Chapter Twenty-Eight
Watches were stood that night - not to guard against an assault from outside enemies, but to keep Browder from coming to harm at the paws of the overzealous, vengeance-seeking Long Patrol. Kurdyla's presence alone probably would have been enough to dissuade the two fighting hares from attempting violence on Browder - the big otter sat up the entire night, forgoing sleep - but Granholm and Wharff thought it best to post other watchers as well.
As it turned out, Browder didn't get much sleep himself that night, his stomach twisted in nervous knots as he lay in his shared bedroll. He envied Lekkas, snoozing blissfully alongside him, secure in the knowledge that he could slumber soundly without fear of somebeast trying to murder him before morning came.
But eventually Browder did drift off, and when he opened his eyes to behold the pale dawn sky above him, there was no blade betwixt his ribs and no bludgeon dent in his skull.
Once again the entire company enjoyed the delicious Redwall fare. There was no doubt now that they had more than enough to see them to their destination, even if they kept to their measured pace and had to share with the two Long Patrol hares. Hanchett, Traughber and the sparrow Roofbeam tucked in as heartily as anybeast; the two hares' disappointment in being denied their right to mete out justice to Browder did not seem to diminish their appetites in the least.
"Don't s'pose you'd be kind enough t' relinquish us our weapons, wot?" Traughber asked Granholm, the Sergeant licking apple and plum crumble crumbs from his whiskers. "We're soldierbeasts, y' know. Feel kinda naked without our bally armaments."
"Oh, and you'd just love a blade t' chuck my way, wouldn't ya?" Browder challenged from across the campsite, emboldened by the show of support he'd gotten the night before.
"You really don't need your weapons," the squirrel replied to Traughber. "You're travelling as part of our group now, and there's nothing we won't be able to handle together."
"It's th' principle of th' thing, don'tcha know." Traughber shrugged. "Ah, well, if you're th' sort who'd deny an honorable beast th' simple courtesy of bein' able t' carry its basic symbols of service ... "
Granhom stiffened at this accusation. "Honorable, eh? Tell ya what, then - I'll give you back your weapons, if you swear on the honor of the Long Patrol and as Redwallers that you'll never lift arms or paws against Browder, or harm him in any way."
"Hey, that's askin' too bloomin' much, chap! Our feud with that lyin' fink goes back way before any o' you lot befriended him! You can't ask us t' swear t' that!"
Granholm was firm. "No promise, no weapons. Up to you."
Traughber ground his jaw, while Hanchett wordlessly shifted his baleful glare from Granholm to Browder and back again.
"Tell ya what," the Sergeant said at last. "Hanch an' I'll pledge not t' cause that vermin in hare's clothes any harm for th' rest o' the way 'tween here 'n' Redwall, until he's under th' protection of the jolly old Abbess herself. But whether she grants him her good graces or gives him leave t' stay at the Abbey is up to her. There may come a day sometime in th' seasons ahead that we'll cross paths with Browder again, an' I'll not have my paws tied from givin' him wot he deserves by some promise forced outta me now."
"Not good enough."
"Well, that's th' best you'll get, bushtail. An' lest you forget, any promise we make here only binds us two. There's a whole bally lot more of us back at Redwall, an' when it comes to Browder, they'll slay first an' ask questions later. Now, if we should run inta any of our mates out patrollin' before we set foot inside the Abbey, an' me 'n' Hanch are unarmed, well, we'll be in no blinkin' position t' stop 'em puttin' a shaft or spear through Browder's middle - we Long Patrols can be deadly at quite a distance, don'tcha know, an' there ain't much even your strong 'n' silent otter behemoth over there could do t' stop such a thing from happenin'. On the other paw, if our Colonel an' Lieutenant an' all our fellows see Hanch an' me leadin' you lot at th' front of your column with our weapons in paw, that'd stay them from doin' anything rash, if y' know wot I mean."
Granholm's eyes narrowed. "That sounds an awful lot like blackmail to me."
