The Bellmaker by Brian Jacques
The rat horde sat in the courtyard, some licking their wounds, others slaking their thirst from the dwindling cellars of the castle. Sounds of furious argument rang out from the banqueting chamber windows high above their heads.
Fillch, one of the rats, looked up from the honey-preserved chestnuts he was sharing with his companion Sourgall. ‘Big dumb badger, eh? That one didn’t need to talk, she slew eight of ours with a tree limb it’d take ten of us to lift!’
Sourgall had remained behind to fish Silvamord from the moat. He looked Fillch up and down slowly. ‘Huh, she didn’t ’urt yew matey, where were yer? Leadin’ from be’ind, I’ll bet.’
‘Aye, an’ so would yew ’ave been, bucko. We nearly ’ad the otter, that’d fought like a madbeast while the others escaped. Then that badger was in the middle of us, swingin’ an ’arf of a tree! Where d’yer expect me t’be, eh? Drigg, Flokky, Big Bragtail an’ five others got in the badger’s way, and they ain’t around t’tell the story no more. You ask Hooktail if y’don’t believe me, ain’t that right mate?’
The rat in question had lost an ear. He was using a poultice of dockleaves bound with earth and water to staunch the wound. ‘Gaah!’ he groaned. ‘It’s all right you sittin’ there makin’ clever remarks, Sourgall, you wasn’t there. Even the Urgan Nagru took to ’is paws an’ limped off-like a flogged toad. I tell yer mate, you wouldn’t ’ave thought it was the same stoopid badger that played nursemaid to the liddle squirrelbrat. That beast came after us with a full tree in ’er paws, even though we filled ’er with arrers like a pincushion!’
A rat named Flangor joined the conversation. ‘Wot d’yew suppose Foxwolf’ll do now, mates?’
The one called Riveneye put aside the cider he had been swilling and snorted, ‘Hah, you should know the Urgan by now, mate. Nagru won’t rest ’til their skulls are bleachin’ in the sun. Ol’ Foxwolf’ll hunt ’em ’til ’e gets every last one in those iron claws. Then we know wot ’e’ll do with ’em, don’t we?’
A shudder ran through every rat within earshot. They had seen what Nagru did to his captured enemies.
Riveneye’s guess was right. Nagru was preparing to hunt the fugitives down. As evening shades drew the hot day to a close, he sat wincing as he flexed his injured limbs. The wolfhide across his back was still littered with whitebeam splinters. Silvamord sat watching him, unmoved by his plight.
The Foxwolf glared at her. ‘What’re you staring at now, frogeyes? Make yourself useful, get me a beaker of wine!’
‘Get it yourself, jellyfish!’ said the vixen, curling her lip in disdain. ‘So, an old badger and a single otter thrashed the living daylights out of you and your killers! Tell me again, how many did they slay?’
Nagru’s eyes blazed pure hatred at her. ‘They never defeated us, they staggered off so full of arrows and covered in wounds that they’re long dead now. If I hadn’t been injured I’d have followed them and skinned their hides off to bring back and show you!’
Silvamord laughed humourlessly. ‘Just like you skinned the wolf that had been frozen dead half a season so that you could take its skin and name? Oh, don’t act surprised, I saw you. I’ll wager your horde wouldn’t be so quick in following you if they knew the truth about the great Urgan Nagru.’
The iron claws of the Foxwolf shot out, pointing at her. ‘One word from you, blabbermouth, and I’ll rip the tongue from your head and make you eat it, that’s a promise!’
‘You don’t scare me,’ sneered Silvamord, pouring wine for herself and sipping daintily. ‘I know you too well. What does bother me is that Queen and her brat – they’re still free. You’d do better to get out there and capture them before they raise the whole of Southsward up in arms against us.’
Nagru walked carefully over to the table. Pouring himself a beaker of wine he brought his face close to the vixen’s. His voice dripped sarcasm. ‘That’s what I fully intend doing, my beautiful and beloved one. Meanwhile, you can sit here, where you are safe and comfortable. Oh, keep an eye on Gael Squirrelking, will you? I presume you weren’t silly enough to have killed him in my absence?’
Silvamord eyed him levelly. ‘Gael is not the problem. I had him tossed into one of his own dungeons – he could be dead or alive, I don’t care. Now, are you going to hang about here until we both grow old, or are you going to do something about Serena and her little Truffen?’
