Eulalia! (12 page)

The young hedgehog sighed. “That's twice in two days somebeast's not said my name right. It's Prink, not Stink. Orkwil, not Awful. Orkwil Prink, if y'please!”

Codj sneered, pricking his captive's throat with the swordpoint. “If y'please? Well, don't 'e talk pritty. I asked yew a question, Orful Stink, where do ya come from? Ye'd better speak afore I starts carvin' ya!”

Orkwil answered quickly. “I'm from Redwall Abbey, sir, but I was on a short trip, y'see, an' I wandered into that swa…”

Codj hauled him upright sharply. “Redwall Abbey, eh, yore jus' the bucko we're lookin' for. Vizka'll want to talk wid yew! Lash 'im up good an' fetch 'im along, mates!”

Orkwil knew it would do no good to protest, the vermin looked like a primitive and murderous crew. Moments later he was bound by all paws to a spearpole, and carried off, swinging upside down between two weasels.

It was dusk by the time they arrived back aboard the
Bludgullet.
Vizka Longtooth cast a glance at the mudcaked young hedgehog, who was trussed to the spearpole. He shook his head pityingly at his younger brother. “Dat's der queerest kind o' vittles I've seen in a while. Wot d'yer want luggin' dat filthy 'edgepig aboard of a nice ship like dis?”

Codj flourished his sword, pointing it at Orkwil. “Jus' guess where dis 'edgepig comes from.”

The golden fox wrinkled his nose. “A swamp by the smell of 'im!”

Codj nodded. “Aye, dat's where we found 'im, but do yew know where 'e lives, eh?”

Vizka stared levelly at his brother and smiled. It was that dangerous smile, which Codj had come to know so well. Vizka reached for Gorath's pitchfork. “I'm gittin' tired o' yore liddle games. Tell me, afore I does sumthin' I'll be sorry for later. Where does 'e live?”

Codj answered promptly. “Redwall Abbey!”

Vizka flung the pitchfork, it stuck deep into the mast, quivering. Grabbing his brother in a hearty embrace, Vizka pounded his back soundly. “At last ye've done summat right, Codj! Haharr, strike me anchor an' gut me grandpa, a beast wot actually comes from Redwall Abbey? I knowed dat place was real, I jus' knowed it!”

Bending down, Vizka brought his face level with the captive. “Wot's yer name, liddle muddy matey?”

The young hedgehog replied wearily, “Orkwil Prink, sir.”

The golden fox threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “Haharrharrharrr! It suits yer well, Orful Stink! D'ye hear that, mates, the 'edgepig's called Orful Stink!”

The crew laughed dutifully, nobeast dared not to, even Codj. Orkwil closed his eyes resignedly, not even bothering to correct his captor.

Vizka signalled to Bilger. “Sluice 'im down an' clean 'im up, get rid of Orful's Stink. Hahaharrr, that's a good 'un, eh!”

The pails of river water which splashed over Orkwil were both clean and refreshing, he even managed to catch a swift drink. Vizka smiled his famous deadly smile, the long fangs protruding.

“Now lissen, mate, me'n my crew wants ter pay yore Abbey a nice liddle visit. But we don't knows 'ow t'get there. Ye looks like a sensible young 'edgepig, so yew tell me 'ow, an' I'll take yore werd fer it, eh?”

Orkwil shut both eyes tight and clenched his teeth. The very idea of this barbarian fox and his evil crew going to Redwall did not bear thinking about. Though he was cringing with fear inside, Orkwil decided that no matter what happened to him, he would not divulge the location of the Abbey, which had suddenly become so dear to him it meant more than life itself.

Codj prodded the captive with his sword. “Ye'd better tell der cap'n wot 'e wants t'know, or yer name'll be Orful Sorry.”

Nobeast laughed at Codj's pun.

Vizka smiled, stroking his two long fangs as he viewed Orkwil's show of resistance. “Lissen, 'edgepig, I knows yer can 'ear me. Tomorrer morn I'm gonna git the galley fire burnin', good an' 'ot, an' I'm gonna stick a spit over it. Now I ain't sayin' no more, I'll jus' leave ye for de night, to t'ink about wot I'll do to yer. Never fear, by der time Longtooth's done wid ya, yore name'll be Orful 'elpful. Haharr, 'ow about dat, mates, Orful 'elpful?”

The
Bludgullet
's crew laughed obediently once more, even Jungo, who had not understood his captain's joke.

Vizka issued orders to his brother. “Cut 'im loose, an' chain 'im next to Rock'ead fer the night. Wake me early tomorrer, d'ye hear? Oh, an' keep an eye on our 'edgepig through the night.”

