"They're camped in a clearin' up aheadsome must've been already there. I counted fifty-one all told, all Flitchaye savages. Saw the liddle squirrel, too, they got him bound to a post in the middle o' their camp. Fifty's too many for us, mateys. 'Tis goin' t'be hard gettin' the young 'un out o' there. Any ideas, pals?"
Martin looked from one to the other before speaking. "Right, here's the plan. Listen carefully, because it all depends on pure bluff. If it works, then we get out of there fast. Gonff, here's what you'll do, mate ..."
Chapter 4
A mess of bird bones and feathers mixed with squashed half-eaten fruit and vegetables littered the Flitchaye camp. Around the fire undersized weasels squabbled and fought tooth and claw over any morsel of food roasting in the flames. One, larger than the rest, his face daubed blue beneath a helmet of ivy and bugloss, grabbed a half-burnt wren carcass from a smaller Flitchaye. Snarling, the owner tried to retrieve his food from the big weasel, who booted him backward into the fire contemptuously. It was an act of wanton cruelty that caused great hilarity among the other vermin, who sniggered evilly as their scorched companion scrambled shrieking from the blaze and rolled about, trying to extinguish his smoldering fur.
The young squirrel, who was little more than a Dibbun, was trying to shake off the effects of the drugged smoke. He shrank back fearfully against the post he was bound to. Flitchayes with sharp sticks prodded him and licked their lips meaningfully. One weasel took out a blade and was about to start cutting the squirrel's bonds when the big Flitchaye spotted him and knocked him senseless with a well-aimed rock. He stood over the fallen weasel, baring his stained fangs at the rest and speaking in his high-pitched growl. "Norra yet! Feed de swiggle, fatty 'im uppa plenny!" He thrust the remains of the dead bird at the helpless youngster, snarling into the squirrel's terrified face: "You eat. Commona, eaty allup!"
Martin strode nonchalantly into the camp, as if he was quite used to this sort of thing. A puzzled silence settled over the Flitchaye at the sight of the bold, unarmed stranger in their midst. Pushing them out of his way he went across to the two earthenware pots, still wreathing smoke from the drugged herbs which smoldered inside them. Leaning over, Martin appeared to sniff them both and gave a hard, scornful laugh.
"Hah! Don't think much o' yore cookin', ragbags!"
A gasp of surprise rose from the vermin. The stranger had suffered no ill effects from the fearful fumes! Still shouldering weasels aside, Martin pushed his way forcefully over to the little prisoner. Picking up the knife from the fallen weasel, he made as if to cut the squirrel free.
"Stoppima mousebeast!"
At the shout from their leader, the Flitchaye surrounded Martin, hemming in on all sides. Swaggering forward, the big weasel thrust his ugly face close to that of Martin and sneered, "We d'Flitchaye, Flitchaye, Flitchaye!"
The crowd took up the chant, moving around the Warrior in a shuffling, stamping dance. Martin waited patiently awhile, an expression of bored indifference on his face. Then he pointed a paw at his own chest and shouted, "I Martin the Warrior!"
Quiet fell over the vermin, and they stood still. The leader pointed a stoneheaded ax at the lone mouse, repeating Martin's words as best he could. "Ma'tarn de Horrya!" He spat challengingly at the floor in front of the Warrior. Martin coolly returned the gesture, looking the weasel up and down insultingly as he spoke.
"Fish eye, you d'Fish eye?"
The Warrior had anticipated the Flitchaye leader's next move, and he took a pace smartly backward as the weasel swung his ax. The blow was delivered with such force that the Flitchaye could not stop it. He struck himself hard on the shin, cracking his bone audibly. Martin stretched both paws wide. Keeping his eyes on a double-topped oak at the camp's edge, he roared, "Redwaaaaaalllll!"
Hidden by the foliage, Gonff held the sword like a spear and cast it accurately. To the Flitchaye it was magic! Seemingly zipping down out of the sky, the great blade thudded point first into the ground at Martin's side.
Wrenching it from the earth, the Warrior swung it skillfully, chopping a nearby vermin's bunch of throwing spears in half with a single swipe. It had the desired effect. Flitchaye scattered to get out of Martin's sword range, leaving him alone by the prisoner. Turning his back on the enemy, Martin gave the little squirrel a quick reassuring smile and whispered, "Don't move 'til I say, matey. Soon have y'out of here." The captive blinked with fright as Martin's sword hissed within a whisker of him, severing the ropes.
Whirring bright in the late afternoon sunlight, the sword weaved a deadly pattern as its owner wielded it. Martin narrowed his eyes to a fierce intensity, glaring slowly this way and that at the vermin.
"I Martin the Warrior, we go now!"
Gently lifting the dazed little squirrel on his shoulders, he turned and began walking from the camp. The leader, his face a mask of agony, limped forward, shouting, "Stoppa mousebeast, sto"
His cry was cut short when a slingstone smashed his jaw and laid him flat. A female, obviously the leader's mate, dashed forward, but she, too, was felled by a slingstone which whacked her between the eyes. She fell like a log.
Martin muttered out the side of his mouth to the little one, "Good old Dinny, never known him to miss yet!" Then he turned sternly to the cowering Flitchaye. "I go, you stay, Fish eye, hah!"
At a nod from him, slingstones poured in from Gonff, Dinny and Trimp, causing confusion among the stunned Flitchaye.
Back among the shelter of some big trees, Martin passed his sword to Gonff.
"Good work, mates, but if I know Flitchaye, they won't stay still for long. We've got to get out of here, fast!"
Trimp just had time to spit and blow, ridding herself of the hated ramsons, then she was running, paw in paw with Dinny, Martin leading and Gonff behind her, guarding the rear. Trees and bushes sped by in a green blur as the rescuers hurtled through the woodlands, with the first streaks of evening marking the sky. Breathless and quivering, they paused at a wide shallow stream. Trimp stooped and sucked up mouthfuls gratefully. Gonff struck her on the back, causing her to cough out the water.
"Don't drink now, matey, 'twill slow you up. Martin, listen!"
"Flitchayeeeeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeeeeee!"
The blood-curdling shouts of vermin crying for revenge rang out through the trees. Tapping the back of Martin's head, the little squirrel, who now seemed completely recovered from the evil smoke, spoke for the first time.
"Chugger not wanna get eated, quick, run!"
And run they did. Martin chose the streambed, to make tracking difficult, though it slowed their pace slightly. Pebbles clacked underpaw, water splashed noisily around the runners, and sometimes trailing crowfoot weeds tried to tangle them up. Gonff turned at the sound of rapidly advancing vermin, as the Flitchaye dashed screaming into the waters upstream.
"Flitchayeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeee!"
The Mousethief held a stone ready in his sling. "They've seen us, mates. I'll say this for the rascals: they're good fast runners. Should we make for the bank and head into the woods, Martin?"
Martin pressed on doggedly with Chugger clinging to his back. "No good, mate, they'd track wet pawprints easily. This water's getting deeper and they can only travel the same speed as us in a stream. Keep going!"
Farther downstream the watercourse took a bend, getting deeper. It was now well above waist height and flowing fast. Dinny grunted to Trimp, "Oi doan't loik water, oi'm gurtly afeared of ee wet!"