He turned to Ferdimond, changing the subject quickly. “So then, wot did ye think o’ Guosim vittles, eh?”
The hare was mopping his platter with a crust, watching the cooks eagerly for a third helping. “Oh, absolutely top-hole, sah! If this is the standard of Guosim grub, I might join up with your flippin’ crew an’ become a jolly old shrew, wot?”
One of the cooks was heard to groan. “Fates forbid the day. I’d sooner run off an’ be a vermin than have t’feed that famish-faced glutton for a season!”
Night wore steadily on, the fires burning down to scarlet embers, tingeing the broad, calm river with their glow.
Gulo the Savage and his vermin had emerged from the pine thickets just before sundown. They had fought their way out to a point south of the hares’ exit place. The wolverine’s losses were severe, his followers now numbering only thirty—all due to Gulo’s insane love of killing and fighting. He had revelled in the combat against the birds. Forgetting all else, he had stayed within the pines to inflict mighty slaughter upon the rooks and crows who had dared to attack him. The deep-carpeted pine needle floor was littered with winged carcases.
Unwittingly, Gulo had done the shrews a great service. Never again would the predatory birds roost in sufficient numbers to harass the Guosim in their water meadows. This, however, did not concern the wolverine as his mind settled back to more urgent matters—the capture of the Walking Stone and deadly revenge upon his brother. He ignored the raking scratches, wounds and dried blood upon his powerful frame, tearing feathers from a slain rook and sinking his fangs into it.
The surviving vermin had lit a fire out on the open hillside. Crouched about it, they licked scratches, tended injuries and roasted the bodies of their dead enemies. Gulo watched them closely, gauging their mood, which he knew to be less than willing. It did not matter to him how they felt: a beast such as Gulo the Savage was concerned only with his own desires.
A badly wounded ermine gave a whimper of pain. Tossing aside a half-eaten crow, he lay back, exhausted and dispirited. Unaware that his leader’s keen senses were focussed on him, the ermine moaned softly to his comrades, “I lost an eye to those black birds. They tore such a rip in my guts that I can’t hold vittles down. Ohhhhh! Methinks I need to rest for a long while.”
Gulo padded over to the wounded vermin. He leaned over him, enquiring in an unusually gentle voice, “Thy injuries are bad. Do ye crave sleep, friend?”
The ermine was both pleased and relieved at his master’s concern for his welfare. “Aye, Lord.”
A single brutal blow from the wolverine’s paw broke the vermin’s neck. Kicking the lifeless beast to one side, Gulo straightened up, the campfire flames reflecting in his insane eyes as he growled out a harsh warning. “Who wants to join this whining coward?”
The remaining ermine and foxes averted their eyes and held their breath as his wild stare swept over them. Gulo grabbed a charred crow from the fire, crunching his fangs into it. After devouring the bird, he sat down, gazing into the flames while snarling out his commands. “Two of ye, go and scout out where my brother and his band are at. The rest of ye, eat! Fill your mouths on the flesh of our foes. Mayhaps ’twill put some fire into your bellies, some iron into your spines!”
Nearly every vermin stood up—all wanted to go scouting, fearing to stay in their wild leader’s company.
Gulo’s voice stopped them in their tracks. He pointed with the dead crow’s taloned leg. “I said two, you an’ you. The rest of ye, stay with me. Let me hear a chant of war to show me ye are ready to serve Gulo the Savage.”
His creatures knew better than to refuse. They stood around the fire, stamping their footpaws and waving blades as they roared out one of their battle rousers from the lands of ice beyond the great sea.
“What is fear, I know it not!
What is death, the foebeast’s lot!
Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!
Blood is what my blade drinks,
slaughter what my mind thinks.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Lead us on, O Mighty One!
O’er the bodies of the slain.
Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!
Blood will swell into a lake,
smoking fires blaze in thy wake.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Eat the flesh of those who fall!
Let them tremble when we call.
Gulo! Gulo! Gulo!
In the pinetops, a bedraggled crow perched on its empty nest, awaiting a mate who would never return. It raised its head, squawking mournfully at the calm golden dawn which creamed the eastern cloudbanks to the hue of newly churned butter.
The white fox who had been sent scouting, in company with an ermine, made his report to Gulo. “Mighty One, they are camped by a broad river, beyond yonder wooded hill to the east. They have boats.”
The wolverine’s hooded eyes bored into the fox searchingly. “Askor, my brother, what news of him? Did ye see him?”
The scout’s limbs trembled, but he answered truthfully. “Nay, sire, neither of us saw him—only a treemouse, a riverdog, tall rabbits and otherbeasts, small ones who know the ways of rivercraft. They were all we saw, Mighty One.”
Gulo the Savage rose, shaking his huge barbaric head. “I know Askor is with them. Get in front of me, all of ye. We go to the river with all speed!”
27
Dawn had not yet broken over the west flatlands outside Redwall. Brigadier Crumshaw stood on the Abbey walltop above the main gates, accompanied by Sergeant Wonwill, Captain Fortindom, Abbot Humble and Burlop Cellarhog.
The brigadier jammed his monocle into position as he polished it. Peering out impatiently over the darkened plain, he muttered aloud, “Confound the rotters! Y’know, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if their bally nerve failed ’em an’ they didn’t turn up—eh, Sergeant? Wot wot!”
Wonwill screwed his eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of the foe. “Might be as y’say, sah, h’I can’t see a blinkin’ sign of ’em. Huh, but me ole sight ain’t wot it used t’be, sah.”
Tergen came hobbling up the wallsteps, still munching on a breakfast oatcake. “Haraaaark! This bird will see what you cannot!” With a hop and a skip, he leaped into a space between the battlements. His keen gaze swept the area, then he nodded knowingly. “Yahaaar! This bird has sighted vermin!”
Crumshaw glared at the goshawk. “Where away, friend?”
Tergen indicated with a talon. “Kaaaarrr! See, Wotwot, two arrow flights to the north. The vermin make fire over yonder, look!”
Burlop turned his attention to the pale flicker which showed to the northwest. “I can make ’em out, sure enough, all gathered round the fire in their cloaks. Well, it looks like we’re going to get our battle today, Brigadier.”
Crumshaw stared askance at the solid young hedgehog. “We, sirrah! D’ye mean you’ll be joinin’ us out there?”
Burlop held up the stave axe and the coopering mallet he had brought along. “Never fear, I’ll be right there! I live at Redwall, so I’m fit an’ able to defend my Abbey.”
Derron Fortindom posed elegantly, paw on sabre hilt. He gave Burlop an admiring glance. “Well said that, chap, wot! Pity you won’t be takin’ the field t’day, Brigadier. But never fret, sah, I’ll put a few vermin on the account under your name.”
The monocle fell from Crumshaw’s eye in astonishment. “What the dickens d’ye mean, Captain? Who says I won’t be joinin’ the skirmish, eh?”
Abbot Humble summoned up his courage and faced the angry old hare. “Er, begging your pardon, friend, but I for one must say it. You can hardly fight with one paw in a sling and a hole through your shoulder that isn’t healed.”
The brigadier’s moustache bristled with indignation. “Pish tush, Father! ’Tis me duty, I’ve got to go, wot wot!”
Tergen attempted to flap his bandaged and splinted wing. “Akkaawww! Wotwot, you like this bird, hurted. You, me, we cannot go. Be inna way of fightin’ beasts. We stay!”