Rose-blushed skies and scattered creamy cloudbanks softened the western horizon with early evening. Twoscore seasoned otters, armed with slings and light javelins, dogtrotted tirelessly on, their footpaws thrumming over the flatlands. Grim-faced and silent, Skipper and Boorab led the column. The otter Chieftain took a bearing from the low-slung sun.
“Chin up, bucko. We’ll make it t’the Abbey by nightfall!”
The hare’s breathing was ragged. He had not slept since he left Redwall, but stubbornly he fought the weariness that threatened to overwhelm him.
Skipper could not help but notice his plight. “You drop out an’ take a blow, mate, carry on when yore rested.”
Boorab picked up his pace, snorting defiantly, “Never, sah! Officer never lies down an’ naps on a mission, wot. We’ll enter the blinkin’ Abbey together, side by jolly side!”
Skipper’s eyes were never still when he and his crew were on the move. He was constantly reading the land ahead and to both sides. The otter’s roving gaze fixed on a bright glinting object, ahead and slightly south. At first he took it for a flame, but as he drew closer he recognized it as a metal object reflecting the reddening sunrays. He veered a point, taking his contingent in its direction.
“Over there, mates. Keep yore javelins ready. At the double!”
Boorab dropped behind slightly, then found himself in the center of the crew, supported by two burly females who rushed him along.
“Let yore footpaws go loose, matey. We’ll do the runnin’!”
Skipper was first at the scene, and his keen eyes took it all in at a glance. Death had visited the flatlands.
The weasel Eefera lay slain, mouth lolling open, sightless eyes staring at the sky. Tagg sat slumped nearby, a broken arrow protruding from his chest. His head was bowed, but he still held on to the sword of Martin the Warrior, the blade pointing over his shoulder, resting against his cheek.
Boorab joined Skipper, and surveyed the tableau gravely. “By thunder, sah, now that’s what I call a Warrior, wot!”
Skipper reconstructed what had taken place from the tracks and bloodstains round about. “The weasel ain’t carryin’ bow’n’arrows. This big feller, the tattooed otter, that broken shaft’s been in him awhile. See, the weasel’s wounds are much fresher.” He called to one of his crew who was tracking further forward. “Which way did they come?”
The otter jerked a paw over his shoulder. “Back thataway, Skip, prob’ly from the Redwall direction!”
Skipper picked up the broken halves of Eefera’s spear. “Hmm. The way I sees it is that the otter chased this weasel clear from the Abbey. That’s a big strong weasel, but he couldn’t outrun the otter, even though our friend ’ere ’ad taken an arrow right in his chest. This otter chased the weasel almost a league, aye, an’ caught the vermin too. I don’t know ’ow he did it, but a terrible fight took place ’ere. That otter slew the weasel, then sat ’imself down an’ held the sword up. ’Tis an ole trick: the sun shines off’n the blade, like a signal to let yore mates know where y’are. But nobeast came, so the otter died there, sittin’ up holdin’ Martin’s sword, alongside his dead enemy. But ’ow did he come to be carryin’ the great sword o’ Redwall?” Skipper knelt and tried to prize the weapon loose from Tagg’s grasp. “Like y’say, Boorab, ’ere’s wot y’call a Warrior. I can’t budge the blade from his paws, an’ I ain’t no weaklin’ . . . by the roarin’ river, this bucko’s still alive!”
Tagg lifted his head a fraction, one eye flickering half open. “Juska . . . leave me ’lone . . . now.” Then he slumped over, still gripping the sword.
Boorab called out, “You chaps, take off y’belts. Use ’em with those javelins to make a stretcher. He’s comin’ back to the Abbey with us. Look sharp there, jump to it now, no time t’waste, wot!”
Skipper stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Juska, eh? I’ve seen Juskas afore. They go in clans, tattooed murderin’ thieves. But Juskabeasts are all vermin: rats, stoats an’ the like. ’Ow did an otter come t’be mixed up with ’em? See, ’is face is all tattooed up, even more’n an ordinary Juska.”
The hare had got his second wind and was feeling impatient. “Won’t matter if the chap’s tattooed from rock to rudder, looks like he’s goin’ to peg out soon if we don’t get him help. Besides, who knows what’s goin’ on back at the Abbey, wot? They could be besieged, battered an’ waitin’ on us to arrive!”
