Outcast of Redwall
Redwall, Book 8
Brian Jacques
V2.0 There were lots of scanning errors; doubtless many remain.
It was a warm old autumn afternoon of russet and gold, a time for legends and stories of seasons long gone. Blue haze on the far horizon blended sea and sky into one. On the pale sands of a silent shore, ebbing waves had carelessly strewn a broken necklace of shells and pebbles along the tideline. Standing tall and mysterious was the mountain, like some huge beast guarding the coast. Salamandastron! Stronghold of Badger Lords and fighting hares. Once, when the earth was young, it had spouted fire and molten rock. But the winds of time had long since banished smoke from the monolith, cooling its stones. Now Salamandastron was home and fortress combined, run through and honeycombed with halls, caverns, corridors, chambers, tunnels, and secret places.
Midway up the west face on a broad rocky ledge tufted with shrubs and wildflowers, a picnic lunch was set, close to the mouth of a tunnel entrance. Half a score of leverets, young hares, attended by a fully grown harewife, sat watching an ancient otter. Stooped and grayed by many seasons, he stood leaning on an ash pole, shaking his grizzled head in disapproval, as old creatures often will when faced with the young. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong for an old-beast.
“Hmph! Wish I was at the Abbey, those young uns at Redwall have proper manners. Instead o layin about gawpin, first thing theyd do would be help a body sit down!
Stifling a smile, the harewife watched die leverets scurrying around the aged otter, doing their best to show respect and concern as they assisted him.
“A seat, ysay, nothing simpler, old chap, er, I mean, sir. “Pop yself down here, sir, grass is nice an soft, wot! “Whoops a daisy! Easy does it, oF sir! “Lean yback on this rock, thats the ticket! “Righto, ancient one, comfy enough now? The venerable beast nodded slowly. “Well enough, thank ye. Now, are you all goin tstand mere watchin a pore creature starve?
There followed a further scuffle as the young hares set food and drink before their guest.
“Enough tuck to kill a duck here, sir! “Summer Salad an a beaker of Old Mountain Ale. “How about fresh-baked carrotnleek flan? “Some scones with gooseberry jelly, very good yknow! “Rather! Give the old chap a hot pastie! When the old otter was served, the harewife beckoned the young ones back to their seats. “Good show, chaps, but mind ymanners or Mr. Rillbrook wont tell you a story.
Beneath fuzzy brows, Rillbrooks old eyes glinted mischievously. He broke open a steaming pastie and said, grumpily, “Story? Just stopped here trest awhile, marm, wasnt intend-in tdo no storytellin.
A fat, cheeky leveret piped up indignantly, “Scoffin a load of our grub an not tellin a story? I say, what a bally swizz!
The harewife cuffed his long ear lightly. “Burrbob! Thats quite enough from you, mladdo. I dont think you deserve a story after such impudence!
Rillbrook took a deep draught of Mountain Ale, smacked his lips, and wiped a paw across his mouth. “Oh, I dunno, marm, a good story often teaches rotters an rogues to be better creatures.
The leverets shouted encouragement eagerly.
“Rather, tell on, old chap!
“Ill say! Anythin tmake us better creatures, wot?
“Do us the world o good, doncha know!
The ancient otter waited until silence fell and they were watching him expectantly, then he began.
“They call me Rillbrook the Wanderer, son of Rillbrook the Wanderer; my grandsire was called Rillbrook the Wanderer....
The cheeky Burrbob could be heard muttering, “I spose his great great auntie was called Rillbrook the Thingummy, we know that, get on with the yarn. Yowch!
This time the harewifes quick paw did not descend so lightly on the impudent leverets ear. She fixed him with a frosty glare and said, “One more word from you, sir, and its bed with no supper!
Burrbob took the hint, becoming the very model of silence.
Rillbrook started from where he had left off.
“I have wandered all the seasons of my life, near and far, sometimes under forgotten skies, along hidden streams, across silent forests. I have seen many things: mountains topped with snow, hot wastelands where creatures would kill for water. I have eaten among strangebeasts, listened to their songs, poems, and stories, words that have brought tears and laughter to these old eyes. I have heard tales so mysterious that they trouble my memory and still return to roam my dreams on lonely nights.
“Listen now, and I will relate to you a mighty saga. It concerns a Badger Lord who once ruled this mountain, and his mortal enemy, a Ferret Warlord. The destiny of these two was entwined with many creatures, but mainly with two young ones who dwelt at the Abbey of Red wall. They were a pair thrown together by chance, for good or evil.
“Each of us is born to follow a star, be it bright and shining or dark and fated. Sometimes the paths of these stars will cross, bringing love or hatred. However, if you look up at the skies on a clear night, out of all the countless lights that twinkle and shine, there will come one. That star will be seen in a blaze, burning a path of light across the roof of the earth, a great comet. Think on these words as my tale unfolds. Mayhap you will learn something valuable, not about stars, but of the value friendship brings.
Book One: A Friendship Made
1?
Skarlath the kestrel fledged later than his brothers and sisters; the autumn was almost over when he left the nest, never to return. This is the way with hawks. They are fierce and independent, free spirits who love to soar high.
So it was with Skarlath, but being young and reckless he flew north and was trapped by winter. Howling gales from the very edges of the world bore him away. The young kestrel was held captive by a whirling mass of snow that swept him over hill, dale, and forest. Shrieking winds drove him along, a bundle of wet feathers in a tight cocoon of damp white flakes that built on to his plumage in small drifts. Helpless, Skarlath was shot like an arrow into a forest. His body smashed against the trunk of an old hornbeam. Relentlessly the storm plunged onward, keening a wild dirge, leaving in its wake the unconscious young kestrel.
Skarlath regained his senses slowly. It was night, still, with not a breeze about the forest. The cold was bitter and intense, and frost glittered and twinkled on snow-laden tree boughs. Somewhere close he could see the glow of a fire, but could not feel its heat. Voices and raucous laughter came from the lighted area, drawing him, but when he tried to move, the young kestrel squawked aloud in pain. His whole body was pinioned by ice; he was frozen tight, spread-eagled to the trunk of the hornbeam.
Swartt Sixclaw sat closest to the fire. He was a young ferret, but obviously the leader of the threescore vermin who made up the band. Tall, vicious, and sinewy, Swartt had made himself Chieftain, because he was quicker and stronger than any who dared challenge him. He was a fearsome sight to friend and foe alike, his face striped with a sloping pattern of purple and green dye, teeth stained glistening red. Round his neck hung the teeth and claws of dead enemies. His left forepaw bore six clawsit rested on the hilt of a long curved sword thrust through a snakeskin belt.
The kestrels agonized cries brought Swartt upright. Kicking a nearby stoat, he snarled, “Trattak, go and see whats makin that noise.
The stoat scuttled obediently off into the snow-laden trees. It did not take him long to find Skarlath. “Over ere, some stupid bird got itself froze to a tree! he called out.
Swartt smiled wickedly at a young badger tied to a log by a halter. It was a creature about the same age as himself, painfully hobbled and muzzled with rawhide strips. On its head was a broad, golden-colored stripe. Drawing his sword, the ferret touched its point to the rare-colored stripe. “Get up, Scumtripe, and give your master a ride over there, he said.