Chapter Twenty-Five
Syrek was carried up out of the valley and buried in a simple grave near the edge of the basin, his resting place marked with a flat stone. Nobeast was sure what to say in remembrance, since none had been close to the searat, and at the end it was impossible to know whether he'd been friend or traitor.
While half the company tended to the rat's burial, the rest toiled down in the lowland, seeking out every one of the vent mounds they could find and filling them in with dirt and moss. If the Flitch-aye-aye were to return to their bad old ways, they would have a lot of work to do.
As the woodlanders were finishing this task, however, Klystra let slip a statement that suggested the cannibalistic weasels would have scant opportunity to revert to evil.
"Must report this place to Lord Urthblood," the falcon announced. "He will want to take care of it."
Granholm, who was one of several in their party who felt the Flitch-aye-aye had gotten off lightly for their crimes, looked to the raptor. "Take care of it?"
"Urthblood not suffer such creatures to live," Klystra said simply. "Will want this danger ... eliminated."
A dangerous grin lit the squirrel's features. "In that case, if he needs any extra paws to help with that, I got two I'd be glad to lend to the task!"
It was early afternoon when all the surviving former slaves gathered in a line along the top of the basin, paws linked. Now that most of the earthen vents for dispersing the narcotic smoke throughout the valley had been disabled, the air down in the circular depression had begun to clear under the bright sunshine and fresh, late winter breezes. Stripped of its misty veil, the landscape below them seemed as innocent as any ordinary patch of plains or woodland; nobeast would have suspected from looking at it that this was a place of such terror and death.
"Goodbye, Wexford," Clovis solemnly intoned.
"Aye," said Wharff, "yer bones may be restin' down wi' them villains, but ye'll live in our 'earts always."
"Poor fellow," Granholm sniffed. "Spent his whole life countin' the days an' seasons. Who would've guessed his own days would end like this?"
"Who indeed?" echoed Fallace.
"At least it's only two days until spring," Clovis said as they broke their pawholds. "Hopefully the weather will be in our favor, even if our stomachs are empty."
"We're no strangers to empty stomachs, thanks to seasons living as searat slaves," said Lekkas. "I'll eat grass if that's what it takes to get us to Redwall."
"Need not graze grass," Klystra said from his place behind the line of mourners. The falcon spread his wings. "I go fetch food, fly it back here to you."
"Now why didn't that occur t' me?" Browder slapped a paw against his forehead. "Of course this bally featherchap can just nip off to Salamandastron an' be back by sundown with enough tucker t' last us th' rest of our bloomin' stroll!"
"Keep marching," Klystra ordered. "I find you when I have food." And with that he launched himself into the air, flapping his way south.
"You heard the bird!" Granholm laughed to his fellow woodlanders. "Forward ... march!"
Clovis went over to Kurdyla and took his paw in hers. The big otter had remained quiet and childlike during the burial of Syrek and the memorial for Wexford, displaying no overwhelming emotion of any kind. "Are you all right, Kurdyla?"
The otter nodded, but at the same time said, "Wexford is dead?"
"Yes," Clovis replied gently, "he is."
"Oh," Kurdyla said in a small, simple voice. "I don't really remember him. But I feel sad about it."
"We all do," Clovis reassured him, leading Kurdyla away from the lip of the basin and after the others, who'd already resumed their southeast course toward Redwall under Browder's direction.
More than one of the journeyers threw a glance due south as they got underway, wondering about the shrews who'd wandered off in that direction. The two antagonistic beasts had departed as soon as they'd made it safely to the surface, not waiting for the burial of Syrek or the memorial for Wexford. As far as the former slaves could tell, the shrews did not even pause to remember their own two murdered comrades. There was a mystery here, to be sure, but the woodlanders were just relieved to be rid of the shrews' company, and wasted no effort puzzling over their odd behavior.
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The stark, solitary mountain of Salamandastron could be an impressive sight, especially with the gray winter sea as its backdrop. But as Matowick approached the natural stronghold at the head of his troops, the fortress looked as inviting to him as any green summer forest of his youth.
In the days since the final battle with the searats, the woodland warriors had marched mercifully unmolested by any more of Tratton's forces. No more of the green, black and red sails had appeared on the horizon. Apparently, the two dreadnoughts that had been destroyed represented the totality of the Searat King's power along these shores at the present time.
But there would be others. It was just a matter of time before Tratton became aware of the razing of his lumber camp and the disappearance of two of his biggest warships. Even if there were no searat witnesses to these events, there could be little doubt as to the creature behind them, and Tratton would not let this blow against his empire go unanswered. He could not.
The shrews and otters, with their cargo of wounded, had kept abreast of the landbound Gawtrybe in their logboats for the rest of the journey south, matching the squirrels' pace. Thus the entire assault force - or those who had survived the searat gauntlet, at any rate - neared the foot of Salamandastron together.
