Skalrag the fox watched as Badrang tore at a roasted sea bird and drank deeply of the good damson wine that Clogg had brought him.
When the Tyrant stoat had eaten and drunk his fill he wiped his mouth daintily on a dockleaf and nodded at Skalrag.
“Make your report.”
The fox swallowed visibly then spoke, moving from paw to paw as he did so. Badrang had that effect on most creatures. His swift mood changes were a byword among the horde.
“Lord, there are no signs of Clogg and his ship. The sentries are keeping a sharp eye out day and night. The prisoners in the hole have some sort of sickness, Lord. It may be fever. Bluehide and Lumpback are taking stock of the armory. Everything else is quiet and in order. There is nothing more to report.”
Badrang poured himself a little more wine. “Fever, eh? That young mouse, Brome, he must’ve brought it in with him. Pity, I was going to have some fun with those three, make an example of ’em. Still, fever is a good enough lesson to the slaves. Throw the wrongdoers in the pit where they’ll catch the fever. What a clever idea, slaves getting fever from slaves. They can’t blame us for that, eh, Skalrag? Hahahaha!”
The fox laughed nervously along with his master. Badrang suddenly stopped laughing, leaving the other to carry on. Skalrag’s thin giggle trailed away as the Tyrant’s eyes hardened.
“I’ve just had another clever idea, Skalrag. If my fortress isn’t finished by the end of summer, I might just throw a few of my Captains in the fever pit to rot. That’d liven their ideas up. What do you say?”
Skalrag could feel his paws beginning to shake uncontrollably. “A spl-splendid idea, Lord!”
* * *
Rose waited until the wallguard changed. There was a considerable interval when nobeast was on the walltop, and she took advantage of this to sneak up to the fortress. Standing facing the centre of the gate, she measured out twenty paces to the south. Marking the wall with a piece of charcoal, she dodged back to the cover of the rocks. Grumm was waiting for her. He nodded over to the X marked on the stones of the fortress wall.
“Be that et, Miz Roser?”
She nodded, watching him sizing the area up. Rose trusted Grumm to do the job swiftly and silently. In all the country there was no stronger digger than her friend.
The mole scratched the tip of his button nose. “Yurr, tain’t easy, but tain’t ’ard noither, miz. You’m see they rock o’er thurr?”
It was another rocky outcrop, similar to the one they were hiding behind. Rose let Grumm explain his plan.
“That thurr rock be on straightline wi’ thoi marker. Oi’ll start diggen frum thurr. Thatwise they vurmin guarders on wall woant see us’ns, an’ you’m kin spread tunnel durt behoind ’ee rock.”
The plan was perfect. It was but the work of a moment to slip from one rock to the other. Grumm took one last look at the mark on the wall, muttering calculations to himself as he squinted at it. Then he held both his heavy digging paws to the earth and recited his good-fortune charm.
“Luck to oi an’ every mole,
As ever went to dig an ’ole.
Tunnel gudd for all oi’m wurth.
Mole be best when diggen urth.”
Rose was amazed at his speed and strength. Grumm went straight down in a shower of pebbles and sand, widening as he went. The mousemaid sat and waited. Digging a flat oatcake from their pack, she munched it and sipped cold mint tea from a canteen.
Soon Grumm called out to her, “Do’ee jump daown yurr, mizzy. Urry naow!”
Without a backward glance, she leaped into the hole. Grumm caught her easily and set her steady. She looked up as he rumbled, “Bo urr, that be ’zactly two mousey lengths.”
He was right, it was exactly the height of two mice.
“Yurr, stan’ on moi ’ead an’ climb owt naow, Roser. No sense in you’m agettin’ all durty. Wot udd yore mama an’ dad say if’n oi brought you’m back all mucked up. Hoo urr!”
The mousemaid hopped out, assisted by Grumm, and began strewing the rubble from the hole around as he dug steps in the side of it.
Blowing sand from his snout, Grumm eyed his work. “Nawthin’ fancy, but ’ee’ll do, hurr aye.”
He went straight to tunnelling through the bottom side of the hole in a direct line, faster than any two moles in the whole of Noonvale.