With a renewed sense of urgency they set off again. Borne between eight stout ottercrew, Tagg lay on the stretcher clasping the sword, mercifully unconscious as they traveled at the double.
*
Nimbalo made his way back along the ditchbed in the failing light, using his battle-axe as a walking staff. He went into a fighting crouch at the sound of a gruff voice.
Brandishing the axe, he answered in equally gruff tones, “Nimbalo the Slayer, so stan’ aside, whoever ye be!”
Drogg Cellarhog held out a paw to help him from the ditch. “Yore the ’arvest mouse who went after that rat. C’mon up, friend. Did ye have any luck?”
Nimbalo scrambled up onto the flatlands, where a party of Redwallers were waiting. He winked knowingly at them. “Oh, I ’ad all the luck in the land, ’twas the rat who ran outta luck. She won’t be slayin’ anymore, y’can bet on that, mates!”
Egburt held up a lantern he had just lit. “Nimbalo, have you seen anything of your otter friend? He ran out here somewhere, chasing a weasel. We’ve got to find him because he took the sword of Martin the Warrior with him.”
Nimbalo leaned nonchalantly on his battle-axe. “Don’t worry, matey, if’n Tagg’s out ’ere, then he’ll find us.”
A cry rang out of the darkness. “Ahoy the lantern there! Egburt, is that you, laddie buck?” Skipper and Boorab loomed up out of the darkness, with the otter crew at their back. The hare shook Drogg’s paw.
“Well met, old chap, as y’can see I made it. What’s the situation back at Redwall? Any problems back home, wot?”
The Cellarhog’s spikes rattled as he shook his head, bright tears glistening in his eyes. “This mouse ’ere, Nimbalo, ’twas him an’ the otter called Taggerung, they drove the vermin off, but not afore one o’ the scum shot Cregga Badgermum with an arrow. She’s hit real bad! I don’t suppose ye came across the otter? He was carryin’ the sword of Martin. We’re out searchin’ for him.”
The ottercrew parted ranks, allowing the stretcher bearers to carry Tagg into the lantern light. Skipper patted his paw. “We found yore otter, lyin’ by a slain weasel; there’s an arrow in his chest too. But he’s still breathin’ an’ the sword’s safe. Though he’s got some sort o’ death grip on it.”
Nimbalo ran to Tagg’s side, suddenly feeling frightened and lonely. “Tagg, mate, it’s me, Nimbalo. Say somethin’, Tagg. ’Tis me, Nimbalo the Slayer, yore ole matey!”
Tagg did nothing. Nimbalo collapsed, grief-stricken, against him.
Boorab detailed two more otters. “Put your shoulders to that stretcher. We can’t let this brave beast die. Get Nimbalo up there with him. He can keep his pal company on the way back to the Abbey.”
*
Redwall’s main gates were still open. Filorn stood out on the path with old Hoarg, holding a lantern each. Noting the ottermum’s drawn, anxious face, Hoarg murmured, “Go an’ sit in my gate’ouse, marm. Put your paws up an’ have a nice ’ot beaker o’ motherwort tea. You’ll do no good standin’ out ’ere. I’ll give ye news, soon as I see them returnin’.”
Filorn shook her head, smiling at the kindly dormouse. “No, I must wait here, but you go in, Hoarg. It’s been a long weary day for you. Please, go in. I’ll be fine right here.”
Hoarg tugged his grizzled whiskers courteously. “If yore sure, marm. I ain’t as young as I used t’be.”
He shuffled slowly inside to the gatehouse, where his supper was awaiting him. Filorn drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was the otter. Something about his tattoo-covered face, the deep sound of his voice, the way he moved. She had to wait and see if the search party had found him. Worry piled upon worry in her mind. Brother Hoben had said he saw the otter hit by an arrow. Was he badly hurt?
“Ho the gate! Is that the pretty young Filorn waitin’ to greet me?”
Filorn knew Skipper’s gruff voice. She ran south down the path toward a small lantern gleaming over the ottercrew and the Redwallers who had gone searching.