They remained for a moment a hairsbreadth apart, eyes locked. Then, as if on an impulse, Nagru strode off to the window. He stared down at the horderats who were lying slumped on the stone courtyard, still warm from the day’s heat. The Foxwolf brought them scurrying upright as he howled down at them: ‘Sourgall, you and forty others stay behind on guard! Bladenose, Riveneye, get the rest ready for a hunt! Mingol, Vengro, get my Dirgecallers ready!’
The horde kept silent, mentally thanking the fates that they had not been chosen to be in charge of the fearsome Dirgecallers, the Foxwolf’s legendary trackers. Mingol and Vengro were speechless, their mouths dry with fear.
Serena and Truffen rested beneath a willow on the streambank, the infant sitting in his mother’s lap. Their food lay untouched. Together they watched a comet streaking its brilliant tail across the soft dark night. Otter patrols swam, sleek and silent, back and forth on the broad stream, alert for any strange sound in their territory. Greenbeck, a big male, slid smoothly on to the bank beside the squirrels. Dipping a bowl into the steaming pot of hotroot and watershrimp soup, beloved of otters, he offered it with an encouraging smile. ‘C’mon marm, try some, it’s good!’
Serena averted her eyes from the food. ‘No, thank you, friend, I cannot bring myself to eat, not knowing if King Gael is alive or dead.’
‘Good vittles marm, eat an’ the liddle feller will too. You must take care o’ him,’ Greenbeck persisted, nudging the bowl forward. ‘Lookit Iris, she don’t know what’s become o’ Rab, but she eats to keep up ’er strength. Iris won’t give up ’ope, an’ neither should you, if y’ll excuse me sayin’, marm.’
Serena smiled wanly at the loyal otter. Taking the soup, she broke fresh barleybread and dipped it in, saying, ‘Look, Truffen, supper, make you big and strong!’
The little fellow ate, staring up at his mother’s face. ‘Where Papa an’ ’Uta?’
Serena ate to avoid answering the question, but the good food stuck in her throat as tears overflowed on her face. Iris appeared at the Queen’s side, patting her gently.
‘Hush now, don’t let the babe see you upset. It’s hard, I know, though I hope that my Rab and your Muta took lots of those murderers with them. Be like your son, Serena, eat and grow strong. Someday we will return to Castle Floret and avenge our loved ones.’
The Squirrelqueen ate, staring into the nightdark stream. ‘I am not leaving Southsward country. I will stay to stand against Nagru and Silvamord.’
Iris sat beside Serena, a worried look on her kind face. ‘We must leave Southsward now – we are too few, my friend. One day we shall come back in force; at the moment we would sacrifice our lives needlessly against the Foxwolf’s great horde.’
Serena remained adamant. ‘Some help will come to us, I feel it. We must stay and get others in Southsward to support our cause.’
‘My Rab wanted you and Truffen out of this land,’ said Iris, shrugging hopelessly. ‘It has become a place of evil. But if you are determined to stay then the otters will stay also. I will not desert you – we have always been loyal to your family. Though if we stay I fear that only death awaits us.’
Truffen looked up from his soup. ‘Stay an’ make Nag’u dead!’
Iris settled down to rest. ‘Aye, make Nagru dead, little one. Who knows, maybe you an’ your mama are right, perhaps there may be warriors we have yet to meet who can help us do just that. I hope they show up soon, whoever they are.’
Peace fell over the otter camp. Gently lapping water and the still-warm night had cast its spell over the weary fugitives. Serena and Iris lay side by side with Truffen between them, all thr
6
BOTH MARIEL AND the rat Captain Bragglin were in a perilous position. Dandin and his friends stood ready to give up their lives protecting the little moles, whilst the rat patrol crouched, willing to pounce at their captain’s word. Mid-noon heat caused both parties much discomfort; their paws shifted dangerously in the loose sand.
‘If anything happens to me make the moles die slowly!’ Bragglin called out to his rats.
Mariel kept up her deadly bluff, cutting off further words as she pressed the dagger meaningfully at his throat. ‘Won’t do your Captain much good, he’ll be wormbait, and we’ll take at least half of you with us if you touch those little moles, be warned!’ The mousemaid could feel the hot sand shifting under her footpaws and she moved to gain a firmer position.