* * *
Skalrag stood at the rear of Badrang’s longhut, trying hard to stop his paws shaking after the interview with the Tyrant. A bankvole was idly pulling up weeds that grew against the side of the building. The fox watched him for a while before calling to him.
“Druwp, over here!”
The bankvole pretended not to hear but worked his way along until he was close to Skalrag. The fox looked this way and that, making sure he was unobserved as he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, what’s happening in the compound, matey?”
“I’m not your matey or anybeast’s,” Druwp answered without looking up. “There’s lots happening in the compound but it’ll cost you food and wine to find out.”
Skalrag looked at his paws. They had steadied somewhat. “I know that. You’ll find a roast fish and some wine here tonight, just under the corner there, where it usually is. Now tell me what’s happening.”
Druwp’s voice was low-keyed and surly. “I’m taking a chance doing this. If they ever found out they’d kill me for sure. So I’d like a proper whole roast fish, none of your table scraps, and some of the dark damson wine the corsairs brought when they paid a visit.”
Skalrag’s eyes widened. “How d’you know they brought damson wine?”
Druwp sniffed. “You’d be surprised at what I know. Well, do I get proper food?”
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” Skalrag chewed impatiently at a hangclaw.
“Right, listen close now. There’s three ringleaders, Hillgorse the old hedgehog, Barkjon the squirrel and that young otter called Keyla. These three are urging all the slaves to steal fish, crops and also tools from the quarry, sharp stones, anything they can make into weapons. There’s a plan of some sort to free Martin, Felldoh and another mouse from the prison pit. Keyla has been doing something when he takes the food to the prisoners each night.”
Skalrag urged his informer on. “What’s the plan? What is Keyla doing? Why do they need weapons?”
Still keeping his eyes down, Druwp shrugged. “I don’t know how they plan to get them out of the pit and I’m not sure what Keyla’s up to. But the general talk is that when they’re free they’ll be able to help from outside. Meanwhile the others are collecting weapons against the day when they get a chance to strike back at Badrang and all of you. That’s all I know. I’ve got to go now.”
Skalrag placed a footpaw swiftly on Druwp’s neck, holding him still a moment. “You’ve done well, Druwp. I’ll make sure the fish and wine are the best. But find out more. I need to know more. When will I see you again, my friend?”
The bankvole struggled loose of Skalrag’s paw and hurried off.
“I’m not your friend. I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
In the gloom of the prison hole young Brome was getting very depressed after the initial euphoria of contact with the outside had faded. He began to speculate miserably.
“Suppose they get caught outside the fortress, where will we be then?”
Felldoh tried reasoning with him. “Don’t be silly, Brome. Your sister and that mole aren’t daft, they know what they’re doing.”
The youngster was silent awhile, then he started again. “They might have the directions wrong. Suppose Grumm tunnels the wrong way. He could have missed this place by a few lengths. Just think of it, poor old Grumm, digging and digging and getting nowhere while we sit down here twiddling our paws.”
Martin gave Brome a light thump on the back. “Here now, what’s all this gloom an’ doom for, young feller? You’ve already told us that Grumm is the champion digger in all the country. Well, let me tell you, moles are amongst the most sensible beasts over or under land. If your friend Grumm is a champion digger, why, I’d trust him with my life anyday. So would you, eh, Felldoh!”
Before the squirrel had a chance to answer, a spearblade clanged on the grating above. The three friends looked up. They could not see clearly but Skalrag’s voice was unmistakable.
“They say you’ve all got the fever down there. How d’you feel? Sick, dizzy, sweating? Not very nice, is it?”
Felldoh laughed scornfully. “It doesn’t hurt as much as the rock that I hit you with, mangenose!”
Skalrag banged the grating with his spear angrily. “I’ve half a mind to come down there and run you through with my spear . . .”
“But you won’t, will you, because you’re terrified of catching fever,” Felldoh’s answer came back mockingly.
Skalrag thwacked his spear on the grating a few more times. “You’re right, squirrel, I won’t come down. But then nothing else will, and that means food or water. Hah! We don’t feed useless mouths around here, nor do we play nursemaid to sick beasts. So you can all stay down there until you die and rot!”
