Doomwyte

The Chietain landed his son a savage kick. It caught Jeg under the chin, stunning him. He toppled from the bough, falling to the woodland floor, where he lay senseless. Chigid glared about at those attending him. “Gemme barkbrew, then let me sleep!”

From where he was bound to the overhead limb, Bisky had witnessed the whole incident. He was satisfied that his friends had wrought some damage amongst the Painted Ones, and glad that the tree rats had taken no more captives. Also he was particularly pleased that Jeg had been taught an unexpected lesson. Now the stiffness in his limbs, and the excruciating pains in his tied-up forepaws blotted out everything.

Sleep eluded the young mouse. As darkness fell, he closed his eyes and hung his head. Feeling the heat, and breathing woodsmoke from a fire on the ground below, his senses started to reel. Bisky had almost drifted into a limbo, where he felt nothing anymore. Then his chin was jogged upward, as a wooden ladle was thrust against his mouth, accompanied by a guard’s command: “Drink now, you drink, mouse!”

Gratefully, he slurped down water until it slopped from his chin. The ladle was removed, and a thick, soft root was shoved between his teeth, with another order. “Eat, if it fall yew get no more!”

Pushing his chin to one side, Bisky trapped the root against his shoulder. Holding it there he gnawed hungrily, identifying the taste as a wild parsnip. He had never eaten raw parsnip before, nor had he ever fancied the vegetable much. But it tasted good, he devoured the lot, including the green-fronded parsnip top. With his stomach gurgling, the young mouse finally lapsed into sleep.

Once during the night, he was awakened by excited cries. Opening his eyes he saw four flickering lights, flittering about the woodland floor below. Painted Ones were shouting, “Wytes! Gerrem Wytes, shoot darts!” There was quite a hullabaloo, though it did not last for long, receding off into the thicknesses of Mossflower. Bisky was too weary to take it all in, he drifted back into slumber.

Again during the night, the limb he was bound to began to bounce up and down. Dreaming he was back in Redwall’s dormitory, Bisky imagined it was Dwink, jumping on his bed. He muttered drowsily, without opening his eyes, “Get back to yore own bed afore Brother Torilis comes.”

Dawn was streaking the sky, and birdsong echoing through the trees. Bisky coughed as smoke from the cooking fires below seeped up his nostrils and into his mouth. A voice alongside him murmured in his ear, “Aye aye, mate, ’ow long’ve you been strung up ’ere?” Tied next to Bisky in similar fashion was a spiky-furred young beast, wearing a multistriped headband, a short kilt and a broad, buckled belt. The stranger nodded at him, continuing in a gruff voice, “They brung me in durin’ the night, wot’s yore name?”

Bisky felt less alone in the creature’s company. “I’m called Bisky, from Redwall Abbey. I expect you’ve heard of Redwall?”

The newcomer winked almost cheerily at him. “Aye, expect I have. They call me Dubble, I’m a Guosim shrew, an’ proud of it. Ye know wot Guosim means, don’t ye, Brisky?”

Bisky winked back at him. “Name’s not Brisky, it’s Bisky. Pleased to meet ye, Drubble. I know wot Guosim means, first letter of each word. Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. Right?”

The shrew grinned broadly. “Right, an’ me name’s Dubble, not Drubble. Tell me, ’ow did these blaggards catch ye?”

Bisky tried making light of his predicament. “Oh, I was explorin’ some underground tunnels when they cracked me over the head, an’ knocked me out cold. When I woke up, here I was. Wot about you, mate?”

Dubble stated flatly, “Arguin’ with Tugga, that did it.”

The young mouse was curious. “Who’s Tugga?”

His shrew friend replied, almost in disbelief, “Y’mean you’ve never ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster, big Log a Log of all the Guosim?”

Bisky could only shake his head. “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. Tell me about him.”

Dubble snorted. “Huh, tell ye about Tugga? You lot at Redwall must lead a sheltered life if’n y’aint ’eard o’ Tugga Bruster. Don’t ye even know the famous song, Bisky?”

The young mouse admitted he did not, causing Dubble to break out into song.

“No shrew in the territory’s as tough

as Log a Log Tugga Bruster,

’cos when he swings that big iron club,

he’s a dangerous ole skull buster.

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he’d face any gang o’ vermin they could muster,

he’s full o’ muscles hard an’ wide,

one day I saw a fox decide,

to slay hisself by suicide, rather

than face ole Tugga Bruster!

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he won’t put up with brag or bluster,

he can kick a stoat clear outta his skin,

or use a ferret as a duster,

good ole Tugga Bruster!

Oh, Tugga Bruster, Tugga Bruster,

he can fight all day, without the slightest fuss, sir,

so if yore a rat I’ll tell ye that

one blast of his breath’d knock ye flat,

’midst shrews he’s an aristocrat,

he’s the Log a Log Tugga Bruster!”

Bisky chuckled. “He sounds like a real terror to me.”