Eulalia! (2 page)

It was a night for raiding. Beneath a dark, moonless sky, high seas ran grey and smooth to the shores of the Northern Isles. With her big single sail bellying smoothly, the vessel
Bludgullet
nosed shoreward, like some huge seabeast seeking its prey in coastal waters. Perched at the masthead, straddling the mainsail spar, the lookout, a small rat called Firty, was first to glimpse the glimmering, golden light on the far side of the saltmarshes. Noting the position of the illumination, he slid skillfully down a rope to the gently heaving deck.

Scurrying to the captain's cabin, Firty rapped on the door. He waited until a tall, golden fox emerged. The little rat tugged his ear in salute.

“Cap'n, dere's a light showin' ashore, dead ahead. I t'ink it might be sum sorta buildin', Cap'n.”

Flinging a heavy cape across his shoulders, Captain Vizka Longtooth smiled, exposing a pair of oversized fangs. Firty swallowed hard. He, like every Sea Raider aboard the
Bludgullet,
had come to know the danger in Longtooth's smile.

“A buildin', ya say! Better sumthin' than nought on dis sun-fersaken shore, eh?”

The small crewrat nodded nervously, watching his captain reach for the mace and chain. It was a vicious weapon, a spiked iron ball on a thick chain, attached to an oaken handle. Firty crept backward, trying to stay out of his captain's way as he toyed with the mace and chain, swinging the spiked ball with a flick of his paw. The golden fox continued smiling, allowing the mace spikes to dent the woodwork of the cabin door. Firty tried to keep his eyes off the hypnotically swinging weapon.

“Will ya be goin' ashore, Cap'n?”

Vizka halted the swing of his mace; he fondled the spikes lovingly. “Aye, it wouldn't be gudd manners not t'call when dey left a light on fer us. Tell Codj ter rouse der crew. We're goin' visitin'!”

As
Bludgullet
's keel ground into the shallows, the small, golden light stood out clear against the dark, velvet canopy of night sky. The vermin waded ashore, everybeast armed to the teeth, eager for booty and blood.

It was a night for raiding!

 

Lost in the deep sleep of total exhaustion, Gorath lay slumped by a glowing turf fire in the small farmhouse. There was a claw missing from one of the young badger's forepaws, his pads were thick with calluses and hardened scars. Wrestling half-buried boulders and uprooting scrubby tree stumps from the frozen earth was hard and punishing labour for a single beast. Gorath performed all his tasks unaided; his grandparents were too old for such heavy work. It was no easy life on the Northern Isles, both the weather and the land were hostile. Gorath, however, had youth on his side, plus unbridled strength, and an in-born tenacity. In short, he was like most male badgers, doggedly stubborn.

All Gorath knew of his early life had been imparted to him by his grandparents. His family came from the far Southern lands; both his parents were warriors who had fallen in battle during the Great Vermin Wars. The remainder of Gorath's family had been forced to flee the South.

The two old badgers took their little grandson in a small boat. They set off seeking a dream, a refuge of peace and happiness, where they could live without fear. They had heard tales of such places, the mountain of Salamandastron, and the Abbey of Redwall, legendary havens!

However, cruel fate and capricious weather shattered their dream. The aged badgers were landbeasts, with little knowledge of the sea. Their boat was blown far off course, and wrecked upon the rocks of the Northern Isles by a mighty storm. Gorath's grandparents stumbled ashore, carrying him between them, all three fortunate to be alive. That was how they came to a new life on the cold Northern Isles.

Their first few seasons ashore taught the three badgers some harsh lessons. A need for nourishment and shelter was paramount. Using timber from their wrecked boat, local stone, earth and moss, the grandfather built the house. Gorath and his grandmother foraged for food, whilst struggling to make the scrubland arable. It was hard, but they survived until their first meager crop came in, confirming that they were finally farmers.

Gorath grew to be a dutiful grandson, and a diligent worker. He never failed his grandparents, though as the seasons passed, one into another, things became more difficult for him. Wearied with age and illness, his grandparents grew unable to carry on working.