Traughber spread his paws. "Call it wotcha like, chappie. But if you give us back our weapons, we'll promise on our honor as Long Patrol an' our oath as Redwallers that we'll conduct all o' you - Browder included - safely back to the Abbey. An', we'll intervene on his behalf if we should happen t' meet any other Long Patrols out 'n' about 'fore we get there. An' that's a mighty generous offer, consid'rin' wot that hare's done to us."
Hanchett leaned over to Traughber. "Sarge, we can't make a deal like that! Browder's got it comin', no matter wot this rabble says!"
"This rabble's th' reason we're out here, in case you'd forgot," the Sergeant admonished the junior hare. "They're goodbeasts, an' former slaves who've prob'ly suffered more'n either you or I would jolly well care to imagine. Now, that ottery hulk over there ain't gonna let us so much as flick one whisker of Browder's outta place, so that's a done deal no matter wot we promise or not. Now, let's at least regain our dignity after yesterday's fiasco by gettin' back our weapons, wot? An' that means givin' our bally word - an' keepin' it."
The woodlanders were surprised to see the Sergeant using such a harsh tone of command toward one of his own. Hanchett winced under this near-reprimand. "Yessir," he bit off.
Hesitantly, Granholm rose and retrieved the hares' two knives and spear from Kurdyla. The otter was a little reluctant to yield them, but with a few encouraging words the squirrel was able to coax them out of Kurdyla's possession. Crossing to stand before Traughber and Hanchett, Granholm said, "Do you give your word, as honorable hares of the Long Patrol and as Redwallers, that you will cause Browder no harm until he is safely inside Redwall, and that you will protect him for the remainder of our journey as you would protect any of the rest of us?"
"I do." Traughber grimaced as he said it, but his tone was sincere.
Granholm looked to Hanchett. "And you?"
Hanchett glowered dangerously in Browder's direction.
"Well?" Granholm prompted.
The young hare gave a grudging nod at last. "Okay," he muttered. It seemed all he could bring himself to say.
"All right then. I'll hold you both to that pledge." Granholm gave each hare his respective knife, and Traughber his spear as well. "Might as well be on our way then. Um, you don't mind if we keep you marching up in front of us? Wouldn't wanna tempt you into breaking your word or anything, you know."
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Hanchett's disposition remained unshakably sullen and stormy all during the march that morning, his own private thundercloud hanging resolutely over his head. His mood stood in stark contrast to the blossoming day around him, another spring event of warm and abundant sunshine washing the Western Plains in a living glow that would surely rouse the lands from their winter slumbers. The fresh breeze smelled of new grass and fertile earth, and the birdsong that had been absent during most of their trek from the coast now filled the former slaves' ears with a constant scattered chorus of chirps and trills and whistles. Roofbeam, circling above the journeybeats, added her own voice to the avian orchestra, punctuating the background melodies with warbles and cheeps to please herself. It was as if the whole world was coming back to life, and happy to be doing so.
Sergeant Traughber, while not exactly the picture of perfect cheer, had at least resigned himself to the fact that his promise had placed Browder beyond his reach for the moment, and was past dwelling on it or obsessing over it as Hanchett seemed bound and determined to do. As such, the senior Long Patrol hare found himself slipping into the spirit of the glad-hearted beasts around him. Their obvious joy at being so close to a refuge of peace and plenty and happiness after their seasons of suffering under the searats' whips and chains, and their relief that Browder was safe from any Long Patrol retributions, combined with the perfect weather to raise spirits immensely. Traughber, free from the gnawing funk that held Hanchett tightly within its grip, could appreciate the buoyant mood of the company, and did his best not to sour it.
Clovis and Lekkas, seeing that at least one of the Long Patrols' moods wasn't totally foul, came forward to walk with Granholm and Wharff alongside the hares. They were curious, as were all the escaped slaves, as to what awaited them at the Abbey.