The fox swaggered off, proud that he had won the argument.
Martin felt a tear from Brome’s cheek as it damped his paw. He threw an arm about the youngster. “I don’t know about rotting, but pretty soon he’ll get a rotten surprise when he finds we’re gone from here. Imagine the fox’s face!”
Brome managed a sniff and a smile. “Haha, yes, and we’ll be safe in Noonvale.”
Martin began kicking the side of the pit wall. Felldoh caught on and joined him. Their footpaws thudded away at the packed earth wall.
Brome squinted at them in the darkness. “What are you doing?”
“Giving your mole friend a little help and guidance. He’s probably very sensitive to underground noises. Take no notice of us, Brome. Tell us about Noonvale. Where do you live? What sort of a place is it? Are the creatures nice and is the food good? Go on!”
As they listened Martin noticed that Brome’s heavy mood of sadness disappeared when he talked of his home.
“Er, let me see, what sort of place is Noonvale? Well, it’s a deep glade far in the forests, a secret place, you might say. At dawn the sunlight comes filtering like golden dust through the oaks and sycamores and elms. It is quiet; you can almost hear the sounds of peace. Light blue smoke drifts up from the cookhouse fires, mingling with the green leaves above. Soft mosses and dark green grass carpet its slopes, and there are flowers—columbines, foxgloves, bluebells, wood anemones and ground ivy. Ferns grow there too. Sometimes I would lie among them at dawn, catching dewdrops on my tongue . . .”
Felldoh blinked back a tear, surprised by the young one’s eloquence. “Sounds like my kind of place, Brome. What about the creatures there?”
“Hmm, the creatures. Well, there’s my sister Rose and me, our father is Urran Voh, Chieftain of Noonvale, and our mama’s name is Aryah. We live with other creatures who have found Noonvale—moles, squirrels, hedgehogs, even some otters. My father rules the vale. He is always very kind, but sometimes he can be stern to naughty ones. You would like my mama, though. She is the best cook anywhere.”
Martin almost forgot his aching paws as he thumped away at the wall. “Does she cook anything nice?”
“She cooks everything nice,” Brome sighed longingly. “Mushroom and chestnut stew, wild onion and leek soup, spring vegetable pasties, nutbread, oatfarl, wheat-cob, all piping hot from the ovens. She bakes blackberry and apple tarts, plum maple pudding, elderberry pie with yellow summercream, gooseberry preserve scones, hot with buttercup spread—”
Felldoh massaged his shrunken stomach as he wailed aloud. “Stop, stop! I can’t stand it. All that beautiful food!”
“Mushroom and chestnut stew, plum maple pudding, oh my aching teeth!” Martin wiped a paw across his dripping mouth.
Brome gave a loud chuckle as he mischievously continued tormenting his hungry friends. “My father helps the moles and the hedgehogs. They brew all our drinks—dandelion ale, strawberry cordial, chestnut brown beer—”
“Owoooh! Chestnut brown beer. Stop, you little fiend, stop!”
Martin and Felldoh beat their footpaws harder against the wall.
* * *
Grumm backed out of the hole, pushing a mound of earth before him. Rose cleared it away, helping the mole out into the late afternoon sun.
“You seem to be making good progress, Grumm.”
Rattling his digging claws against the rock to clean off the loose sandy soil, the mole blinked his eyes against the sunlight.
“That oi be, miz, hurr aye. Oi be a-goin’ the roight way too, bo urr. They beasts be a-bangen loik two drummers at a winter fayre, guidin oi straight to ’em. Hurr hurr, et woant be long naow, Roser. Afore midnoight, oi’d reckern.”
Rose wriggled excitedly. “Midnight! Wonderful. It should be fairly easy to get clear of Marshank under cover of darkness. Oh, Grumm, you’re a dear!”
The mole made his way back to the tunnel, murmuring to cover his embarrassment, “Oi bain’t no deer, oi be a mole, an’ doant ’ee fergit it, mizzy!”