Thus it was that Gorath faced the hardships alone. He carried on clearing the windswept scrubland, planting, digging, coaxing and harvesting sparse crops from the thin soil. It was grindingly arduous work for a lone young one, but Gorath never complained. Sometimes in the long, dark evenings, when the wind dirged outside, Gorath would sit by the turf fire, listening as his grandfather told tales of Salamandastron or Redwall Abbey. How much truth there was in such stories, none of the badgers really knew, having never visited either place.

But the young Gorath was ever eager to hear more. He was thrilled at the thought of Salamandastron, the fortress of warriors, ruled by Badger Lords, where none knew the meaning of fear. His grandfather taught Gorath a song about Salamandastron. Though the young badger never had cause or reason to be anything other than a peaceful farmer, something in the ballad wakened a feeling deep within him. It stirred warlike emotions, which made Gorath both excited and fearful, when he sang it as he worked throughout the daylight hours.

Other times his grandmother told stories she had heard about Redwall Abbey. Gorath would gaze into the fire longingly. What a delightful place, the young badger thought. One immense home, built on happiness, peace and prosperity. Where many types of creatures lived in harmony, working, feasting and enjoying life together. Though Gorath was stirred by his grandfather's stories of Salamandastron, he also liked to hear about Redwall, with its gentle, more tranquil way of life. But what did it all matter now? Cruel fate and ill winds had denied everything to the young Gorath, leaving him far across the stormy seas, marooned on the harsh Northern Isles, with no means to follow his dreams.

These days, Gorath's main refuge came through sleep. Moreso as his grandparents had gone silent, they seldom told tales, or sang. They, too, withdrew into themselves, slumbering constantly.

The young badger lay by the fire, letting his eyes close, thinking how the weather had played a miserable trick on him. It had been a wild winter, followed by a false spring. In the space of a single night, all the crops, seedlings and fresh green growth, which Gorath had toiled upon, were blighted. Winter had returned with renewed fury, withering and freezing everything which had begun growing.

Gorath fell asleep with his grandmother's words echoing through his mind.

“If we have little else, at least we have peace on these Northern Isles.”

And so they had.

Until that night, when the
Bludgullet
sailed in, and Vizka Longtooth decided that it was a night for raiding!

Gorath found himself thrust roughly into a waking nightmare. Hot scattered embers of the fire were kicked into his face. Screams and roars echoed around the farmhouse amid the flickering shadows and smoke. Instinctively the young badger sat upright, grasping the closest thing to his paw. It was the big, double-pronged pitchfork he called Tung. But even as his paw fell upon it, a blinding pain exploded in his head. Dazed by the impact, he turned to see what had struck him.

A big, golden-furred fox wielding a mace and chain was standing over him. The intruder's long fangs glittered, as he smiled in astonished amusement, calling to his crew, “Dis wan haz der head like a rock I t'ink.”

Before the stunned badger had a chance to dodge, the golden fox brought the ball and chain crashing down again.

Brilliant coloured lights and a cascade of shooting stars thundered through Gorath's skull. He fell into a void of agonised darkness.

How long he remained in that state, the young badger had no way of knowing. Then strange visions began confronting him, a mountain on the silent, sunlit shores of a great sea. He was wading slowly toward it through the waves. Standing on the tide line, over twoscore huge badgers stood watching him. They were armed with a selection of swords, axes, clubs and spears, each one a beautifully crafted weapon. Something told Gorath that these were not beasts from among the ranks of the living, but the shades of warriors who had passed beyond the pale.

One massive, silver-coated patriarch, far older than the rest, waded out to meet Gorath. He thrust a paw into the young badger's chest, his voice booming out over the sea. “Why come ye to Salamandastron?”

Gorath resisted the pushing paw, he did not like being shoved about. “Take your paw from me, old one!”

