He bounded onto the stairs, which shattered in a rending crash of ancient timbering. There was another earsplitting screech. Then thick clouds of dust billowed out into the chamber, enveloping everybeast.
22
Under cover of darkness, the Purloined Petunia sailed in toward the mystic mountain fortress of Salamandastron. Somewhat puzzled but obedient to her captain’s orders, Tiria manoeuvred the tiller, steering the vessel into the broad, curving bay. Twin beacons on the shoreline burned holes into the night, guiding her in. The ottermaid could make out figures running to and fro onshore. She surmised that these must be the legendary fighting hares of the Long Patrol, the Badger Lord’s perilous warriors. Cuthbert had gone forward, concealing himself in the tiny lean-to between galley and prow. Tiria guessed he had his own purpose in doing this; she had long given up questioning her odd companion. Vast and primitive, the mighty mountain loomed above her as she hove in, blocking out the eastern sky.
A hare waded into the sea. Standing waist deep, he waved a torch as he hailed the Petunia. “Ahoy the ship, identify yourself!”
Cupping paws to her mouth, Tiria shouted the answer, as Cuthbert had instructed her to. “The Purloined Petunia, bound for the destruction of all vermin and the protection of goodbeasts!”
She heard the hare chuckle as he replied, “Heave us a jolly old headrope, an’ we’ll bring you in.”
A line was already fixed to the bowsprit. Tiria ran forward. Separating the coils, she slung it in the hare’s direction. He was joined by a score or so of his comrades, who set their weight on the rope and pulled the ship to shore. More hares came to assist, throwing down logrollers and hauling the vessel over the tideline until it was fully beached, high and dry. Looking over the side, the ottermaid saw that she was surrounded by Long Patrol hares, all uniformed and fully armed. They parted, leaving an aisle through which came striding the biggest badger Tiria had ever imagined. Torchlight shimmered off his armoured breastplate as his dark eyes gazed up at her.
The huge beast’s voice was a thunderous rumble. “Permission to come aboard?”
Tiria was in a quandary. Her captain had not warned her of this. She was taken aback as a clipped military voice rapped out a reply to the badger.
“Permission granted, by all means, sah, but one’d much rather toodle ashore to bandy words with you, wot wot!”
Cuthbert emerged from hiding, completely transformed into a full-blown regimental major. Gone was the musselshell eyepatch and tawdry captain’s rig. The odd hare had waxed his moustache into two fine points, and he was wearing a monocle. Around his waist was a broad black silk sash with a straight sabre thrust through it. A short pink mess jacket was draped elegantly about his shoulders, tasselled, goldembroidered and bearing two rows of medals pinned to it. Cuthbert was carrying a silver-tipped swagger stick, which he waved in salute.
The big badger nodded, smiling. “Step ashore, Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw, and be so good as to bring your friends with you.”
As two young subaltern hares assisted her ashore with needless gallantry, Tiria introduced herself and the osprey. “I’m Tiria Wildlough from Redwall Abbey. This bird is Pandion Piketalon of Green Isle.”
The badger bowed solemnly. “Welcome, friends. I am Lord Mandoral Highpeak of Salamandastron. Come along, Tiria. Subs Quartle and Portan will attend to you, though I imagine that fine osprey can take ample care of himself.”
They strolled toward the mountain, with Mandoral and Cuthbert chatting animatedly in the lead. Tiria walked behind with the two young subalterns, who were obviously fascinated with the pretty young ottermaid. Both talked incessantly.
“I say, Miz Tiria, are you actually a jolly good chum of Old Blood’n’guts Blanedale?”
Tiria nodded. “I am indeed, Portan. Why do you ask?”
Portan grinned self-consciously. “No need for full titles, marm. Y’can call me Porters, an’ that flippin’ great droopears is Quarters, wot!”
His companion made a swift leg, tripped and almost fell. “Hawhaw, a pal of Old Blood’n’guts, eh? How many vermin have you slain between you? A jolly good few, I’ll wager!”
The ottermaid shook her head. “None, really. I only met him a short while ago. But what’s all this about slaying lots of vermin? I’d like to know more about my friend Major Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw.”
The company entered the mountain through an impressively large oaken double door. From there they went straight to the main mess hall. There was a host of other hares already there. The place was filled with noise. Long Patrol members laughed, joked, sang barrack room songs and banged on the tables, demanding dinner.
“I say, wheel in the bally tucker before I jolly well perish!”
“Good show, old chap. You carry on an’ perish. I’ll scoff yours an’ look sad for you later. Hawhawhaw!”
“Where’s that blinkin’ grubswiper got to with our scoff, eh?”
“Let’s casserole the confounded cook. There’s enough on that flippin’ old lard tub for two helpin’s apiece, wot!”
“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Wopps minor!”
“Shan’t! You go an’ toast y’tail, Chubbscott!”
Tiria found herself seated at a corner guest table with her two subalterns. She ducked as a stale crust flew overhead. “Are they always like this?”
Quartle denied the accusation strenuously. “Good grief no, miz! They’re pretty quiet tonight. I expect it’s ’cos we have guests, manners y’know.”
Regimental Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was seated at the top table with Lord Mandoral and some high-ranking officers. Pandion was nowhere to be seen; Tiria assumed the osprey had gone fishing in the bay for dinner.
She pressed on, questioning her two friends about Cuthbert. “Tell me about Major Blanedale. I don’t know much about him.”
Portan seemed quite taken aback. “Great seasons, the chap’s a blinkin’ legend among Long Patrol types. I’ve heard that Lord Mandoral sometimes refers to him as the Deathseeker. Says he’s been lookin’ to get himself jolly well slain ever since he lost his daughter.”
Quartle nodded in Cuthbert’s direction. “That chap’s been sewn t’gether more times than a bloomin’ patchwork quilt. Just look at those scars, y’can see them from here. Huh, talk about perilous!”
Tiria was growing impatient with her garrulous escorts. “I know that. He’s obviously been in lots of battles. But could you please tell me why? Was it because of his daughter?”
Portan tossed a clean serviette to Tiria. “Whoops! Gangway there, chaps, here comes the old nosh, an’ not before flippin’ time, eh Quarters?”
An outsize platter of salad, a big bowl of soup, a full loaf of wheatbread and a tankard overflowing with burdock and nettle squash clattered down in front of Tiria. She regarded it with awe.
“There’s enough here for the three of us!”
Quartle chaffed her. “Oh, come on now, old thing, it’s only a light summer repast. Personally, I’m always jolly well hungry by suppertime. Ain’t that right, Porters?”
His tablemate gestured airily. “Anythin’ y’can’t cope with, sling it over to me an’ old Quarters. We’ll deal with it, wot!”
Tiria glared from one to the other. “Will you please stop avoiding my questions?”
“Pay no heed t’these two gormless scoffin’ machines, young ’un. I can tell you all you want t’know. Move over there, ye famine-faced wastebins!”
The hare who seated himself at the guest table was a rough-looking customer. He was tall and sinewy, sable-furred, with a scar running through his face from eartip to jaw. Both subalterns went politely quiet.
The new guest unsheathed a very long, basket-hilted rapier and laid it on the table. “Captain Raphael Granden at y’service, young ’un. I take it you’re enquirin’ about Major Blanedale?”