Molemum Burbee hitched up her vast flowery apron. “Hurr, an’ oi’l goo an’ make ee gurt pot o’tea!”
Abbess Lycian smiled appreciatively at her friend. “Good idea, Burbee. Would you be so kind as to bring it up to the Infirmary? A nice cup of tea never goes amiss.”
Brother Perant was Redwall’s Infirmary Keeper and Healer. The good mouse’s knowledge of herbs, salves, potions and treatments was without peer in all Mossflower. No sooner was the bird borne into his sickbay than Perant began practising his art.
“Hmm, a giant of a bird, not like any hereabouts. Probably some kind of eagle or hawk. There’s an object lodged inside its mouth. Nasty thing, looks like a star made of iron. See how it sticks out from beneath the lower beak? Skipper, get that hardwood pestle, force the beak open and hold it still whilst I work. Huh, wouldn’t like to lose a paw if it snapped shut as I was operating!”
Most of the gentler woodland creatures had to look away as Perant pried at the object with his instruments. He worked swiftly, muttering to himself, “What sort of villain would do this to a living creature? Ah, here it comes . . . dreadful thing, just look at that!”
Wiping the barb clean, he passed it to Tiria. She felt the sharp edges of the iron star, her face grim as she dropped it into her pebble pouch.
“Someday I may get the chance to pay the scum back with his own weapon!”
3
Beyond the high seas, far away on Green Isle, a monumental bulk loomed over the landscape of swamps, streams and watermeadows. The once-proud timber fortress of the Wildlough otterclan, it had been inhabited for untold seasons by cats. Riggu Felis, and his barbaric ancestors before him, had held sway over Green Isle for as long as anybeast could remember. The isle had become no place for otters to live. Apart from a small band of outlaw otters, the rest were slaves, completely subjugated by the mighty warlord and his cats. It was the cats’ home now—a solid fortress, built entirely of pine logs, on the lakeshore. Part of the structure jutted out over the lake, where it was supported upon pillars of stone in the shallows.
On the stairs outside the upper tower chamber, Lady Kaltag, the mate of Riggu Felis, sat in a window alcove with Atunra, the warlord’s pine marten aide. Kaltag’s lustrous black tail twitched back and forth restlessly beneath her furtrimmed cloak as she waited to be admitted into the chamber.
On the lower stairs, the two sons of Felis and Kaltag were arguing and fighting. Jeefra was the burlier of the two. His brother, Pitru, was half a head shorter and not as well fleshed, but it was he who was the fiercer.
Pitru lashed out at Jeefra, snarling, “If he dies, I will be Warlord of Green Isle. Then you will have to watch out, flabbytail!”
Jeefra dodged past him and ran yowling to his mother’s side. “Tell him, Mamma! We’re both supposed to rule as warlords if Father dies, aren’t we?”
She took his paw, calling severely to her other son, “Pitru, come up here right now!”
The young cat did as he was bidden, though he stayed clear of Kaltag’s grasp, pouting and stamping his footpaw. “Jeefra’s soft, I’d make the best warlord!”
Kaltag reprimanded the pair. “Shame on you both, talking as if your father were going to die!”
Pitru dodged forward, treading on his brother’s tail. He smirked maliciously at Atunra. “I saw what the big bird did to him. He will die, won’t he?”
The pine marten shook her head, wincing as screeches and growls emanated from the chamber. “Nay, thy father is a true wildcat. The healers will save him.”
More screeches came from within, together with the crashing of furniture being hurled about. Suddenly the door slammed open and two old cats were flung out, tumbling down the stairs. The voice of Riggu Felis roared angrily, “Idiots! Impostors! Out, before ye slay me with those foul potions and rusty needles. Begone with ye!”
Then Warlord Riggu Felis stood framed in the doorway. The wildcat’s face had been covered when they brought him in, but now it was plain to view in all its hideousness. The black-and-grey-striped fur was normal from ears to eyes, but below that it was red, glistening flesh and bone. The whole muzzle, nose and upper lip had been torn off. Half of the warlord’s face was a frightful mask—a spitting, bubbling skeleton, as he continually sucked air to breathe. His blazing eyes raked them.
“Why are ye staring so? Is it not a pretty sight?”
Storming back into the chamber, he slammed the door. They heard him clattering and rattling amid armour, ranting to himself, “Two useless sons who couldn’t kill a bird, a single bird! Hah, and the bird flew off, it could not stand and do battle with me. Birds will die! All birds on Green Isle shall be slain! Then everybeast will know that I cannot die, for I am Riggu Felis!”
Outside, Lady Kaltag beckoned to her sons as she descended the stairs. “We will not tarry here whilst your father is in such wrath. Atunra, you will stay and await his orders.”
The pine marten bowed briefly. “As ye wish, my Lady!”
The afternoon was waning by the time the wildcat emerged from his chamber. He faced his aide. “So, Atunra, what do ye think?”
The pine marten stared at him, knowing she would die if she did not reply favourably. Riggu Felis had altered one of his war helmets to cover the injuries to his face. He had wrenched the visor from the headpiece and fixed a square of chain mesh to its lower part. It hid the wounds but made him look even more sinister. Now his breath whistled and hissed through the rings of chain mail, and they parted slightly, revealing his naked fangs. Moreover, he kept pushing his tongue through the mask to facilitate his breathing.
Atunra nodded solemnly. “It gives you an air of mystery, Lord.”
The wildcat raised his single-bladed war axe. “Gather my catguards. Tell them to take bows and quivers of arrows. My command is that they kill every bird in the skies, large or small. We will feast on their flesh. Destroy the birds, slay them all!”
He strode to the alcove window. Leaning out, he bellowed, “Death to all birds! Death! Death!”
On the lake below, two otter slaves heard the din from the tower window. Looking up, they beheld the wildcat, recognisable even with his face masked.
One of the otters shook his head sadly. “Ah, ’twas a mistake ye made sayin’ Felis was dead. That villain will never die! D’ye not hear him?”
The other otter began hauling in his nets. “Aye, sure he’ll only get wickeder by the day, worse luck for us. Y’know the trouble with us, mate? We’re weak. It takes a beast like Leatho Shellhound to defy that Riggu Felis an’ his scurvy cats. Aye, Leatho’s the buckoe, sure enough!”
Whulky, the elder of the two otters, rounded on his companion. “Keep yore voice down! Ye know wot’ll happen if’n yore caught even mentionin’ that name. Ye’ll end up bein’ slung into Deeplough with a stone tied to yore neck, t’be eaten by Slothunog. Now get rowin’ for shore. Can’t ye see Weilmark Scaut waitin’ on our catch?”
As Chab, the younger otter, sculled their coracle toward the pier, Whulky lectured him. “Lissen, Chab, don’t ye ever say we’re weak. Us otters have to stay an’ obey Felis because we’ve all got families an’ young ’uns to worry about. They’d be the ones to suffer if ever we tried anythin’. Shellhound’s free as the air. That rogue can afford t’be an outlaw, an’ besides, he’s a seadog, not a stream otter like us.”
Chab rested his paddle. “But wasn’t it us that were once the warriors of Green Isle, an’ haven’t we got the blood of the High Queen Rhulain1 Wildlough runnin’ in our veins?”
Whulky sighed. “Aye, that’s truth to tell, Chab, but ’tis many a hundred seasons since those days. The High Queen is nought but a thing for songs an’ poems to tell our little’uns now.”
An irate voice called to them from on shore. “If you two don’t move yerselves, I’ll skin the hide from yer rudders!” This threat was followed by the crack of a whip.