Altidor and Klystra had kept the lines of communication open between the marchers and their badger master, constantly flying back and forth between Salamandastron and the southbound warriors. As the flat-topped mountain came into view, with still no sign of any pirate menace, Urthblood had excused Klystra from this coastal duty, bidding the falcon to return to Browder and the Redwall-bound slaves. Matowick and Saybrook's forces were close enough to their home base by that point that Urthblood would have no problem dispatching reinforcements to assist them should any unforeseen trouble arise.
Now, a day after Klystra's dismissal, Matowick led his squirrels to the north base of the mountain, with the intention of scaling the rocky slope there and entering by the closest tunnel. Altidor, however, came swooping down toward them while they still had their footpaws on the flat coastal sands.
"Come around to the south side," the eagle instructed Matowick. "A ceremony is about to begin there, and Lord Urthblood requests your presence. He will wait to start until you arrive."
Matowick frowned, brow furrowed. After their costly and arduous return trip, there wasn't a beast in their company who wasn't looking to get into the mountain and off their footpaws as quickly as possible. To find another duty, however unstressful, awaiting them was not the news they wanted to hear. But there was no going against an edict of Urthblood's, and the Badger Lord would not have dispatched Altidor to deliver this message frivolously. Clearly he had his reasons for wanting Matowick and the others to be present.
"What kind of ceremony?" the Gawtrybe captain asked.
"A dedication," the eagle answered, then flapped shoreward to inform the occupants of the logboats, many of which had already started to put ashore in anticipation of bringing their injured in through the seaward-facing main entrance.
"Oh, well," Matowick said with a shrug, "we've been so many days gettin' here, what's a few more pawsteps around to the south side of this old rock heap?"
Even as they made their way around the west side of the mountain to rendezvous with Saybrook and the shrews, dozens of willing helpers bearing litters poured forth from the main gates and streamed down to the water's edge to carry the wounded inside where they could at last receive proper medical treatment. Meeting up with his waterbourne comrades-in-arms, Matowick found the otter captain every bit as mystified about their unexpected summons as he was.
"Dedercashun?" Saybrook questioned. "Dedercashun fer what? An' why d' we hafta be there? I was lookin' mightily forward to a fillin' meal an' a total collapse inta a nice soft bed."
"Your guess is as good as mine, matey. Guess we'll find out when we get there, eh?"
Two of the Gawtrybe who'd come from within the mountain bustled by bearing Lieutenant Perricone on a stretcher. It was clear from her agitation that she would have preferred another means of returning to the mountain fortress.
"Problem, Perri?" Matowick inquired with a knowing smile.
"I wanted to walk inside under my own power, Captain sir," the female squirrel complained, "but these two cretins won't let me! I'd be perfectly fine with a crutch. I don't want to make my homecoming being carried in like an invalid! Will you please remind these two green recruits that I outrank them?"
"Sorry, ma'am," one of the litter-bearers apologized, "but it's Lord Urthblood's orders. All injured beasts are to be brought in on stretchers."
"You heard 'im, Perri." Matowick smiled, giving her a commiserating pat on the shoulder. "Just remember, half of us didn't come back from this march. They won't be going inside on a stretcher or any other way."
This reminder made Perricone swallow her pride. "Yes, sir. I've not forgotten our mates, and I am grateful to be alive, even if it doesn't sound like it. I'll put a lid on my grousing ... "
"There you go! Now, let Lord Urthblood's medics get your leg bones set properly. I can't have my top lieutenant out of commission for a day longer than necessary!"
"I'll be counting the days myself, sir. You'll see me back on the front lines before spring's halfway done!"
"That's the spirit!"
Matowick and Saybrook stood aside as Perricone was borne up into the mountain. "Lucky lass," said the otter, "gettin' t' laze around on her tail while we hafta trudge around out 'ere."
"You'd rather trade a broken leg for a little extra rest?"
"Well, when y' put it that way ... "
Matowick grinned. "Come on, we don't wanna keep Lord Urthblood waiting. Let's go see what this ceremony's all about."
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The statue was magnificent.
It had been fashioned from a single immense block of quartz crystal, its smooth curves and sharp lines and fine surface textures coaxed out of the raw material by a lovingly skilled paw and a discerning artist's eye. The swordfox stood larger than he had in life, head held high, ready paw resting on his sword hilt. Although he was carved all in the same yellowish-white substance, there was a clear separation between the flat planes of his uniform, scabbard and healer's satchel and the rougher contours of his face and fur, which were given a most naturalistic appearance. The sculptor had done an especially fine job on the tail, which swooped behind the swordsbeast with a puffiness that looked almost soft, and a vitality that made it seem like it was frozen in motion.
But it was the face that was most remarkable. The clear, penetrating gaze of the eyes actually appeared to be seeing the world before them, and the proud, confident smile was that of a benevolent warrior. These were the body and features of not just any fox but one in particular, and the likeness had been captured to perfection.
"Wow," Matowick murmured under his breath. "That's ... amazing."
"Aye, truly it is," Saybrook agreed softly. "I worked 'longside 'im a lot in th' Northlands, an' marched with him t' Redwall, an' stood at 'is side at th' battle here where he fell. It's almost like 'ee's been brought partway back t' life."