They entered the Abbey, with Filorn holding Tagg’s paws, still clasped upon the sword. Nimbalo was aching from supporting his friend’s head against the bumping and jogging of the journey. He looked up into Filorn’s face. “Don’t fret, marm. Tagg’s my matey, I won’t let ’im die.”
Foremole Brull’s moles were laying mattresses and cushions upon the floor of Great Hall. Filorn fussed about the ottercrew as they lifted Tagg from the stretcher. “Easy now, lower him gently, try not to bump him, please.”
Mhera appeared at her mother’s side. “Mama, what is it? Who is that creature with his face all tattooed like a vermin?”
Filorn drew her daughter close, leaning forward with her until Mhera could feel the unconscious otter’s shallow breath on her brow. “Look, my child, look. Does his face mean nothing to you?”
Even in repose, Tagg’s features looked barbaric because of the red, black and blue markings ingrained into them. The dream came back to Mhera as she stared harder and harder.
“Father . . . is it Papa? He looks something like him.”
Filorn did not reply, but much to Mhera’s astonishment began singing and caressing Tagg’s paws, which were still locked onto the sword hilt.
“Mountains rivers valleys seas,
Whose little paws are these, are these?
Meadows, woodlands fields and shores,
These little paws are yours, are yours!
If you don’t give me a kiss,
I will tickle paws like this!”
It was many a long season since Mhera had heard her mother sing a baby song. Now Filorn was tickling the big rough paws. Mhera was totally startled by what happened next.
Tagg was still senseless, but he smiled and opened his paws, pads upward. Just like any babe who wanted its mother to do it again. Nimbalo quickly removed the sword. There on Tagg’s open right paw was the four-petal mark, pink and distinctive as the day he was born with it.
Filorn hugged Mhera. “I knew it deep inside me, ever since I saw him yesterday. This is my son! He’s returned home. He’s your brother, Mhera!”
The ottermaid clasped the flower-marked paw between her own, and spoke his name loud and clear. “Deyna!”
Nimbalo scratched the end of his nose. “Deyna! Y’mean Tagg’s name ain’t Taggerung no more?”
Filorn shook her head, smiling at the harvest mouse. “His real name is Deyna; he has no other.”
Nimbalo mused over the new name. “Hmm. Deyna. I don’t know whether I like that or not, it ain’t like Nimbalo the Slayer. Huh, just Deyna? Couldn’t we call ’im Deyna the Deadly or Deyna the Dagger or Deyna the Dangerous? Hoho, I likes that ’un. Deyna the Dangerous, great name!”
Filorn tweaked the little fellow’s ear. “If I hear you calling him Deyna the Dangerous I’ll tell everybeast that your name is Nimbalo the Nuisance. Understood?”
The harvest mouse shrugged unhappily. “Jus’ Deyna it is, then, marm.”
Sister Alkanet arrived with Broggle and Friar Bobb, who were carrying bowls of warm water, dressing cloths, ointments and herbal remedies. They waited to one side as she cleaned and inspected the wound. Her pronouncement was not a happy one, though she tried to sound optimistic.
“The arrow has gone too deep, I haven’t the skill or experience to remove it. Though I must say, Deyna is the strongest and fittest beast I’ve ever seen. I’ve heard in the past of creatures living quite a normal life with arrowheads or spearpoints still in them. Deyna will live, but he’ll have to take things easy. I can cut away the arrow shaft, but the point will have to stay in him.”
Skipper had been listening, and voiced his opinion. “Beggin’ yore pardon, marm, but Rukky Garge could fix Deyna up. Ole Rukky is the best otter fixer on earth.”
Sister Alkanet waved her paws dismissively. “Rukky Garge is just some legend. There’s no such otter!”
Filorn was inclined to agree. “I believe there was such an otter, but I heard she passed on many long seasons ago.”
Skipper merely smiled and pointed to his rudder. “I was scarred deep there when I was a liddlebeast, but Rukky made the scar go away. I still goes to see ole Rukky, takes ’er freshwater shrimp an’ ’otroot soup now an’ agin. She’s like a gran’ma to me, marm. Hoho, she’s still kickin’ right enough.”
Filorn clasped Skipper’s paw anxiously. “If she could heal my son I’d take her a hundred pans of shrimp and hotroot soup! I’d give her anything!”