At that instant Bragglin made his move. He wriggled away from the knife, kicking at Mariel and giving a swift nod to Grinj. The rat had been standing over Mariel, his bowpaw slackened slightly from the long standoff, but he took the hint immediately and stretched the bowstring taut to fire the arrow.
Zzzzz. Clunk!
Grinj fell pole-axed by a smooth round rock with a hole through its centre. It was attached to a thin, toughened line. Grinj’s arrow buried itself in the sand alongside the mousemaid’s eye as a deep drawling voice called from the hilltop behind her.
‘Paws still in the blinkin’ ranks thah! If any of you longtails have half a bally brain I’ll drop you before you can use it! You showah listenin’? That’s not just a bloomin’ order, it’s a fact!’
Mariel watched in amazement as the stone was reeled swiftly in by a hare carrying a long, whippy fishing rod. He caught the stone skillfully as it swung back to him, his hooded eyes never once leaving the scene below. Holding the slack of the line in check, he whipped the slender rod back and forth, and the air hummed to its vibrations. Suddenly Bragglin’s paw grasped that of Mariel as he tried to wrest the dagger from her.
Zzzzzzz. Thonk!
With a swift, vicious flick the hare cast the stone deftly. The breath caught in Mariel’s throat. Bragglin lay slain, the flying rock squarely between his eyes.
‘You chaps never learn do yeh, didn’t believe me, eh? Right, who’s next?’
The rats dropped their weapons as they gaped up at the curious hare. Young Bowly Pintips’ mouth hung wide; he had never witnessed such a splendid looking beast.
The hare was old and overweight, but obviously every inch a veteran warrior; his regalia proclaimed it proudly for all to see. On his head he wore a tricorn hat, with holes cut to allow his ears to pop out. It was surmounted by the most elaborate white drooping plume. Though his cheeks were pouched and baggy, the eyes that shone above them were hooded and sharp. His whiskers had been waxed and curled into a perfect handlebar moustache. He wore a faded but gaudy pink mess jacket, decorated with arrays of medallions and ribbons. He had epauletted shoulders and a front twinkling with polished silver buttons. Stowing the rod away like an elongated pace stick, he gave a cough and a nod. Four young leveret hares in quaint green uniforms nipped smartly out of the surrounding grass and saluted him. He acknowledged them with a wave of one ear.
‘Righto, quick as y’like now squad, pick up all weapons an’ lay those rats face down where they’re no bother to anybeast . . .’
One of the leverets sprang forward but skidded to a halt at a fierce glare from his superior.
‘What’ve I told you, laddie buck, wait for it, wait for it. Right, go to it, squad . . . Move!’
The young hares scurried about gathering up all weapons. One was about to relieve Dandin of his spear when he caught the stern eye of his elder.
‘Tch, tch! Can’t y’tell the good chaps from the rotters, Runtwold? Leave that mouse’s weapon alone, sah!’
Pulling off his hat, he strode ponderously down the hill. Making a leg in front of Mariel, he bowed with a totally overdone flourish. ‘Field Marshal Meldrum Fallowthorn at y’service, Marm. Though me reputation oft precedes me, no doubt you’ve heard m’name bandied about hither and yon, wot?’
Mariel could only shake her head.
‘What’s this, there’s a thing!’ said the hare, raising his eyebrows. ‘Never heard of old Meldrum the Magnificent, astoundin’! Never mind m’dear, you will!’
Introductions were in order all around. The moles thanked their rescuers profusely, the old one tugging his snout respectfully to the warriors who had saved them.
‘Burrhurr, thankee koindly guddbeasts, oi be Furpp Straightfurrer, an’ these yurr h’infants be moi daughter’s lot – Burdill, Grumbee an’ Porgoo, Straightfurrers all. Bid ee gennelbeasts good day, moles.’
The three little ones tugged thier snouts politely. ‘Good arternoon zurrs, foin day Marm!’
Meldrum turned his attention to the rats lying with their noses pressed into the sand. ‘Now then y’blaggards, up on those paws smartlike. One, two, hup!’
The rats did as they were bidden with alacrity. Meldrum prodded one in the stomach with his rod butt. ‘Now listen hard y’great stinker, I’m promotin’ you pro tem offisah of this mob. See that hill yonder; well, if you ain’t all over it an’ gone in two flicks of me eye, I’ll make rat pudden with the lot of yah, understand?’
The rat nodded, knowing his life depended on it.