"Oh, there'll be a friendly enough welcome for all o' you, have no fear o' that," Traughber assured them. "Jolly old Abbess might even welcome Browder too, unless she kicks him out on his bobtail - th' Redwallers weren't too happy 'bout bein' used as Urthblood's pawn, as I'm sure you can imagine, an' that deceitful hare didn't part on th' best of terms with 'em last time he was there. But as for th' rest of you, you'll be welcome t' stay as long as you like, an' become permanent residents of the Abbey if you choose - your own beds, your own clothes, all th' quaff 'n' scoff that even a hare could ever ask for, an' you'll only hafta work a pittance as hard as when you were slaves."
"Work?" Wharff asked leerily.
"Oh, just chores an' stuff. We all pitch in an' lend a paw, an' wot needs doin' gets done. Some of it's almost fun - helpin' in th' kitchens, pickin' fruits an' veggies from th' gardens an' orchard, lookin' after th' little ones ... an' my personal favorite, standin' walltop sentry duty on a grand an' glorious day such as this. But wot really matters is that everybeast there helps because they want to, not 'cos they're forced to."
"Sounds wonderful," Granholm nodded in a half-daydream spun by the Sergeant's words. "I'd scrub pots and pans from dawn to dusk if I knew my reward would be food like you and Klystra have brought to us. Is the fare always that tasty at Redwall?"
Traughber laughed. "Chappie, you ain't seen th' half of it! So happens you'll be arrivin' just in time for Nameday!"
The woodlanders looked blank. "Nameday?" Clovis asked.
"Ah, Browder never told ya 'bout that, did he? Course not - he had t' scuttle his stinkin' scut fast outta there, an' never got t' hang around long enough t' ruin one o' those fine occasions. Y' see, th' Redwallers give a name t' every single season, so's they can keep track o' things in their historical records. At th' start of each season, the Abbot or Abbess chooses a name for it, an' then they celebrate with a feast the likes o' which you've gotta experience to believe! Sat through two of 'em so far m'self, an' even I can hardly believe 'em!"
The idea of so much food and drink made the slaves' mouths water. The notion that such a grand feast might be awaiting them at journey's end was almost overwhelming.
"So, um, what's this season gonna be called?" Wharff inquired.
"Don't know yet," Traughber replied. "The Abbess seemed to've had one all picked out, but she might change her mind once you lot arrive. Season names oft reflect wot's goin' on at th' time. Why, we hares got a season named in our honor when we settled there last fall. When the Abbess catches a gander at wot a jolly crowd you've got here, she might just name this th' bally Spring o' the Freed Slaves, or some such thing ... "
"A ... season, named for us?" Clovis repeated. The idea seemed to daunt her.
"Wouldn't doubt it, ma'am. Haven't heard your full tale yet m'self, but I'm sure it's one well worth th' tellin', wot? Whether you get that honor or not, the Abbey Recorder will still want t' hear all your stories t' enter 'em inta th' histories. He's most particular 'bout things like that. But th' Abbess promised t' hold off on th' celebrations 'til we get there, an' that's all that matters to me!"
Roofbeam came fluttering down to the soft grass a short way ahead of the procession, cheeping for their attention. "I'll go see wot she wants," Hanchett grumbled, sprinting forward to escape the more upbeat creatures around him. He returned moments later and addressed Traughber.
"She wants t' fly back t' Redwall an' let th' Abbess know we've linked up with th' slaves all right. Should we have her tell th' Colonel that Browder's with us?"
Traughber stroked his whiskers in contemplation as they all trudged on toward where the Sparra awaited.
"Naw," he said after much consideration. "We got a bally surprise outta that when we ran inta that louse. Wot say we drop that surprise on everybeast else when we get there, wot?"
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Neskyn and his wife Runsa were the leaders of Holt Toor. For the past season and a half, this otter clan of south Mossflower had guarded the searat submarine that Urthblood had captured the previous summer. Neskyn and Runsa were longstanding friends of the Guosim shrews, and when Log-a-Log had been getting ready to lead his wandering tribe north to Redwall for the winter, the Toor otters had answered the shrew chieftain's appeal for somebeast else to protect the strange vessel. So, most of the holt had packed up their belongings and moved downriver to where the iron searat ship was moored, and set up a new temporary home on the banks alongside the craft.
