High Rhulain

He raced ahead, reaching the pier end ahead of the trio’s descent. The catguards stopped halfway along the pier, watching as the wildcat stood to intercept the two birds, who were fast losing height with Shellhound hanging from their legs.

As he whirled his single-bladed war axe, Riggu Felis was bellowing, “Go to Hellgates, bird!”

The osprey, within three spearlengths of the warlord when he hurled the axe, could not be missed. A cry of horror went up from the otters on the raft. They were still too far off to do anything that would prevent the fatal throw. Without thinking, Tiria began whirling her sling. Round and round it sped until it was a thrumming blur. Automatically, the old Abbey warcry ripped from her mouth. “Redwaaaaaaaaallllll!”

Never before or since had anybeast witnessed a slinging of that magnitude. The barbed iron star whistled through the hot morning air like a thunderbolt, covering the long distance in the speed of a lightning flash. Both Leatho and the two birds hit the water beyond the pier end. The warlord knew that his axe had struck home. He turned to see the hawk splash limply down. Facing the open lake, Riggu Felis laughed aloud. But no sound came from him as he stood in frozen silence for a brief moment. Then he toppled headfirst into the lake, with a hole between both eyes and an iron star embedded in his brain. Thus ended the reign of Riggu Felis, Wildcat Warlord of Green Isle, slain by a humble Abbeymaid who was now High Queen of the Otterclans.

Leatho and Brantalis reached the raft, still holding on to Pandion’s body. Willing paws helped them aboard. Tiria bowed with the weight of the slain osprey as she hugged his body tearfully.

Leatho gently disengaged her from the dead hawk. “Time for grievin’ later on, marm. We’ve got a war t’fight!”

Banya stared grimly at the pier. “Aye, an’ we’re goin’ t’miss it if’n this thing doesn’t move any faster. Lookit that!”

Before the otters on the shores could even mount the pier, the air was rent with a perilous roar. “Eulaliiiiiaaaaa!” Straight through the smokebound hallway, having entered the fortress from the rear, they burst forth onto the landing: the Long Patrol warriors, backed by a horde of yelling otterslaves whom they had freed.

Colour Sergeant O’Cragg’s stentorian tones rang out over the bewildered catguards huddled on the pier. “Forward the buffs! Give ’em blood’n’vinegar! Eulaliiiaaa!”

Leatho waved the pole he was paddling the raft along with. “Let’s cheer ’em on, mates! Ee aye eeeeeeeee!”

Some catguards fled; others tried to fight. But the day of reckoning had arrived. They were no match for the hares, and more especially for the freed slaves they had tyrannised and abused for long seasons. Before the day was much older, there was not a living cat left in sight. They were, as Corporal Drubblewick put it, “either bloomin’ well dead or flippin’ well fled, wot!”

Cuthbert had now reverted to his role as Regimental Major Frunk. He strode smartly aboard the raft, throwing a brisk salute. “All present an’ correct, wot! Queen Tiria, please accept me ’pologies, marm. We must look a confounded sight!”

He wagged an ear at the two subalterns. “You chaps, get the uniforms an’ dish ’em out, sharpish! My buckoes look like they’ve just escaped from a ragged robin’s roundelay. Give Sergeant O’Cragg me compliments, an’ tell him I want the Long Patrol on parade, soon as poss, washed, brushed, combed an’ curried. Jump to it!”

Tiria stood gazing at the fortress, which was now an inferno. The upper storeys had burned through, collapsing into the lower ones. Tongues of flame were now crackling along the pier. She shook her head regretfully.

“It would have made a fine castle for the Clans and me.”

Leatho took her to one side, speaking low. “No otter would willin’ly live there, marm. The place stunk of cats. There’s too many generations o’ bad memories within its walls. It’s better off as a heap of ole ashes, to stay as a warnin’ to foebeasts.”

Tiria bowed to the outlaw’s superior knowledge. “You’re right, of course. It seems I have a lot to learn.”

Leatho bowed gallantly. “Don’t worry, yore Majesty. I’m here to help ye, all ye have t’do is ask.”

Taking his advice literally, Tiria asked, “Tell me, what’s this Holt Summerdell place like?”

Banya was the one who answered. “ ’Tis a place fit for a queen. It’s like the nicest spot ye’ve ever dreamed of but never believed ye’d ever see!”

That night, by the light of the burning fortress, the bodies of the slain were put to rest. Carcasses of catguards, along with that of Riggu Felis, were consigned to the flames of their stronghold. Otters who had fallen, along with the osprey Pandion Piketalon, were placed upon the flower-decked raft and floated out onto the lake’s centre, where the raft was sunk, following an ancient Green Isle tradition. The clans stood on the shore, chanting a dirge in some bygone language which Tiria could not understand. She enquired of Leatho as to its meaning. He translated it for her.