ... "
"Wot for, wot? T'wasn't you that ratted me out, or tried t' make me porous 'round my middle ... but here comes the blighter who did."
Syrek came striding out of the side tunnel, a somewhat confused expression on his face at the sudden unexpected flight of the weasels. "Ah, so that s'plains it!" he said at the sight of the hare and falcon.
Fallace scowled at Syrek. "So, y' was gonna try 'n' get a blade t' free us, huh? Looks like we didn't need yer help after all ... "
"Well, it ain't like I had all that much time!" the rat protested. "They 'ad me under surveillance th' whole time, grillin' me fer information! I woulda come fer you soon as I was able!"
"Yeah. Maybe. But in the meantime, your slips of lips almost got Browder here killed!" The other former slaves didn't know whether to believe Syrek or not. In all fairness he hadn't been gone all that long. And he would have had to at least pretend to be cooperating with the Flitch-aye-aye, if he wanted to stay alive long enough to do his companions any good. "So, what'd you talk about all that time you was with 'em?"
Syrek threw a glance at the two shrews. "Yah, well, we talked about a whole lot, an' some of it t'was pretty int'restin'. 'Bout a character named Snoga, fer one thing ... "
The shrews froze in the midst of slipping out of their cut bonds.
"Snoga?" Several of the woodlanders tried the name on their tongues. "Who's that s'posed t' be?" Fallace asked.
"He was lookin' t' make an alliance - "
"Traitor!" one of the shrews screamed, scooping up a sword from the floor that had been discarded in haste by one of the terrified weasels and dashing across the cave toward the rat. Before anybeast knew what was happening, the shrew had plunged his blade into Syrek's chest.
The searat stood for a moment, eyes wide in shocked surprise, then fell onto his face as the shrew withdrew the sword.
Into the stunned silence that followed, Browder muttered, "I say, that was bally bad form."
Lekkas rushed over to Syrek and bent down to feel for a pulse, but found none. "He's dead!" Lekkas glared at the shrew. "You murdered him!"
"Yeah, what'd you go an' do that for?" Fallace demanded. "He was about t' tell us somethin' - coulda been important."
"Aw, he was a traitor," the slayer shrew maintained. "A no-good dirty rat. You heard that hare yerselves - those Flitcheys was waitin' fer him in ambush when he got down here. How'd they've known to be there, if'n that rat didn't tell 'em?" He wiped his blade clean on Syrek's corpse. "He was a low-down seascum, an' whatever 'ee was about t' tell ya woulda just been lies t' save his own skin, like ev'rythin' else that spills from th' mouths o' vermin like his sort."
"You don't know that!" Clovis accused, unexpectedly moved by the death of the only rat in their company. "He was one of us! It was our place to decide whether he was being truthful, not yours! You had no right!"
"Oh yeah?" the shrew challenged, keeping his grip tight on his borrowed sword as his comrade stepped forward to stand at his side.
"Enough!" Klystra stalked into the middle of the fray. "What's done is done," the bird decreed. "Dead cannot be made to live again. You, shrews, free to leave with us, but not march with us. Now, let us go find weapons and supplies Flitchaye stole from all ... "
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"Bad news, I'm afraid," Lekkas announced as he and Browder and a hedgehog named Hegedus met up with the others back in the main chamber. The trio clearly carried enough arms to outfit their entire group, but only about half the proper number of bedrolls, and no sign of food provisions at all.
"Oh, no," Clovis groaned. "I don't think I can stand anymore bad news ... "
"No use beatin' 'bout a dead tree, so you might's well tell us flat out," said Fallace. "What's th' damage?"
"Those savages ripped and shredded a lot of our bedding, so it looks like we'll all be sharing blankets for the rest of our nights between here and Redwall." Lekkas scowled. "Since these barbarians sleep on moss and don't wear clothes, they have no respect or appreciation for a nice soft blanket or finely-woven garment. But that's not the worst of it. The greedy heathens seem to have gone and scoffed every morsel of our food supplies, and punctured a lot of our water pouches too."