The otters of Holt Toor had already known about the searat vessel, of course, and a few had even made the trip downstream to see it for themselves. In keeping with the Badger Lord's decree, word of this menace had been spread to every otter community in Mossflower, so that those aquatic beasts could be on the lookout along every broad watercourse that linked Mossflower to the sea. But none of the other holts were as close to where the captured craft was being kept as Holt Toor ... which was how that clan came to get the job of guarding the sub during the cold season.
That cold season was now drawing to a close. Neskyn's otters didn't keep track of the days the way the Redwallers (or the unfortunate Wexford) did, but they could tell prefectly well that spring was upon them. And that meant their relief would soon arrive, and they would be free to return to their proper homes. The mudhut shelters that the Guosim had built for themselves by the river had been enlarged to accommodate beasts of the otters' size, but it was still only temporary housing, and nearly every otter there itched to return to their holt's territory.
Their relief, when it finally did arrive, did not come from the direction or in the form they expected.
It was another of those glorious spring days that had been coming in profusion lately. The bare tree limbs hung heavy with clusters of tight leaf buds, nearly ready to burst their bonds and renew the multilayered forest canopy with their countless green shields. Other buds nodded and swayed in the breeze atop slender stalks, tight-packed petals that would soon spill open to paint the woodlands with every color imaginable. Birds hopped from branch to branch, picking some of the early spring insects off the bark or fluttering down to try their luck at digging baby worms out of the soft earth near the riverbank, and generally raising enough happy racket to wake a deadbeast. A few of the more ambitious members of the winged folk dove into the stream after newly-hatched minnows or shrimpfry. The waters ran swift and clear through this scene of vernal rebirth, a constant source of fish, refreshment and swimming fun for the otters.
Upon these rushing waters came a veritable fleet of shrew logboats, the small beasts within calling upon the full extent of their strength and rower's knowledge to navigate upstream. Above them soared a falcon, its shadow chasing them along every twist and bend in the river. When the flotilla finally hove within sight of the otter settlement and the hatch of the searat vessel sticking up above the surface, the crew of the lead logboat turned and shouted back along the line of tiny craft, which were immediately directed to the north banks and pulled up out of the river there.
All this commotion naturally attracted the attention of the otters, who were soon to a beast arrayed along the banks themselves, paws on hips as they took stock of the newcomers. The Guosim sometimes travelled by logboat, it was true, but this group looked to have come in from the sea. It was possible that the Guosim had left Redwall and gone straight to the River Moss, followed it to the sea and thence down the coast to the mouth of this broadstream, and paddled inland again, but it didn't seem like there'd been enough time for that. Spring was only a few days old, and knowing Log-a-Log, the Guosim were probably still at the Abbey, enjoying Redwall's famous hospitality and squeezing every last bit that they could out of their winter's layover there.
So, if these were not the Guosim, then who were they? Neskyn, standing at the fore of his otters, scanned the newcomers, but they were nobeasts he recognized. Their lack of headbands and more rugged garments marked them as strangers to this region ... but they were certainly setting themselves up as if they belonged here, and meant to stay.
One of the shrews strode fearlessly forward and asked, in a slight Northlands accent, "Which one o' you's in charge 'ere?"
Neskyn, keeping one wary eye on the tunic-clad falcon who'd settled heavily onto a sycamore branch across the river, scattering the smaller birds, extended an uncertain paw of greeting. "Neskyn, o' Holt Toor. An' yore ... ?"
"Captain Tardo, o' Lord Urthblood's Northland Broadstream shrews, pleased t' make yer acquainternce." The shrew commander took the otter's much larger paw and shook it vigorously. "You th' riverdogs who've been keepin' tabs on that prize there?" Tardo nodded toward the mostly-submerged searat vessel.