When they came to cut Orkwil's bonds, he kicked and fought furiously. Bilger, Firty and Jungo had to hold him still as Codj severed the rope with his sword. Between them they dragged Orkwil to the mast, where Gorath lay chained. The badger appeared to be either unconscious or dead. Codj was not about to check on Gorath's condition, he stood with his sword ready, as Bilger and the others took a loop in the chain, and padlocked it around Orkwil's waist. Gorath suddenly stirred, so they got out of the way speedily.

Codj beckoned to his messmates. “Let's go an' git some vittles an' grog, the 'edgepig ain't goin' anyplace…unless the stripe'ound eats 'im!”

Jungo scratched his tail. “Do stripe'ounds eat 'edgepigs? I didn't know dat.”

Firty gave him a playful shove. “Codj wuz only jokin'.”

Jungo thought about that for awhile, then called out to Orkwil as they headed toward the galley. “Don't worry if'n der stripe'ound eats yer, mate, 'e's only jokin'. Hurrhurrhurrr!”

When they had gone, Orkwil tapped the badger gingerly. “How did you come to be captured, friend?”

Gorath opened his eyes, his voice sounded hoarse and slow. “I'm from the Northern Isles, they burned my house, and slew my grandparents. The one they call Longtooth battered me down with a ball and chain. I woke up chained to this mast. I don't know how long I've been on this ship, lost count of the days. My name is Gorath.” He held out a huge, workworn paw. Orkwil clasped it.

“My name's Orkwil Prink, I'm from Redwall Abbey.”

The big, young badger suddenly became alert. “Redwall Abbey! I've heard about it, Orkwil, is it as marvellous as they say?”

The young hedgehog's eyes filled with tears. “Even more marvellous, Gorath, I've come to realise that now. That golden fox, Longtooth, he wants to go there with his vermin. I'm sure they plan on attacking it. Listen, friend, we've got to get to Redwall before they do. Could you make it?”

The badger's reply was tinged with bitter irony. “Why of course, Orkwil, but there's a little matter of a steel chain and an iron padlock holding me to the mast. Only for that I'd love to go to Redwall with you. I see you're locked up, too, how do you plan on leaving this ship?”

The young hedgehog inspected the padlock that held him to the chain, then he took a glance at Gorath's lock. “Huh, that shouldn't be too hard, mate, I've dealt with better locks than these rusty ole things.”

The badger seized his friend's paw. “D'you mean you could open these locks?”

Orkwil winced. “Aye, providin' you don't break my paw, you've got a grip like a pike's jaw. Find me somethin' like a pin, or a nail, an' I'll have us free in a jiffy!”

They sat there, scanning the deck keenly, but there was no sign of anything useful. Then Orkwil pointed. “What's that thing sticking in the mast?”

Gorath's heart leapt as he caught sight of the object. “That's Tung, my pitchfork. The fox must've forgotten he threw it. He walked off and left it there!”

Orkwil cautioned Gorath. “Keep yore voice down, mate…. Whoops!”

Being locked close to Gorath on the chain, Orkwil was suddenly swung into the air as the badger reached up and grabbed the pitchfork, which he pulled loose with a few good tugs. Orkwil hit the deck with a bump, gabbling out instructions to his big friend.

“Get down an' lay low, hide that thing before anybeast comes up on deck, hurry!”

Gorath lay flat, concealing most of the pitchfork with his body. Orkwil kept watch, assuring himself that all was quiet above deck. He ran his paws around the mast, searching until he found what he needed.

“Now go nice'n'easy, friend, there's a nail stickin' out a bit, right about where my paw is now. Could you lever it out quietly with one o' the prongs of your fork?”

Whilst Orkwil kept watch, Gorath probed at the nail-head. Getting the prong of his weapon beneath the lip of the nail, he levered carefully at it. The nail gave a slight creak, then it began to move, bit by bit. Gorath wiggled it from side to side, until it loosened. Putting the pitchfork aside, he braced himself. Gripping the nail in his big, blunt claws, he heaved away, yanking it free of the mast timber.

They both sat with their backs to the mast, as Orkwil took the nail and went to work. He twiddled it in the keyhole of Gorath's lock. The badger watched anxiously, whispering, “What's happening, is it opening?” He fell silent as the young hedgehog glared at him, wiggling the nail back and forth. Orkwil grinned.

“A good thief can open any lock. There!”

The padlock lay open. Gorath breathed a huge sigh as he loosed the chain from his middle.

