High Rhulain

Banya tweaked the big fellow’s whiskers. “But you ain’t no huntin’ badger, Mister Galedeep. C’mon, up with ye! Yore a log finder now. Queen Tiria has to have a raft that won’t let us down, so move yore carcass!”

Tiria squeezed Banya’s paw fondly. “I like the way you dish out orders. Maybe I’d do well to appoint you my assistant-in-chief, Banya.”

Kolun heaved himself up, pulling a wry face. “Wait’ll ye meet my missus, Deedero. You’ll make her a chief, too. She’s good at givin’ orders, I can tell ye!”

As the night wore steadily on, Tiria sat alone on the lakeside. She made ready for the dawn, buffing her breastplate, polishing the coronet and carefully brushing her short velvet cloak. After folding her cloak, she laid the regalia on it. Next she checked her sling and stonepouch. Rummaging about amid the pebbles, she came across something she had almost forgotten. It was the vicious star-shaped iron missile which Brother Perant had extracted from Pandion’s beak. Tiria recalled the vow she had made to return it to the foebeast. She loaded it into the tongue of the sling which Lord Mandoral had made for her, thinking back to when it had all started—the day she and her three friends had rescued the osprey from the rat gang. It seemed so long ago now. A wave of nostalgia crept over the ottermaid for those she held dear: her father, Brink, Girry, Tribsy, Brinty, Friar Bibble, Sister Snowdrop and Old Quelt. She reflected on the many faithful companions she had been brought up with—the funny little Dibbuns, and Abbess Lycian, so young yet so wise. And, of course, her beautiful home, Redwall Abbey. Would she ever see it again? The ottermaid sniffed, wiping a paw across her eyes and reflecting on the destiny fate had thrust upon her: Rhulain, High Queen of Green Isle.

All those otterclans with so much faith and trust in her, and she, a single ottermaid, with the task of freeing them from the tyranny of a foebeast who revelled in cruelty and brutality. What would Martin the Warrior have done in her place?

Tiria lay down to sleep, staring up at the starstrewn skies. She remembered Sergeant O’Cragg telling her that they were the spirits of brave warriors. Through the mists of descending sleep, Martin’s voice drifted into her dreams.

“You ask what I would do in your place, Tiria. I would do the same thing you are about to do. It is called the right thing!”

31

Leatho Shellhound was bone weary for want of sleep. All night the catguards had been trying to get inside the high tower chamber to capture him. Luckily the stout door held, barricaded as it was by a heavy table and thick wooden benches wedged firmly in position. The outlaw otter stood at the open window, breathing deeply of the cold predawn air to keep himself awake. Below him, the pier and lake were still in darkness. Behind him, the spears and pikes of his enemy battered ceaselessly on the door.

Leatho threw back his head and roared at his tormentors, “Don’t stand there knockin’, fools, come on in! Ye whiskeryfaced, droolin’, tabby-pawed cowards! Come on, step inside an’ meet the Shellhound! I’ll rip the heads’n’guts from the first ten of ye who come through that door! Ee aye eeeeeeeeh!”

The banging ceased, as it would for a while. Leatho laughed tiredly, turning back to the window. He knew the cats feared him; none of them was overanxious to enter the chamber and see him carry out his threats. But he also realised that they had their orders and would soon begin trying to break in again, driven on by thoughts of what their warlord would do to them if they failed in their mission.

Outside the sky was still dark, though as Leatho watched he began to distinguish the soft grey twinge which heralded a new day. This was reinforced by the first birdsong, a lark beginning its ascent, and far off, a thrush warbling throatily. Leatho’s small amount of drinking water was long gone. He would have given anything for one brief, cool dip in the lake far below. During the night, he had considered a high dive from the tower window. But stretched out beneath him lay the pier; the lake was too far off for him to possibly reach. Unconsciously at first, the outlaw began humming an old otterclan warsong, thinking it had merely popped into his head. When he stopped humming, however, he could still hear the tune—distant, yes, far off maybe, but nevertheless real. Dawn’s first rays seeped in from the right. Leatho leaned out over the windowsill, trying to reassure himself that the sound was somewhere present. Then the banging on the door started afresh. He howled out another challenge.

“Next one who knocks on my door, I’m comin’ out t’see who he is! Ee aye eeeeeeh! If’n yore a mate of his, I’ll leave his hide to make ye a cloak, an’ his teeth for a necklace. Ye can do as ye please with his eyes!”