"What, wasn't Wexford enuff for 'em?" Fallace cried out in indignation.
"Worse yet, their own food - the roots and slime they nibble when they don't have any passersby to nosh on - is barely fit for eating. We're in a real fix, and no mistake!"
"Mebbe we could cook up a few of 'em fer th' journey, give 'em a taste o' their own medicine," Wharff grumbled.
Clovis turned on the otter. "Don't even joke about such a thing, Wharff!"
The chastised waterbeast shrank under the withering gaze of the much smaller mouse. "Yah, well, they'd prob'ly taste all gamey anyways," Wharff muttered to himself.
Lekkas nodded toward the various blades that Hegedus had bundled in his arms. "About the only bright spot is the weapons. I was able to retrieve all of ours, along with quite a few others from these villains' prior victims. Don't know how much good that does us, though, since cold steel's no good for filling an empty belly. Maybe if we meet up with some goodbeasts along the way, we might be able to trade some of these blades for food, but aside from that ... "
"Well, we'll just hafta jolly well work something out once we're underway," Browder said as he passed out the surviving bedrolls and water pouches to willing paws, "'cos this hare for one is eager t' put as many pawsteps 'tween myself an' this place as I can 'fore I bunk down for th' night, an' I wager I'm not alone in my bally sentiments, wot?"
Most of the others nodded and murmured their agreement.
"Then we leave now," Klystra announced.
"Right," said Granholm, "now, which way out of here?"
Browder scanned the faces around him, but all were blank, returning his gaze expectantly. Of course, if they'd all been put to sleep by the Flitchaye gas - or Flitch-aye-aye gas, as the case might be - they would have no recollection of how they'd gotten down here.
"The same way we came in, I guess," Browder said, leading the way toward the tunnel he and Klystra had used to infiltrate the Flitch-aye-aye domain. "Follow me, chaps an' chappesses!"
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The subterranean weasels had a few small springs in their cave complex from which they took their drinking water. Their former prisoners used one of these trickles now to dampen kerchiefs as protection against the narcotic mist as Browder and Klystra had done, so that they would not be overcome again when they finally regained the surface.
It was discovered that the Flitch-aye-aye had a large log-shaped rock that could be rolled over to the base of the wall below the tunnel mouth from which Browder had fallen. By stepping atop it once it was in place, even the mice in their party had little trouble hoisting themselves up into the earthen tunnel. Working together, the three biggest and strongest of them - Browder, Wharff and Granholm - managed to get the still-unconscious Kurdyla and the deceased Syrek up into the shaft and haul them toward the daylight.
Much to the squirrel and otter's surprise, Kurdyla stirred and came awake halfway to the surface. Granholm and Wharff worried that the berserker beast might be in the same frenzied, bloodthirsty state as when he was robbed of his awareness, but Kurdyla seemed abnormally subdued, neither wrathful nor alarmed to be squeezed into a narrow, dank, lightless tunnel. He uttered just a few low murmurings as he followed their urgings to climb upward.
The mice and hedgehogs who were already up were surprised and delighted to see Kurdyla clawing his way out of the tunnel. They all shook his paw and slapped him on back and shoulders, heartily welcoming him back to the land of the living as he stood blinking and smiling slightly, as if he wasn't entirely sure where he was. Or who he was, for that matter. He looked almost like a lost little child.
"Must still be dazed from them knocks 'ee took on 'is noggin," Fallace whispered to Clovis.
Klystra stayed down in the cavern until all the woodlanders were evacuated, strutting prominently back and forth to keep as high a profile as possible in case the Flitch-aye-aye reneged on their promise not to cause trouble.
When Browder and the falcon were the last two creatures left in the cave, the hare asked, "You wanna go first, Klystra chap, so I can give you a push in the ol' tailfeathers in case you get stuck?"
"No, you first. Didn't get stuck coming down, so shouldn't get stuck going up."
"Ah, well, if y' do, we'll all just take hold o' yer beak an' give you a jolly good pull, wot?"
Klystra swiped a wing playfully at Browder - or as playfully as a falcon could do anything. "Go."