The Wearat leapt up, sweeping everything from the tabletop. Suddenly he was dangerous, angry.
“Play me false, an’ I’ll rip ye apart. A Seer who can’t see is no use to me!”
Shekra fell to the floor, trying to scrabble under the table. She was blabbering, “No, no, sire, spare me. I spoke truly—the omens never lie!” She jumped with fright as the Wearat’s trident thudded into the wooden deck close to her skull.
Razzid was roaring. “Where in the south an’ east will my time of victory be, ye useless worm? Tell me!”
It was a stone which saved the Seer’s life. One of the two grey stones she had cast to the deck. Her paw had brushed against it as she sought refuge beneath the table. Now the grey stone was smeared with blood from the deep scratches Razzid’s claws had gouged into her paw. As the brain wave struck her, Shekra pointed, yelling, “The stone, Lord, the stone by thy footpaw! It has turned red, see? My omens were right—it’s a place of red stones. That’s what ye seek, a place of red stones!”
Mowlag and Jiboree had eavesdropped on all that went on in the captain’s cabin. By morning next day it was the talk of the ship. So much so that when Razzid emerged to pace the deck, he was faced with Mowlag, hauling the greasy weasel cook along by his tattered apron.
He booted the fat weasel down on the deck, smirking at Razzid. “Ahoy, Cap’n, lissen to wot this gutbucket’s got t’say.” He walloped the cook’s rear end with the flat of his cutlass. “Go on. Tell the cap’n wot yore mates ’eard ye sayin’. Speak out now, cooky!”
Under the Wearat’s gimlet glare, the greasy weasel could hardly stop himself talking.
“Er, beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n, but my ole granpa tole me that ’e’d been t’the Red Abbot place, a long time back that was, an’, an’ ’e said ’twas a great bi—”
The words froze on his lips as the lethal trident slammed once more into the deck. Realisation hit the Wearat like a thunderbolt. He dismissed the cook abruptly. “Stop talking rubbish an’ get back to yore galley.” Razzid grabbed Shekra, thrusting her into his cabin. Slamming the door, he hissed in excitement, “Redwall Abbey, I’ve heard o’ that place! That’s it—Redwall Abbey!”
The vixen nodded agreement eagerly. “My omens never lie. Redwall Abbey is where your victory lies, Lord.”
Putting aside his trident, Razzid sat down, wiping his leaky eye as he pondered his position.
Shekra was puzzled. “What is it, sire? Is something amiss?”
The Wearat nodded. “Aye, my oath to be revenged on the wavedogs—what of that?”
The Seer shrugged. “What of it? You are the Wearat, an’ ye can do what ye want, O Great One.”
Razzid shook his head. “But I would lose face in front of my own crew if I turn tail from them.”
Shekra spread her paws pleadingly. “But, sire, the omens have spoken—”
Irately, Razzid cut her short. “I know all about your omens. Sometimes I think they say what you want them to. D’ye think me a fool?”
Knowing she was on dangerous ground, the vixen backed off. “Oh, no, sire. I was just saying . . .”
The look from the Wearat’s piercing eye silenced her. He waved in dismissal. “Tell nobeast of this. Now leave me. I must think about what to do. Go!”
When she had gone, Razzid smiled, a rare sight to see.
9
Two things were really bothering Uggo Wiltud—a headache like nothing he had ever suffered and a sharp object up his nose, which alternately tickled and irritated. He was brought back to consciousness by a shrill voice berating him.
“Wakey up, dozypig! Quick now, afore diss comes outta ya ear!”
Uggo’s eyes flicked open. Instinctively he jerked his head aside, ridding himself of the probing twig. This was held in the paws of a young rat about the same age as himself. The rat had a vicious, feral face. He tried to jab the twig back up Uggo’s nose, but it snapped as it missed the nostril.
Despite the banging pain in his skull, Uggo lurched at his tormentor. Not realising his paws were bound, he tripped, butting the rat full in its mouth.
The young vermin gave a stifled scream, dancing about and clasping two broken front teeth. Uggo struggled to a sitting position against the earthen wall of what he took to be an underground tunnel. There was light coming in from one end, and the sound of the not too distant sea. The rat dabbed a wad of dried grass against its injured mouth, seeing the thin trickle of blood upon it. Glaring murderously at the bound captive, the young vermin pulled an old broken knife from a waist sash.
“See wotja dun ta me, daftpig? Yirji’ll ’ave ta kill ya now!” He advanced on Uggo, who wriggled about madly, kicking out with bound footpaws to keep his foe at bay. Something blocking the light from the entrance caused the rat to look around. It was a lean old fox, clad in flowing rags and carrying a carved beechwood staff to serve as a walking stick. Lashing out with the staff, the fox struck the rat’s paw, knocking the knife from it.
The young rat immediately went into another dance of pain, clutching a numbed paw and screeching. “Worraya do dat for, Snaggs? ’E was tryna kill me!”
The old fox, Snaggs, advanced on him, brandishing the staff in one paw whilst covering an ear with the other. “Iffa ya don’t stop dat screamin’ I’ll kill ya meself. Now, quit ya noise afore it drives me outta me skullbrain.”
The young rat, Yirji, slumped down in sullen silence.
Snaggs turned his attention to Uggo, prodding him with the staff. “Betcha yore ’ead’s ’urtin’, ainnit? Ya must ’ave a t’ick skull. Ole Snaggs ’it ya ’ard enuff t’kill ya. Yerra lucky’edgepig t’still be alive!”
Snaggs tugged on a long rope, which Uggo had not noticed before. Anchored to a stake driven deep in the clay floor, it ran outside the tunnel. The fox called out, “Posybud, bring some water fer the pris’ner ta drink!”
Uggo was surprised to see a very pretty young hedgehog carrying a pail and a scallop shell dipper shuffling toward him. Then he noticed that she was attached to the rope, a captive like himself.
Yirji stood on the rope, stopping her progress. “Gizz summa dat water. Me mouth’s been ’urted!”
Snaggs poked him from the rope with his staff. “I ’opes yer mouth’s been ’urted good. Might stop ya screechin’ an’ wailin’ alla time.” He pointed the staff at his newest captive. “Yew—wot’s ya name?”
Uggo answered promptly. “Uggo Wiltud!”
Snaggs shook his head, chuckling. “Buggo Muggo Wuggo—heehee, der names some o’ these young uns ’as now’days. Posybud, give Uggo a drink, there’s a good liddle maid!”
Sitting alongside Uggo, the young hogmaid dipped the shell into her pail, offering it to him. “Does your head hurt very much, Uggo?”
He tried a wan smile. “Aye, Miss Posybud. Hurts like fury!”
Taking some dried moss from her apron pocket, she soaked it with water. “Lean your head forward, and I’ll bathe it whilst you drink. By the way, you can call me Posy.”
The water was cold and clear; it tasted good. Uggo could feel Posy pressing the wet moss firmly on his head. He relaxed, sighing as she murmured soothingly, “It’s quite a bump you have there, but don’t worry. It’ll go down after a while. How does that feel now?”
Uggo refilled the shell from the pail.
“Ooh, much better, thank ye. I think the headache’s beginning to go. How long have you been with Snaggs?”
She was about to reply when two more young rats and a hulking young ferret came strolling into the tunnel.
Snaggs questioned them. “Anythin’ ’appenin’ out there?”
The ferret sprawled on the floor, chewing on some wild radish he had dug up from somewhere. “Nah, nothin’ much. Saw one o’ those streamdogs goin’ along the riverbank.”