But the ancient continued pressing him backward. “Go ye to the Abbey of Redwall!” He pushed Gorath hard with both paws, sending him floundering into the sea. The young badger spluttered, spitting out the cold salt water.

“Lookit, Cap'n, der stripe'ound's alive!”

Gorath retched, as a weasel hurled a second pail of seawater into his face. He came awake to find himself onboard a large ship, surrounded by vermin, an evil-looking crew. Weasels, ferrets, stoats and rats, all fully armed and clad in tattered barbaric gear. Gorath was held captive, a thick, iron chain was padlocked tightly about his middle, the chain secured to the lofty mainmast.

Refilling his pail from over the ship's side, the weasel hauled it up on a rope and prepared to swing it at the prisoner.

“Can I give 'im annuver drink, Cap'n?”

The tall, golden fox, who had struck Gorath down, was leaning on the midship rail. Smiling, he revealed his long fangs to the captive. “Well, do ya still be t'irsty, stripe-'ound?”

Congealed blood from the dreadful wound on Gorath's forehead had stuck one of his eyes shut. The young badger stooped against the deck, his head was throbbing unmercifully. Saturated and shivering, he swayed as waves of nausea swept over him.

The golden fox kicked him, repeating the question.

“Be ya deaf as well as daft? Do ya wanna drink, stripe'ound? Speak!”

Gorath pulled himself upright against the mast, staring at his captor angrily. “I am not called stripehound, my name is Gorath!”

The fox ignored him, turning to the weasel with the pail. “Give der stripe'ound dat udder drink, Balid.”

As the pail of freezing water sloshed over him, Gorath gasped with shock. The fox pointed at him with his mace haft.

“Yew got no name aboard my ship, except wot I calls ya. I'll call ya Rock'ead, 'cos yew got a skull t'ick as a rock. Aye, Rock'ead, dat's a good name, eh?”

The crew laughed dutifully at their captain's feeble joke. Balid, the water-throwing weasel, called out, “Sink me, Cap'n, 'e must 'ave a t'ick 'ead, if'n ye couldn't slay 'im wid two blows o' yer weppin.” Balid had said the wrong thing, it was obvious by the pall of silence which fell over the crew.

The golden fox's heavy cape swirled as he rounded on Balid. “I'm Vizka Longtooth, cap'n o' der
Bludgullet,
an' I didn't kill dat 'un 'cos I wants 'im alive. So wot d'ye say to dat, Balid? Who did yew slay, tell me?” Vizka saw the weasel's paws trembling as he bowed in abject apology.

“Beggin' y'pardon, Cap'n, I was wid Codj. We never slayed anybeast. Alls wot we did was set fire to der farm 'ouse an' locked de two ole stripe'ounds inside, so they couldn't gerrout.”

That was the second slip of Balid's tongue. It was also his last. With a maddened roar, Gorath launched himself at the weasel. The shortness of the chain prevented him from actually getting hold of Balid, but as the chain went taut, Gorath strained against it, lashing out with one paw. It connected with the weasel's neck, slaying him stone dead.

Suddenly, Vizka Longtooth was yelling. “Back! Get back, all of ye! Stay outta dat beast's way!” The vermin crew needed no second urging, they scattered to the for'ard and aft deckrails, away from Gorath's reach.

Codj the fox, who was Vizka's younger brother and second in command, took up the big pitchfork, which he had taken from Gorath's unconscious body at the farmhouse. “Balid wuz my mate, I'll kill 'im fer dat!”

Vizka stayed his brother's paw. “No, ye won't. I wants Rock'ead kep' alive.”

Codj scratched at his tail stump. “Alive, wot for?”

The golden fox chuckled, nodding toward Gorath. “Ye'd lose a sight more'n ya tailstump, if'n yew tried tacklin' dat 'un. Look close at 'im.”