Nearly every occupant of Salamandastron was out on the southern slopes for the occasion; only those who were busy ministering to the newly-arrived wounded were excused from this ceremony. Under the late afternoon winter sun and the stiff, fur-rippling offshore breezes, over two hundred Gawtrybe squirrels stood should-to-shoulder with Saybrook and his otters, Mattoon and his weasels and rats, and Abellon's mice, Tillamook's hedgehogs and Lieutenant Tardo's shrews.
Urthblood stood alongside the crystal statue, facing his hundreds of troops spread out on the mountainside below him. "Twenty seasons ago," the badger began in a booming voice more encompassing than his typical subdued rumble, "when I commenced my campaigns to tame the Northlands, there was one creature who was at my side almost from the very first days of my efforts, and who never wavered in his loyalty and dedication to our cause. Without his help, my task would have been much, much more difficult. He kept order in our ranks, especially among those who had previously been called vermin, and over the seasons he proved himself a true friend to both woodlanders and the Gawtrybe who protected them, becoming the greatest of protectors himself."
The red-armored warrior paused, twisting his immense bulk to gaze up at the statue.
"Two seasons ago, both the lands and I myself suffered a great loss when this most valiant of defenders was struck down in his prime, upon this very spot, in a war that need not have happened, but from which I did not shy away when it was forced upon me. That victory won me sole Lordship of Salamandastron, but it cost me my own brother - even though in spirit he was already lost to me - and also cost me both my right paws. Literally - " Urthblood held aloft his iron-capped stump, " - and figuratively, for of all the officers I lost that dark day, he was the most valued. Our cause remains just, and I will not waver from the course that fate has chosen for me, but that road will be a harder one to follow without his dedication and counsel."
Using his left paw, Urthblood drew his great pitted battle sword from its scabbard with a mighty scraping sound and held it high in tribute toward the quartz memorial. Many of the other warriors on the slope below followed suit.
"On this day, when more warriors of mine have returned triumphant from yet another costly battle against the forces of evil, oppression and chaos ... on this day, Machus my old friend, I finally give your burial spot the proper consecration it deserves. This honor is long overdue, I know, but I waited until a beast was here who could do your memorial full justice. With thanks to Trelayne, the master worker of glass without whose skill this would not have been possible, I hereby dedicate this statue to commemorate your unwavering devotion in life and your heroism in death. May it stand for a thousand seasons ... and may it inspire the light of truth and goodness in the hearts of everybeast who gazes upon it from this day forward, so that the lands may never want for selfless defenders in the tradition that you have set forth."
As these words entered their ears, it occurred to Matowick and Saybrook and all the other survivors of the battles with the searats that they had no business complaining about their own hardships recently suffered or comrades lost. Goodbeasts had always had to risk their lives to stand against tyranny, and oftentimes the price for security was dear.
The ceremony thus concluded, the assembled creatures began to slowly file back up the mountainside and into the fortress. As Saybrook and Matowick approached Urthblood to officially report their return to Salamandastron, they found the Badger Lord engaged in conversation with the marten glassmaker.
"Again, my thanks, Trelayne. You have crafted a truly fitting memorial for Machus the Sword. A warrior and captain of his ability deserved more than just a circle of rocks and a stone-encrusted burial mound. You did a fine job - much more of a challenge for you, I'm sure, than your usual tabletop figurines and etched windowpanes ... "
"It was a little scary, working with so much of the vitriol," Trelayne admitted. "I had to distill tubs and tubs of the stuff ... uh, that's in addition to the quantities you requisitioned for weapons purposes. But, we've all still got all our paws and all our eyes, and I was pleased to make you a statue that meets with your satisfaction. Machus once helped save me from a life of toil and servitude under Tratton and his searats, and I was most aggrieved to learn of his death. This is the least I can do in his memory."
"Not the least," Urthblood countered. "I am sure Andrus will want a similar fixture for Foxguard, once that stronghold is completed. But that will not be until the summer, and your services will most likely be needed here in the meantime."
The badger turned to his squirrel and otter captains. "Welcome back, Matowick ... Saybrook. Altidor and Klystra have kept me appraised of most of what happened during your mission. I will of course want to debrief you both personally, but that is not a pressing need and can most certainly wait until after you've treated yourselves to a much-deserved good night's rest."
"Aye, that'd be much 'preciated, M'Lord," Saybrook nodded. "The journey back was hard, an' we lost a lot o' mates, as y' know. A hot meal an' a soft bed'll make th' tellin' easier."
The otter saluted again and trudged past Urthblood on up to the south tunnel entrance. Matowick lingered a moment.
"After all the damage we inflicted on those searats," the Gawtrybe commander said with a furrowed brow, "I think we can expect trouble from Tratton before the spring is done. Maybe big trouble."
The Badger Lord gazed seaward, his level voice and expression betraying no clear emotion.
"Then we shall just have to be ready for it."