Dorka went to the alcove by the hall’s west wall. She halted in front of the legendary tapestry depicting the Redwall hero. Soft candlelight and ruby-tinted lanterns illuminated the noble figure of Martin the Warrior. Fully armoured and leaning on his great sword, he stood at the centre of the depiction as embroidered vermin foebeasts fled from all about him. In the lantern light, his eyes seemed to twinkle as he faced out into the Abbey. To one side, held by two iron brackets, the sword itself hung beside the tapestry. Thibb and Fottlink stood back in the shadows, curious to see what would happen next.
Dorka reached up, taking the sword from its mounts. She laid the weapon flat on the worn stone floor and spun it. Fottlink already had his writing equipment out, recording her every move. The mighty blade was still spinning as Dorka spoke in a clear, unhurried tone.
“Look to the blade, my point ye must take,
to whence winds will bring evil in their wake,
for goodbeasts arriving, I bid ye wait,
they bring aid on the day thy need is great.
Two warriors that day will answer the call.
The most unlikely creatures of all!”
When the sword ceased spinning, Dorka curled calmly up at the base of the tapestry, sound asleep.
Abbot Thibb shook his head in amazement. “Well, my friend, what did you make of that?”
Scribbling away earnestly, Fottlink replied, “Hush . . . wait. The most unlikely creatures of all. Good, I got it all, every word!” The scribe pointed dramatically with his charcoal stick. “See, the sword lies still now. Which way is the tip pointing finally?”
Thibb answered quietly. “North. No doubt that’s the direction the Wearat’s ship will come from.”
Gently they both helped Dorka Gurdy upright. She blinked owlishly at them.
“I came from the Gatehouse to ask Martin to bring Jum and Uggo safe back to Redwall.”
The Father Abbot patted her reassuringly. “Of course you did, marm. Now you must go back to your Gatehouse. I wager your bed’s more comfortable than a stone floor. Come on, friend, you need a proper rest.”
Dorka reached down, taking the sword and replacing it on the iron mounts, remarking, “Martin’s sword belongs up there. I wonder who took it down and put it on the floor. That wasn’t very nice, now, was it?”
Fottlink the Recorder and Abbot Thibb escorted Dorka Gurdy back through the first summer night to her Gatehouse. As they made their way back to the Abbey, a mole called from the west walltop to them.
“Hurr, all peaceable oop yurr, zurrs. Goo’ noight to ee!”
18
Dawn had already released summer’s first fine day over the North Coast. Captain Rake Nightfur woke in the cleverly constructed pigmy shrew dome to find Colour Sergeant Miggory placing a welcome beaker of dandelion and comfrey tea before him.
The gnarled veteran hare saluted smartly. “Mornin’, sah, an’ a good sunny one ’tis. H’I brewed a drink—thought ye might like a sup.”
Rake glimpsed sunlight beaming through the entrance. Blowing on the steaming drink, he chanced a sip, noting that their captive stoat, Crumdun, was attached to Miggory by a line.
“Mah thanks tae ye, Sergeant. What are ye doin’ wi’ that wee fat vermin? Ah thought the otters had taken him for questioning.”
Miggory drew Crumdun closer to him. “So they ’ad, sah, but rememberin’ that this un was h’our captive, h’an not theirs, I took charge of ’im. Just as well I did, sah. Those two h’otters, Garrent an’ Bartuk, couldn’t get h’anythin’ from’im, so they was h’about to slay ’im. They objected, so h’I’ad to give ’em both h’a liddle boxin’ lesson, sah. . . . H’I won!”
Rake rose and finished his drink. “Ye did right, Sarn’t. We cannae have otherbeasts slayin’ our prisoners. Och, weel, we’d best get ready tae march. We’re seein’ the Great Axehound hissel’ taeday, Ah’m thinkin’.”
Corporal Welkin, who had just come in from guard duty, interrupted. “Beg pardon, sah, but we’ve no need to march any flippin’ further, wot. Skor Axehound has been sighted comin’ this way with a crew of his warriors. We should be meetin’ them anon.”
Rake turned to see Skor’s son Ruggan approaching. The sea otter was scowling wrathfully. He was accompanied by Garrent and Bartuk, each of whom were missing a few teeth. Ruggan halted in front of the Long Patrol captain, bellowing in his face, “What right has your sergeant to take that vermin scum away from my warriors? They say he beat them up to do it. Let me tell you, Captain. Nobeast strikes any of my crew and gets away with it. I demand satisfaction, d’ye hear!”
Rake did not seem at all put out as he replied, “Hauld yer wheesht, laddie, an’ let’s get a few things straight. For a start, the vermin was our captive an’ not yours. Mah sergeant stopped those two bonnie buckoes frae killin’ the wee stoatie. So they fell intae disputin’ his right, an’ Miggory disputed back an’ taught ’em a lesson. Nae real harm done, Ah think. As tae satisfaction, mah friend, ye’d have tae face mah sergeant unarmed. Ah think ye’d come out on the losin’ side against him.”
Ruggan immediately shed his weapons and shield; he was quivering with temper. “We’ll see, shall we? Defend yourself, Sergeant!”
Instantly he swung a fierce kick at Miggory, who casually sidestepped it as he conversed with Rake. “Beg pardon, sah, but h’I don’t like strikin’ ’igh-rankin’ h’otters. This young buck’s h’a chieftain’s son.”
Enraged by the fact that he was being ignored whilst attacking his opponent, Ruggan threw a volley of blows at Miggory’s face. The sergeant evaded every one with slight flicks of his head, coaching Ruggan as though he was a novice. “Keep yore left up, sah. Clench those paws only when ye strike—h’otherwise, ye’ll soon be tired h’out.”
Ruggan’s eyes were red with temper. He swung, kicked, scratched, punched, butted, but all to no avail. Miggory seemed to sway and float, ducking and dancing with eyeblurring speed whilst continuing his instructions to the infuriated otter.
“Ye shape up better’n most, young sah, but don’t leave yore chin h’open like that. ’Tain’t proper form, y’see!”
Now Ruggan was puffing and panting. His paws had begun sagging when a gruff voice nearby addressed Rake.
“He’s my son, but a courageous fool. The lesson will do him good.”
Skor Axehound had arrived whilst the contest was on.
Rake Nightfur called out to all the hares present. “Attenshun, High Chieftain present!”
Members of the Long Patrol, who had been watching the spectacle, came swiftly to attention, including Sergeant Miggory, who took a sudden punch on the chin from Ruggan.
The veteran hare smiled crookedly, waggling his jaw from side to side. “Good shot, young sah, but ye should’ve hit my bread basket to double me h’over first, like this.”
Miggory’s right whacked into the otter’s midriff. Ruggan doubled up, going down on all fours as he fought for breath.
The sergeant lifted him upright, massaging his back. “You alright, sah? H’I tried not to ’it ye too ’ard.”
Skor Axehound was all that a sea otter Chieftain should be. Garbed in a chain-mail vest, with a cloak of vermin hide down to his footpaws, he had a long shield tied by a thong to his shoulder. In one paw he carried a huge double-headed battleaxe, which any normal beast would have trouble lifting. Above his grey-streaked beard, which bushed out over a barrel-like chest, Skor’s eyeteeth stuck out like fangs. He had two of the brightest barbaric green eyes.
Captain Rake Nightfur felt himself enveloped in the massive sea otter’s embrace. Skor laughed boomingly. “Ho ho! Still the same old longears, eh? Slim as a rake an’ dark as thunder. How are ye, my friend? Ye look as if ye haven’t aged a day since we last met long ago!”