Both foxes watched Gorath carefully. He was making sweeping lunges at everything, from the limits of the taut chain which held him to the mast. His powerful, blunt-clawed paws were flexing, seeking to tear and destroy anything, or anybeast. Gorath was panting hoarsely, foam flecking over his bared teeth. Fearful roars emerged from his heaving chest. But it was the badger's eyes which struck terror into the beholders. They were suffused totally with dark red blood. The Sea Raiders' young captive had become transformed into a ravening beast, in the grip of some awesome madness.

Vizka took the pitchfork from his brother, showing his impressive teeth as he whispered, “Aye, Stumple, 'avin' no tail'd be der least o' yer worries if'n yer went near Rock'ead!”

Codj shot a resentful glance at his brother—he hated the nickname Stumple. It had come about after losing his tail in a fight when he was young. He spat sullenly in Gorath's direction. “Dat beast's crazy mad, 'e should be slain, I tell ya. If'n ye won't let me do d'job, then kill 'im yerself!”

Vizka called out orders to his crew. “Steer clear o' dat beast, don't feed 'im or give 'im water. Set course due south 'til I tells yer diff'rent. I'll be in me cabin wid Codj.” Keeping a safe distance from Gorath, the golden fox steered his brother round to the captain's cabin.

Pouring out two beakers of seaweed grog, Vizka gave one to Codj, explaining his reasons for keeping Gorath alive. “Lissen, I 'eard once about stripe'ounds like dat one. Some calls 'em Berserks, but ole Windflin said it was summat called der Bloodwrath.”

Codj held out his beaker for a refill. “Ya mean Windflin Wildbrush, der great Sea Raider?”

Vizka nodded. “Aye, dat was 'im. Well, let me tell ya, Windflin was slayed by a stripe'ound wot 'ad der Bloodwrath. It was at dat place wid a funny name, Sammer-strong I t'ink, a big mountain castle, far down der sou'west shores. They says der beast wot killed Windflin was an ole stripe'ound called Asheye, a real mad Bloodwrath beast who couldn't be defeated.”

Codj took a swallow of the foul-smelling grog. “Huh, 'e musta been a champeen fighter ter slay der great Windflin Wildbrush! But if'n Bloodwrath beasts are so dangerous, why do ya want to keep one alive? Best cure for any madbeast is to kill 'im quick!”

Vizka winked slyly at his younger brother. “Nah, ya don't turn a beast like our Rock'ead inta fishbait, 'e's vallible. I got plans fer 'im.”

Codj was intrigued by his brother's words. “Plans?”

Vizka expanded upon his scheme. “Aye, plans. If'n I could break Rock'ead, an' tame 'im, jus' imagine dat! We'd 'ave a one-beast army, we'd be der terror of d'land an' sea!”

Codj was not wholly convinced. “Did ya see der way Rock'ead slayed pore Balid? Huh, one smack of 'is paw was all it took. I never seen nobeast wid dat sorta strength. So 'ow are ya goin' ter tame der beast if'n ye can't get near 'im?”

Vizka shook his handsome golden head pityingly. “'Tis a gud job I'm der brudder wid der brains. Ain't you 'eard dat 'unger an' thirst are de best tamers of all? We jus' keeps Rock'ead chained t'der mast, an' starve 'im inter my way o' thinkin'. Hah, 'e'll do like I says, or perish, 'ow's dat fer a gud idea, eh?”

Codj was in awe of his older brother's wisdom. “No wonder yore cap'n o' der
Bludgullet
! Er, an' why are we sailin' south?”

Vizka commandeered the grog flask, as Codj was about to pour himself more grog. “We're goin' south 'cos dat's my orders. Aye, an' I ain't goin' down as far as dat Sammerstrung mountain. Let fools like Windflin get theirselves slayed by madbeasts. I tell ya, dere's lotsa places where der livin' is soft. Good vittles, loot an' plunder, dat's wot I'm after, Codj, an' I don't want ta fight for dem either!”

Codj stared ruefully into his empty beaker. “So 'ow d'yer plan on doin' all dat?”