Meldrum signalled to his leveret squad and Mariel’s group. ‘Weapons at the ready, shoot at will if they don’t move quick enough, aim for between the shoulder-blades. Righto, attention vermin, on my command of run, you’ll flippin’ well run for y’lives. Got it? Good, ready . . . Run!’
Sand scattered in all directions as the terrified rats fled, stumbling helter-skelter over the hill. In an amazingly short time they were gone from sight. Field Marshal Meldrum Fallowthorn sniffed disdainfully. ‘Rats! Nevah could abide the rotters, nasty, sly, an’ not a scrap of guts or discipline in any of ’em!’
Bowly stood goggling at the array of decorations jingling and rattling on the Field Marshal’s tunic. ‘Gwaw! A real live warrior, wot d’yew get all those medals for, Sir?’
Meldrum’s chest swelled, and he gave Bowly a swift wink. ‘Battles, young hog m’lad, that’s what a chap earns these gongs for. This’n was the Eastern Campaign, an’ the big star here I got for subduin’ a stoat uprisin’, hah, made those blighters jump I can tell yeh! See these coloured bars, earned ’em for wallopin’ weasels up north. This here special silver shield was for biffin’ the daylights out of a snake, most arrogant adder I ever met, a real boundah! Now, about this golden crescent with a ferret straddlin’ it . . .’
The young leveret Runtwold whispered to Mariel and Dandin. ‘Good ol’ Uncle Mel, we’re his nephews, y’know. He makes all those medals an’ awards ’em to himself, but only when he thoroughly earns ’em. The old fellah’s a top-hole warrior an’ a real toff!’
Furpp gestured in the direction of a hill to the west. ‘Burr, c’n oi offer ee guddbeasts summ afreshment, b’aint much, tho’ you’m be welcumm t’moi dwellin’ t’share et.’
Meldrum donned his hat and, pulling his ears through the holes, he signalled his squad into line. ‘Refreshments! I say, that’s rather civil of you, old molechap. Bib’n’tucker’s me favourite exercise. Lead on!’
Furpp’s dwelling was actually a hill, hollowed out and shored up with rock and timber, dark and cool after the hot noon sun. An entire mole colony lived there. Furpp was obviously the tribal patriarch. He gave them drinking bowls, brimming with a cold cordial of pennycloud and wild barley sweetened with honey. The leveret squad – Runtwold, Coltvine, Thurdale and Foghill – drank deeply, shuffling with anticipation as they watched wood platters being piled high with cold sliced deeper’n’ever pie, garnished with hogwee
‘Hmm, two rats slain an’ about sixteen vanquished, lemme see. I think maybe two small silver rats, rampant over a black ribbon with sixteen yellow stripes should fill the bill. Foghill, pour some of that cordial for my chum Bowly.’
The young hare saluted casually. ‘Right ho, Uncle Mel!’
The Field Marshal’s ears shot up stiffly. ‘Improper form, sah, you’re on a fizzer, young Foghill! I charge you with addressin’ a superior offisah as uncle. Penalty, polish all me medals before y’bunk down tonight! You know the regulations, laddie buck, I’m either Sir, or Field Marshal, or Meldrum the Magnificent. Next one I catch callin’ me Uncle Mel or Nunky, I’ll have his ears for breakfast an’ his tail for tea, that clear, squad? Good, as y’were, carry on victuallin’ up!’
There were so many moles introduced to the visitors that they soon gave up trying to remember names. The dwelling was very homely and every comfort was lavished upon them. Furpp invited the rescuers to stay for the night and they gladly accepted, though later Mariel slightly regretted her decision. Every nook and cranny of the dwelling, throughout its various side chambers and alcoves, was packed with multitudes of sleeping moles. They snored and snuffled, sleepwalked, and some of them even argued or sang in their slumbers. The dwelling became oppressively close. Mariel and Dandin, stepping carefully over the sleepers, made their way outside to sleep in the fresh air.
They strolled around the hill, noticing how the dwelling entrance was carefully concealed between a large rock and some thick bush. The gentle breezes constantly shifted the dry sand and smoothed over any traces of pawprints leading to Furpp’s home. They came upon Furpp and Meldrum lounging outside, they too having deserted the packed chambers for the soft starred outdoors. The four sat down in the warm sand, discussing the day’s events in low tones. Meldrum had already been appraised of the situation by Furpp and he was not happy.