The otter Chieftain understood Filorn’s anxiety. “No need t’do that, but I know Rukky likes bright trinkets. She’s like a magpie, loves anythin’ bright’n’shiny, Rukky does.”
Filorn opened her broad apron pocket. “I found this lying in the ditch this afternoon. Perhaps she’d like it, what do you think?”
Skipper inspected the knife of Sawney Rath, with its brilliant sapphire, amber handle and bright silver blade. “I think she’d make a skeleton dance fer this beauty, marm!”
Mhera shifted anxiously from paw to paw. “Let’s take him to her straightaway!”
Skipper appeared rather uncomfortable with this suggestion. “Be more’n my life’s worth, miz. Rukky’s a loner, very awkward pernickety ole body she is, won’t ’ave anybeast within a league of ’er. She don’t treat nobeast save otters these days, an’ then only as a favor to me’n’a few other otters. Look, you leave this to me. I’ll take Deyna an’ persuade Rukky to cure him. My crew can carry him most o’ the way, an’ we’ll drop in from time to time t’let you know ’ow he’s doin’. Mhera, you an’ yore mama trust me, I’ll take care o’ Deyna. I think you’ll be needed ’ere, ain’t that right, Sister?”
Alkanet pursed her lips, bound, as usual, to have her say. “Correct, Skipper. Cregga is not young and full of energy. I took the arrowhead from her, but she’s slowly fading. She needs you by her side, Mhera. Filorn, you know how much Friar Bobb relies on your help, and the others too. I beg you to stay at the Abbey.”
Filorn was impressed. She had never heard Alkanet beg anything from a living creature, so she gave in to her request.
“Well, we’ve come through all these seasons not knowing whether Deyna lived. Now we do know, I suppose we’ll have to be patient a little longer, Mhera.”
The ottermaid bowed obediently. “We’ll be patient, Mama, but it won’t be for long, I hope.”
This time a bigger, more comfortable litter was made to transport Tagg. Sister Alkanet waited until they were ready to set off and then pulled Skipper to one side.
“I’m surprised that a creature like you still believes in that old relic and her mumbo jumbo of spells and charms. Shame on you! Though I’ll be even more surprised if Deyna returns alive. How could you raise the hopes of Filorn and Mhera on stories and tales like that?”
Skipper winked at the Sister. “Maybe I’ll surprise you again before too long, marm. Take care!”
Nimbalo joined the otter crew. Skipper looked inquiringly at the battle-axe-wielding harvest mouse. “Belay, mate, where d’you think yore off to?”
The little fellow nodded at the litter. “Wherever me matey goes, that’s where I’m off to. Any objections?”
Skipper was very tactful in dealing with the truculent mouse. “I can’t stop ye, ’specially since yore the one they calls the Slayer. But this ole otterfixer, Rukky Garge, if she sees anybeast that ain’t an otter hangin’ about her den, she’ll turn us away. No matter wot condition yore matey’s in.”
Nimbalo’s face was the picture of dejection. His lip quivered. “But me’n’Tagg’s always been together. Wot’ll I do without ’im? We stuck by each other through thick’n’thin, an’ now yore goin’ to take me matey away. Wot’ll I do ’ere, all on me own?”
Mhera’s heart went out to Nimbalo. She took his paw. “Wait here at the Abbey with us. You’ll like it, I’m sure. It’s like being part of a big happy family.”
Unknowingly, Mhera had mentioned the wrong word. Nimbalo growled. “Don’t talk t’me about families. I ain’t part of no family!”
Skipper and his crew slipped quietly off with Tagg, leaving Mhera to practice her diplomacy on the irate harvest mouse. Tactfully, Filorn stepped into the breach.
“I never met a warrior yet who wasn’t hungry. Come to the kitchens with me, Nimbalo the Slayer. Let’s see what I can find for you. Redwall food is the best anywhere, come on.”
Boorab, who had been gently nodding off, came awake at the mention of food. “Ahem, charmin’ an’ kindly marm, permission to accompany you, wot.”
Filorn was never less than gracious to her friend the hare. “Why, of course, sir, you are cordially invited.”
