Badredd quaked with pent-up tension as he awaited the Searat’s verdict on his cooking. Blowfly stood behind him, twirling his knotted rope’s end. Relief flooded through the small fox at the sound of the captain’s coarse but satisfied chuckle.
“Haharr, I’ve eaten worse an’ lived! Wot kinda fish was that ’un, matey? Wot ’erb did ye use on it, eh?”
Badredd answered promptly. “ ’Twas a grayling, sir, grilled with button mushrooms an’ dill. I did it special.”
Bol patted his stomach. “Graylin’, that’s a nice-soundin’ name. Blowfly, wot are we goin’ t’do wid this cook—flog ’im to a jelly wid yore rope’s end or gut ’im wid this ’ook?”
Blowfly smiled, not a pretty sight. “Gut ’im, Cap’n, go on!”
The hook lunged out, capturing Badredd around his neck. He was dragged forward until Bol was breathing in his face.
“Make yoreself useful round ’ere, me liddle graylin’. Clean this place up, scrub it out an’ make the bed. Blowfly, you stay ’ere, tickle ’im up wid yore rope’s end if’n ’e slacks!”
Thrusting both scimitar and stiletto in his sash, the captain swaggered out onto the sunlit lawn. “Glimbo, rally the crew. ’Tis time we went for a parley wid our new friends!”
All night long, Foremole and his molecrew had been carrying rubble up to the dormitory to be used as extra defence material. Martha sat close to the window with Toran and Abbot Carrul.
Granmum Gurvel laid breakfast out on the windowsill for them. “You’m bee’s h’eaten ee brekkist naow, ’tis gudd furr ee!”
The trio had already laid their plans. Toran poured honey and beechnut flakes over his oatmeal, pointing to the gatehouse. “Stand ready, everybeast, they’re comin’!”
Raga Bol sauntered up with twoscore of Searats, as though he was out for a morning stroll. He waved up at them.
Toran grunted. “Don’t look like they’re goin’ to attack right now.”
“It wouldn’t pay to!” Martha muttered grimly, reaching for one of Redwall’s latest pepper bombs. Abbot Carrul stayed silent, polishing his glasses nervously on his habit sleeve.
A Searat brandishing a rusty axe snarled up arrogantly at the dormitory windows. “Get yerselves out ’ere, or we’ll come in an’ drag ye down!”
Drawing his scimitar, Raga Bol dealt the Searat a swinging blow to the jaw with its bone handle. He placed a sea-booted footpaw on the sprawled-out rat and spoke reprovingly. “Tut tut, I’m surprised at ye, mate. Is that anyways to be addressin’ gennelbeasts?” Returning the blade to his sash, the Searat captain lectured the rest of his brutish crew. “Mind yore language when ye talks to the goodbeasts up there, that’s an order!”
He winked broadly and turned away from them, performing a flourishingly elegant bow. His gold fangs glinted as he smiled up at the dormitory windows. “My ’pologies, an’ a good day to ye all, messmates. Me name’s Raga Bol, fer want of a better ’un. I’m ’ere to parley wid yore cap’n. ’Twould be a kindness if’n ’e’d speak t’me.”
Abbot Carrul showed himself. “I am Father Abbot Carrul of Redwall. What exactly do you want, sir?”
Raga Bol put his head to one side, almost managing to look coy. “Ho, a bit o’ this an’ a bit o’ that. Nothin’ fer you to bother yore dear old grey ’ead about, Father Abbot. I’m nought but a simple beast who likes pretty trinkets.”
Toran felt that Carrul had taken enough verbal fencing. Recalling the arrow which had been shot to slay his Abbot, he came forward, placing himself in front of Carrul. In one paw he held a long cook’s knife; in the other, a pepper bomb.
“Wot would ye like, silvertongue—a bit o’ this or a bit o’ that?” He indicated both weapons as he spoke. “Make yore choice, ’cos that’s all ye’ll get from us. Redwallers aren’t born fools. We know scum, even when they try to talk fancy!”
Realising that the otter could not be cajoled or wheedled, Raga hurled himself at the Abbey door, hacking at it with his sabre and knife and yelling to his Searat crew, “Attack! Break this door down!”
“Redwaaaaaallllll!” A warcry rang out as the defenders fired slingstones and pepper bombs down upon the foebeasts. A slingstone pinged off Raga’s jaw, leaving it gashed.
He retreated from the door, bellowing, “Back! Out o’ their range. Back!”
They stumbled back across the lawn to where they could see missiles coming and better dodge them.
Martha was shocked but elated. It had all happened so fast: one moment she was listening to the talk going back and forth, the next moment she was screeching like a wildbeast and madly launching off slingstones. She held her trembling paws up to her eyes, willing them to be still.
Toran winked at her. “Well done, beauty!”
His attention was distracted by Raga Bol, shouting, “Ahoy there! Is that the way ye treat creatures wot comes in peace? Aharr, ye wretches, I’ll show ye the Searat way o’ fightin’ back. I’ll burn ye out!”
The Searat captain marched off, back to the gatehouse. Some of his crew were nursing wounds, while others fled blindly, their eyes streaming as they sneezed uncontrollably and headed for the pond.
Martha could feel panic welling inside her. She clasped Toran’s paw. “Will they really try to burn us out?”
Seating himself on the windowsill, the ottercook stared down at the Abbey’s main door, directly below. “Aye, I thought they’d get around to that, sooner or later. But the Searats’ plan won’t work. How much of that soil an’ rubble is there, Dwurl?”
Spreading his hefty digging claws, Foremole shrugged. “Much as ee loikes, zurr. We’m gotten gurt ’eaps o’ durt’n’rubble, hooj marsess uv ee stuff!”
The Abbot looked over his glasses at Toran. “What are you thinking of, friend?”
The ottercook turned from the window. “Our Abbey is built o’ stone, Father. Ain’t many ways they can burn an entrance in. The big Abbey door is the one way. If that went afire, we’d be lost, sittin’ on the other side of it, waitin’ for the door to burn down. So I plan on blockin’ it completely. We’ll do it right now. Ain’t no sense in losin’ time, so we’d best work hard’n’fast. Pay attention, everybeast, this is the plan. . . .”
Raga Bol’s mood had turned sour. He had supposed that his show of force would have gained him an easy victory rather than a shameful retreat. But it had become apparent that the Abbeybeasts were not afraid to fight, no matter how great the odds. He retired to the Abbey pond where he sat sullenly watching those of his crew who had been struck by pepper bombs dousing their heads in the shallows. Flinky and the rest of Badredd’s gang were there, ineptly trying to catch another grayling. The captain took his spleen out on them, booting Flinky headfirst into the water.
The stoat rose spluttering, as he tried to placate the irate Searat. “Sure we was only tryin’ to catch a fat ould fish for yer ’onour’s supper. Ain’t that right, mate?”
Halfchop nodded enthusiastically. “Kachunk!”
Raga Bol drew his scimitar menacingly. “Gerrout o’ me sight, ye witless idiots, make yoreselves scarce. Now!”
Avoiding the keen blade, Flinky and the rest fled the scene.
Ferron, the gaunt rat, slung a flat pebble, bouncing it over the pond surface. “I wouldn’t give ’em ’til sunset, Cap’n. I’d burn those beasts out now!”
Bol was loath to destroy any part of his new home. He looked to Wirga, his Seer. “Wot say ye, old one?”
Wirga was drawing patterns in the banksand with a stick. She shrugged. “If the sons of Wirga were here, they could use their darts on anybeast who showed at the windows.”