The golden fox spread his paws disarmingly. “Rock'ead can take care of all der fightin' an' killin' fer us, once I got 'im trained proper.”

All of this sounded quite good to Codj, but he still had unanswered questions. “But if'n we ain't sailin' for der stripe'ound mountain, where else are ya plannin' on goin'?”

Vizka poured him more grog. “Don't bother yore 'ead over dat, brudder, I'll find someplace. Yew go about yer bizness an' leave it t'me. I'll look out for ya, Codj.”

But the stumptailed fox was still not satisfied. “Wot'll dis place be like?”

Vizka pondered a moment before answering. “T'will be a place where I kin rule, jus' like a king!”

Codj persisted. “Like a king, eh, an' worrabout me?”

The golden fox patted his brother's back. “Yew kin be cap'n o' der
Bludgullet,
dat's wot!”

The younger fox's tailstump quivered with joy. “Me, a real cap'n? Bludd'n'tripes, ya won't regret it, brudder. I'll be der best cap'n in all der seas, jus' yew wait'n see. Heeheehee, me, a cap'n!”

Vizka ushered him to the cabin door. “Aye, yew a cap'n. Now go an' keep
Bludgullet
onna straight south course, an' don't strain yer brains wid too much thinkin'. Oh, an' remind der crew t'stay clear o' Rock'ead, an' not t'give 'im any vittles, norra crumb nor a drop, unnerstand?”

Grinning foolishly, Codj threw a clumsy salute. “Aye aye, Cap'n, unnerstood, Cap'n!” He held the salute, standing there grinning, until Vizka was forced to enquire.

“Well, wot d'ya want?”

Codj giggled inanely, winking several times. “Ain't ya gonna say ‘aye aye, Cap'n' back ter me?”

The golden fox frowned. “No, I ain't, yore norrin charge aboard dis ship yet, I'm still cap'n, gerron wid ya werk!” He slammed the door in his younger brother's face.

Codj looked crestfallen, but only for a brief moment. He brightened up, swaggering off along the deck, practising his role of captain-to-be. Selecting a small, puny-looking rat, Codj jabbed his rump with Gorath's pitchfork, and issued him gruff orders. “Tell der steersbeast t'keep 'er on a south course! Make dem lines fast, an' swab dat deck! But firstly fetch me some vikkles from der galley! Go on, 'op to it!”

Pleasantly surprised that his commands had been carried out so promptly, Codj perched on the rail, out of the prisoner's reach. Making a great show of lip smacking, he applied himself to a bowl of hot soup and a tankard of beer, taunting Gorath. “Haharr, would ya like some vikkles, Rock'ead?”

The young badger crouched silently beside the mast, his forehead wound congealed into a huge, ugly scab. This had been induced by the late Balid, drenching him with pails of cold seawater. Gorath's dark eyes smouldered with hatred at his captor, but he did not rise to the mocking fox's bait. However, Codj continued as he ate.

“Mmmm, nice drop o' soup dis, made wid veggibles from yore farm it was. Beer's tasty, too, did yew brew it, or was it de old 'uns? Heehee, dey ain't got much use fer eatin' an' drinkin' now, 'ave they?”

With a sudden roar, Gorath charged his tormentor, giving out a strangled grunt as he was jolted to a halt by the chain. Shocked by the speed of the badger's rush, Codj jerked backward, spilling soup and beer over himself. Recovering himself, he sneered.

“Shame ya can't git yore paws on me, ain't it? Ya look t'irsty, I'll give ye annuder drink, eh!” Lowering a pail into the sea, Codj flung it over Gorath. The young badger stood unmoving, he did not even blink his eyes as the cold salt water lashed over him. Some of the vermin crew, who were watching, laughed at Codj's feeble attempt to rouse the prisoner further. This drove the stumptailed fox into a rage. He began shouting at Gorath. “Did ya like dat likkle drink, Rock'ead, d'ya want some more, eh? Ahoy, thick'ead Rock'ead, I said d'ya want some more, ye can talk, can't ya?”