Orkwil chided him, “Be still, bigbeast, give me a chance to get my lock off. Wait…wait…ah, there it goes, mate!” The chain clanked to the deck. Orkwil was about to rise, when he sat back down speedily. “Be still, somebeast's comin'!”

It was Codj, coming to check up on the two prisoners. Halting where he knew he was out of the badger's reach, the stump-tailed fox peered through the darkness at them both. He was surprised to see Gorath sitting upright, though he could not see that the captives were free. Codj turned away, heading back to his cabin, commenting aloud, “Still alive, eh, Rock'ead, huh, wot keeps ya goin'?” He half-turned as something sounded behind him, but Codj was too late. Gorath's huge paws were around the fox's neck, and he was whispering in his ear.

“I'll tell you what keeps me going, the need to slay my kinbeasts' murderer. Tell me again how you locked them in a farmhouse, and burned them alive. Tell me!”

Orkwil watched in horrified fascination as Gorath shook the already dead fox like a rag. He ran to the badger, tugging at his simple, homespun tunic. “Come on, mate, leave him, we've got to get away from here. We must get to Redwall an' sound the alarm!”

With the limp form of the fox still clenched in his paws, Gorath turned to face the young hedgehog. Orkwil gasped with fear. The badger's eyes were blood red, his teeth bared like a madbeast. Gorath was in the grip of Bloodwrath. Then something very odd happened. Gorath dropped the carcass of his foe, picked up both Orkwil and his pitchfork and slid over the side of the ship, into the River Moss. By the time they reached the bank, he appeared quite calm. Orkwil attributed his friend's sudden change to the cold riverwater.

“Which way to your Abbey, my friend?”

Orkwil pointed. “Go east, we'll cross to the other bank when we're safe out of this area.”

They set off into the nightshaded woodland, with Orkwil leading the way. He had been walking rapidly for awhile, when he noticed that Gorath was dropping behind. The badger's pace was noticeably slower, and he was having to stop, leaning on the pitchfork, with his huge striped head drooping. The hedgehog waited until his friend caught him up, one look at Gorath was all he needed, Orkwil shook his head.

“Yore in bad shape, everythin' is catchin' up on ye. Rest, an' vittles, that's what y'need, matey. Sit down.”

Gorath slumped wearily to the ground. His head wound, thirst, starvation and cruel treatment had finally taken its toll. That, with his brief attack of Bloodwrath, had left him as weak as a Dibbun.

Orkwil scratched his headspikes, trying to think what to do. The answer came to him in a flash, he took command, issuing Gorath with orders. “I've got it! I know this neck o' the woods, mate. Now you stay here, keep that Tung thing with ye, but don't move, sit right here. I think there's a big, ole bed of ferns hereabouts, stay clear of it, 'cos it's a swamp. Someplace along the bank there's a fat, greedy vole. That beast's got two things we need, vittles an' a place to rest. You stop here, I'll come back for ye as soon as I can. Understood?”

Gorath rose with a grunt. “I'm coming with you.”

Orkwil folded his paws resolutely. “No, you ain't, I said yore stayin' here!”

“And I said I'm coming with you!”

The pitchfork prongs were a spike's breadth from Orkwil's snout. He hardened his voice as he glared at Gorath. “That's what I said, yore comin' with me. Now stop arguin' an' let's get movin', bigbeast!”

 

The bankvole was quite a good cook, by woodland standards. He was sitting on the edge of the river, just outside of his dwelling, savouring the aroma of a large, speckled trout. Only the previous day he had netted it in a reed snare. It was not often that such a feast was to be had, speckled trout were cunning and swift on the River Moss, but voles, particularly old and greedy ones, were equally sly and quick.

The watervole had been up most of the night, preparing himself an epic breakfast. He had dug a firepit, laying his ingredients on the white-hot charcoal embers. A layer of fresh watercress and dandelion leaves, with fragrant mint, pennywort and sorrel. Next came the trout, stuffed with mushrooms and some almonds he had been saving for such an occasion. Topping the lot with a layer of dock-leaves, he covered the pit, and its contents, with loam. Soon it would be baked to a turn.

Sipping a beaker of his own home-brewed cider, the watervole sniffed the delicious aroma permeating through the loam.

“Mmmmm, is that baked trout I can smell, marvellous!”

The vole's paw reached for the club, which lay beside him, as he snarled viciously at Orkwil Prink. “So, it's you agin', well, I'm ready for ye this time, 'edgepig. Try anythin' wid me an' ye'll join those two water rats, weighted down wid rocks in the swamp!” Waving the club, he scrabbled around with his free paw, and came up with a long dagger. “Aye, I'm good'n'ready, so make yore move, if ye dare!”