His mate staggered out, bent double with the weight of a cauldron full of hot soup. She set it down, licking her paws. "Mmmm, s'good soup, this, fulla watershrimps!"
Both rats leaned over the soup, dabbing their paws in, alternately blowing and licking on them, as they planned their captive's fate.
"We could shove 'im in the empty soup pot with a few rocks, an' see if it'll float in the river. Heeheehee!"
"Nah, best if'n we jus' puts 'im inna pot, lights a fire under it an' cooks 'im. Watervole soup, heehee!"
It was at that moment Orkwil decided he could not cower in hiding from the vermin, something had to be done immediately. Grabbing his staff tightly, he leapt out of hiding and charged the rats. Fortunately, they had their backs to him, and did not see the young hedgehog until too late.
One mighty whack of the yew staff between the club carrier's ears knocked him out cold. As the rat crumpled to the ground, his mate whirled around. She drew her knife swiftly, but Orkwil, aided by the speed of panic, was even quicker than she.
Crack! He hit both her paws, sending the knife flying. Thud! He thumped the butt end of his weapon hard into her stomach. As the river rat doubled over, with the breath whooshing from her, Orkwil struck again. Thwock! Right on the crown of her head. The vermin stood staring at him for a split second, then her eyes crossed as she tumbled facedown on the riverbank.
Orkwil was shaken from snout to spikes with the audacity of his rapid attack. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. Never having been involved in
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serious combat before, he had to think about what to do next. Of course, tie both the rats up before they came to.
He loosed the rope from the unconscious watervole, and dragged the rats, one by one, to a nearby beech tree. Placing their backs to the trunk, Orkwil tied their forepaws together, so they had the tree in a backward embrace. Then he attended to the vole. Grabbing some bankmoss and mud, he piled it on the old creature's head wound, and spoke to him. "There, you'll live to grumble again, old misery. Though you don't deserve any help, after the way you treated me. So I'm going to charge you a bowl of soup for my help. I think that's fair enough."
Orkwil got a bowl from inside the dwelling. He filled it, and drained it, three times before he was satisfied. The watervole was beginning to stir, groaning feebly. Orkwil placed the empty bowl alongside him, and took his leave. "I've left ye those two rats to deal with, old 'un. I don't suppose they'll get much mercy from ye, though. Oh, an' thanks for the soup, 'twas very tasty!"
This time, instead of going back to the ford, he headed downriver a short way. Not far from the bank, he found a large patch of ferns. A sudden weariness overcame Orkwil Prink. This was due to the excitement brought on by his first fight, plus the three bowls of soup, which he had guzzled with unseemly haste. The young hedgehog made his way to the centre of the fern bed and curled up there. Within moments he was fast asleep.
He was also sinking slowly into the ground, because Orkwil had unwittingly chosen to sleep in a swamp.
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8
Once the Bludgullet's lookout sighted land off the portside, Vizka Longtooth gave orders to heave to, and follow the coastline. The weather had become milder and was considerably warmer. It had been four days, and Gorath was still chained to the mast. The young badger had received nothing to eat, or drink, apart from a few mouthfuls of rainwater. He looked gaunt and ill, with his head wound now solidified to a hardened scab, which stuck out on his brow like some grotesque decoration. But he would not give in, either to blandishments, starvation or beatings, which were regularly inflicted upon him. The golden fox, however, still lived in hopes of converting Gorath to the life of a Sea Raider.
It was a calm summer morn, and Vizka was taking breakfast, as usual, just out of reach, but well in sight of his prisoner. He spooned warm oatmeal and honey from a bowl, making much show of enjoying it, as he taunted Gorath. "I'll wager ye worked 'ard ter grow dese oats, an' yore honey is jus' der way I likes it. Sweet'n'thick!"
The badger kept his head down, not bothering to look up at his tormentor. Vizka held the partially filled bowl out to him.
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"Ye knows yer like it, Rock'ead, cummon, talk ter me, d'yer want some, eh?" When he received no reaction, the golden fox merely emptied the remainder of the bowl over the side. "I had enough o' dat, let d'fishes eat it!" Vizka picked up the length of tarred and knotted rope. "Ha, lookit wot I found, d'yer wanna taste o' dis, eh?" He was about to swing it, when his brother, Codj, approached, pointing landward.
"See, Cap'n, a river, crossin' der shore, off dat way!"
Shading his eyes, Vizka peered at the wide estuary. It ran across the sands, into the sea. "Anybeast knows dis river? Ask der crew, brother."
Codj saluted, going off to the main cabin, where some of the crew were breakfasting. He returned with Glurma, the fat, greasy ratwife, who was ship's cook. She had served on other ships before coming aboard the Bludgullet. Vizka nodded toward the river.
"You know dis place, eh?"
Glurma wiped grimy paws on her stained apron. "Aye, Cap'n, dat's der River Moss, runs out o' Mossflower Country."
Vizka signalled his steersbeast to take Bludgullet in closer. "Big river, did ye ever sail up it?"
The ratwife gnawed at a dirty paw claw. "Long time back, afore yew was borned."
The golden fox cuffed Glurma's paw away from her mouth. "Tell me 'bout it!"
Glurma sniffed and spat into the sea. "Sailed up dere wid Cap'n Boljan, in der Sharkfin, lookin' fer Red Abbey-walls. Never got dat far, though, only to der fordplace. Shrewbeasts, an' h'otters, 'undreds of 'em, druv us away. Mad fighters dose shrewbeasts an' h'otters, we wuz lucky ter gerrout alive. Huh, never went back dere!"
Vizka Longtooth mulled over the information, murmuring, "Yew was lucky t'git anyplace in a vessel liddle as der Sharkfin. An' wid Boljan, too, hah, dat 'un was scared've 'is
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own shadder. Red Abbeywalls, eh?" Vizka suddenly realised what the cook was trying to say. "Ye mean Redwall Abbey was dat der name o' d'place?" The golden fox suddenly seized the ratwife, shaking her. "Redwall Abbey! Wot did Cap'n Boljan say about it?"
Glurma struggled to free herself of the golden fox's grip. "I'll tell ye if'n y'stop rattlin' me bones!" Vizka released the cook, who spoke willingly. "Aye, Redwall Abbey, dat's wot Boljan called it. An' 'e knew der way, 'cos 'e 'ad a chart. It wuz straight up der River Moss, carry on through der trees, 'til ye comes to a ford. Den yew abandons ship, an' marches south down der road fer mebbe a day or more, an' ye kin sight it, plain as a pikestaff. Biggest place ye ever clapped yore eyes on, an' der richest, too. Dat's wot Boljan said!"
Gorath still sat beside the mast, his head hanging low, and both eyes closed, the picture of a hopelessly beaten prisoner. However, inside his heart was thumping wildly, he had heard everything the cook had said. Redwall Abbey! This was the land of Mossflower that his grandfather had told him of. Suppressing the quivers of excitement that threatened to betray his feelings, the young badger slouched even lower, allowing his wounded forehead and muzzle to touch the deck. He listened carefully to what was said.
Vizka Longtooth issued orders. "Drop anchor an' furl dat sail. Codj, git all paws up 'ere on deck. I got summat ter say!"
With its prow facing inland, the Bludgullet rode at anchor in the river mouth. Gorath raised his head a fraction. He stared across the shore, to the coarse-grassed dunes, and the woodland fringe in the distance. Somewhere out there the Abbey of Redwall lay basking in the still summer haze. The golden fox flicked him across his back with a long, knotted rope.