"Um ... aye, that we are. I'm Neskyn, this 'ere's me wife Runsa, an' th' rest o' this soggy crew's Holt Toor, or most of 'em, anyways. But, uh, we was expectin' th' Guosim t' spell us ... "
"Gowsem? Oh, you mean them Mossflower shrews? Dunno 'bout them, but Lord Urthblood wanted us here lickety-split t' take charge o' that rustbucket. Been some trouble with th' searats, an' we can expect more t' come, so there's gonna be full security at this site."
The otters were a little taken aback by Tardo's brash manner ... and by the inference that Holt Toor was more lax in their vigilance than these shrews would be.
"What kind o' trouble with the searats?" Runsa asked, trying to keep the conversation civil.
"Could be all-out war, before season's end," Tardo replied. "We hit 'em pretty hard, inflicted heavy losses, more'n they can ignore. An' with some o' these newfangled weapons Tratton's got, it'll be some tussle!"
"You mean, like those?" Neskyn thumbed a paw toward the submarine.
"Aw, those steel fish ain't th' half of it! But Lord Urthblood's got a few new innervations of his own, an' a few new allies too. I'd not wanna be part o' any searat assault force that tries t' take Salamandastron, no siree!"
Neskyn gazed along the downstream banks, taking stock of all the beached logboats. He estimated there to be at least two dozen of the small craft, and even though they weren't fully crewed, that still amounted to literally scores of the coarse little beasts. "Urthblood shore sent a lot o' you, didn't he?"
"Oh, we're jus' th' advance contingent," said Tardo. "Lots more o' us comin' down from th' north overland. Should get 'ere later this season. Reckon we'll number a couple hundred when all's said 'n' done."
Many eyebrows went up among the otters, and more than one whistle was heard. Neskyn glanced back towards the ramshackle mudhuts which had housed his clan for the winter. "Guess ye'll be needin' t' build a few more o' them then, huh?"
"Oh, those mudpiles? Naw, we'll be tearin' those down soon as you ruddertails've got all o' yer belongin's outta them. We're stickin' 'round fer a good while, an' Lord Urthblood's got big plans fer this site, you can be sure o' that!"
Again, the shrew captain's manner rankled the Toor otters. Sure, they'd found their crude winter quarters cramped and a tad squalid, but they had also formed a kind of grudging attachment to their temporary homes. And to hear it announced so cavalierly that the huts were to be leveled without a second thought was just a little galling. So what if they'd been eager to relocate back to their full-time homes as soon as possible before these shrews showed up?
"Y' know," Neskyn said, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully, "just mebbe me an' some o' me mateys'll stick around t' help you all get settled in ... "
"Huh? Well, if'n y' wanna, ain't no skin off my tail. Just keep outta our way when we get t' workin', an' it should be no problem."
"Hmph!" Runsa crossed her paws over her chest. "Yore almost as pushy as those other shrews who came through this way late last season ... "
This made Tardo's head snap around. "What other shrews?"
"Said they was Guosim, an' they looked 'n' sounded th' part," explained Neskyn. "Problem was, I knew fer a fact that th' Guosim were still winterin' at Redwall. Now, I heard rumors o' some feudin' 'tween those shrews, so mebbe this was some splinter tribe that's split off from th' main group. But they wasn't th' real Guosim, even though they was tryin' t' convince us some clown named Snoga's their new Log-a-Log."
"Log-a-Log?" Tardo stared blankly.
"That's th' title fer th' Guosim's chieftain. This bunch was knockin' their current Log-a-Log sumpthin' fierce. Come t' think on it, they was badmouthin' yore Lord Urthblood pretty good too."
"Oh, was they now?" Tardo straightened to an indignant stance. "Don't suppose they're still about? I'd like t' give 'em a piece o' my mind."
"No such luck, 'm afraid," said Runsa. "We sent 'em packin' with a few kicks in their scruffy skintails. Haven't seen 'em around in many a day."
"Too bad." Tardo sighed. "Prob'ly nuthin' important anyway ... "