Fargil’s fangs almost bit the tip of Wonwill’s nose, but the hare’s forehead shot forward like a battering ram. Crack! Minus a few teeth, the big fox lay stretched unconscious in the centre of the circle.
Wonwill kicked aside his enemy’s blade, staring woefully at Fargil. “Huh, I was just gettin’ into me stride when he goes an’ lays down on me. Vermin—no backbone, no grit, eh!”
The young hares applauded him lustily.
“Oh, well-hit, Sarge. That taught the blighter a lesson, wot!”
“Rather! Big clod didn’t know his bottom from breakfast when ye decked him. Y’must have a head like a bloomin’ boulder, Sarge!”
Fortindom stirred the prone fox with his sabre. “Nice job, Sergeant, but personally I wouldn’t soil me paws on scum like that. A blade’s the only cure for vermin, wot? Righto, chaps, drag him inside an’ close the gates. I suspect old Crumshaw will want a word with him when he wakes up.”
Down in Cavern Hole, Burlop had tapped his keg of strawberry fizz. He poured out beakers for one and all, whilst Sister Screeve and Jem distributed Friar Glisum’s fresh-baked pies and tarts. The riddle contest had ended with a unanimous decision that everybeast should share in the prize. Abbot Humble was still looking worried and preoccupied when Sergeant Wonwill entered, accompanied by several young hares.
Humble immediately accosted him. “Any news of the vermin attack, Sergeant?”
The veteran saluted smilingly. “Bless yore ’eart, Father, there ain’t no need t’worry. Brigadier says for you to rest easy. The h’emergency is h’over!”
The home-loving Abbot heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Seasons be praised! Would you and your hares like to share supper with us? There’s plenty for all, Sergeant.”
Wonwill accepted the invitation gratefully. He enjoyed the unexpected treat as Dibbuns gathered around him, exclaiming, “Sarjin’, we haved a riggle concert!”
The sergeant took Mimsie the mousebabe on his knee. “Ye don’t say, missie, a riggle concert! Wot’s that?”
Sister Armel refilled his beaker with fizz. “She means a riddle contest, Sergeant. It was good fun.”
Perkle the hogbabe climbed up with Mimsie, who gazed up at Wonwill’s leathery features. “Joonow h’any puggles or rizzles, Sarjin?”
Sister Screeve interpreted. “Perkle is asking if you know any puzzles or riddles, Sergeant. Well, do you, sir?”
Wonwill was captivated by the Abbeybabes. With no family, outside of the regiment, he found the little ones an endless source of wonder and delight. “Oh I knows ’undreds of ’em, beauty. Shall I sing one for ye? I h’aint no great singer, but I’ll ’ave a try.”
Humble intervened. “Don’t bother the Sergeant, Perkle. He’s had a hard evening. I expect he’s tired.”
But Wonwill reassured the Abbot, “No, no, Father. Singin’ for the little ’un’s no bother. I’d sooner be ’ere singin’ for the babbies than out there knocking the stuffin’ out o’ vermin. Right, ’ere goes!”
The sergeant sang an old tongue twister, which was new to the Dibbuns, but all the older Redwallers joined in each chorus heartily.
“There once was a frog an’ his name was ole Glogg,
He lived in a log on top of a bog.
He loved plum pudden an’ gooseberry pie,
but if anybeast dared to come near him he’d cry.
Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!
Wot a hard terrible life!
To his abode down the road came a toad,
bearin’ a load as she puffed an’ blowed,
‘I’m tired of this bundle atop of my head,
I’m almost half dead but I’m fit to be wed.’
Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!
Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t’be wed!
Wot a hard terrible life!
He took both her paws an’ pulled her indoors.
She swept the floors an’ did all his chores.
Her bundle came open, ten tadpoles jumped out,
‘Oh good day to ye, dad.’ They all gave a great shout.
Frog bog log Glogg! Pudden an’ pie he’d loudly cry!
Abode road toad load! Head dead fit t’be wed!
Dad! Dad! The frog’s gone mad!
Wot a hard terrible wife!”
Abbot Humble patted the sergeant’s back. Amid the cheers and whoops, he called to Wonwill, “Thank you, friend, and all your gallant hares, thank you for everything—from everybeast in this Abbey!”
24
Morning brought with it a sky of light-washed blue, with not a cloud to cross the sun’s passage. Already Captain Zerig was awake. He bit into a hard green apple, pulled a wry face and spat out the mouthful of sour fruit. He threw the rest of it at Freeta, who was still sleeping. She sat up rubbing her face. “What was that for?”
The fox captain pointed to the open sward between the south Abbey wall and the trees where the vermin lay. “See thy scouts, the two who were so good an’ reliable?”
Fargil was stumbling on all fours through the grass with the slain Graddu tied across his back. Freeta kicked some nearby ermine into wakefulness. “Rouse thyselves an’ help them, quickly!”
They scurried out and dragged the two big foxes back into the woodlands. Vermin crowded around, severing the bonds from the pair. Thrusting his way through the onlookers, Zerig’s contemptuous glance shot from the carcase of Graddu to Fargil, who was lying on his back. Zerig shook his head at the sight of Fargil’s battered face. “Well, tell me how this befell thee?”
The big fox mumbled from between his swollen lips, “Water!”
The white fox captain returned his plea with a sharp kick. “Report first, an’ tell me all. Speak!”
Fargil stumbled through the events of the past night haltingly. When he reached the account of his fight with Wonwill, Zerig stopped him scornfully. “Do ye mean to say that a single rabbit did this to thee with only his paws, whilst ye were fully armed?”
Fargil sobbed brokenly. “Aye, Captain. They are called hares, not rabbits. He could have slain me, but he spared my life to bring ye a message from their leader, one they call the Brigadier.”
Freeta came forward, administering the beaten fox a few sips of water from her canteen. “Say on, what did this Brigadier hare tell thee?”
Fargil managed to sit up shakily. “He said that if we stay in this place we will all die. His warriors have sworn vengeance on Lord Gulo and all who follow him. Captain, he gives ye until the setting of the sun to be gone from Redwall Abbey!”
Zerig thrust his chin forward belligerently. “Or what?”
Fargil repeated Crumshaw’s words as accurately as he could. “ ‘Or he shall meet ye on the west flatlands to give ye blood’n’vinegar, with no surrender.’ Then one, a Captain like thee, also said to make sure I told thee this. He said that whether we stand and fight, or choose to run like cowardly scum, the hares of the Long Patrol will not rest until we are all staring at Hellgates through dead eyes, an’ our bones lie bleaching in the sun.”
A hush fell over the vermin. Fargil and Graddu had been two fearsome fighters, but now one lay dead and the other was reduced to a beaten and pitiable creature.
Sensing the mood of his followers, Zerig drew his curved sword and tested its edge by licking the blade, an obvious show of bravado. “Hah! Threats mean little to the warriors of Lord Gulo. We came not from the lands of ice beyond the great sea to be frightened by the words of rabbits!”
Fargil stood upright. He began pacing to the left, toward the path, his voice rising as he replied to Zerig’s boast. “Those beasts are not rabbits, they are hares, fighting hares! Ye did not face them, Captain, I did. An’ I know they are well able to carry out their vow of vengeance. Only a fool would stay here—ye will all die!” He turned and broke into a shambling run. Zerig snatched a spear from an ermine and flung it with swift accuracy. An easy target, Fargil now lay dead—his body slumped facedown with the spear’s shaft protruding from between his shoulders.