Mhera went to sit on Cregga’s bed. It had been impossible to carry the wounded badger upstairs, so mattresses had been laid for her beneath the tapestry of Martin, and she lay propped up on them. Sensing Mhera’s approach, the Badgermum smiled weakly. “Your mama could charm the birds from the trees. That little harvest mouse doesn’t know it, but he’s got all the qualities of a Redwaller. You must help to make him happy here, Mhera.”
The ottermaid plumped up her friend’s pillows. “You mean we must help to make him happy here, Cregga.”
The badger stroked Mhera’s cheek. “Maybe, if I’m still around, but nobeast lives forever.”
Mhera sniffed and straightened the coverlet busily. “Now you can just stop that sort of talk, silly old badger. Deyna’s going to get well and so are you. I won’t listen to any morbid rambling ab—”
Cregga put out a searching paw. “Mhera, what is it? What’s the matter?”
The ottermaid held a green strip of cloth close to Cregga’s muzzle. “It’s one of those pieces of material. Faded green, homespun and scented with lilac. I found it just now, in the folds of your bedspread. I wonder who put it there. Do you know?”
Cregga shook her great striped head slowly. “A blind creature who can hardly move, with a deep painful wound. How am I supposed to know anything? What does it say?”
Mhera read the crude vertical capitals written on the fabric. “FITTAGALL. Oh, dear. What’s it all supposed to mean, Cregga?”
*
A lot of Redwallers joined Nimbalo and Boorab in the kitchens, as there had been no proper meals served, owing to the day’s unusual events. Friar Bobb and Filorn aided by Broggle and Fwirl (now much recovered) managed a good makeshift buffet. Nimbalo sampled everything, from soup to desserts. Filorn sat down with him, encouraging the harvest mouse as he ate.
“I’m sure you’ve got lots of wonderful tales of the adventures you and Deyna had together. Perhaps you could tell us some? Here, let me fill your tankard with October Ale.”
Nimbalo was suddenly in his element: lots of good food and drink, and an attentive audience. He shovelled turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot pie into his mouth and washed it down with a huge draft of the best October Ale.
“Aaaahhhh! That’s the stuff t’give yer muscles like boulders, marm. Thankee. Now, where was I? Oh aye. Tagg, that’s Deyna, an’ me was surrounded by snakes one time.”
Foremole Brull shuddered. “Burr, surrpints. Oi carn’t aboide ee gurt snakey beasters!”
The harvest mouse gave her his reckless nonchalant grin. “Snakes, marm? Me’n’Deyna was never afeared of ’em!” He rose and swaggered about outrageously.
“There was one time me’n’my mate,
We nearly met our fate,
One dark night, midst a storm,
Just to keep us dry an’ warm,
We found a cave an’ a cheer we gave,
We rushed in straightaway,
’Twas full of snakes, for goodness’ sakes,
All silvery black an’ grey.
There was big snakes, small snakes,
Every one was wide awake,
Wrigglin’ an’ a-hissin’ there,
Tongues a-flickerin’, tails a-snickerin’,
Enough t’curl yore blinkin’ hair.
One bit me so I bit it back,
An’ my mate gave one such a whack!
We fought the serpents tooth’n’claw,
For every one we slayed there was a dozen more.
Then my ole mate, he took two sticks,
An’ in the space of two short ticks,
We grabbed those snakes, me’n’my chum,
An’ knitted them up into an apron for his mum,
Chuck one, hurl one, knit one, purl one,
We never went there again,
Don’t try to sleep, where the snakes are tummy deep,
Take a snooze out in the rain!”
Nimbalo took a bow amidst the applause and roars of laughter. Boorab presented him with a damson cream pie.
“Top hole, sah. You’re a born weaver of yarns, wot. Try some of Friar Bobb’s damson cream pie. Bet y’ve never tasted anythin’ as scrumptious as that, wot. Wot wot, hawhawhaw!”
Nimbalo bit into it and smacked his lips. “Thankee. It’s good, very nice, but tell me, did ye ever taste a snakeyfish pie?”
The hare looked at him aghast. “Snakeyfish pie, sir? What in the name o’ puddens is that? You haven’t eaten one yourself, have you, old chap?”
Nimbalo winked at the horrified listeners. “Ye wouldn’t believe me if’n I told yer!”