High Rhulain

Lord Mandoral shook his great striped head. “It looked like some kind of large water serpent!”

Cuthbert helped Tiria to stand upright. “Hahar, ’tweren’t no sarpint, that was an ole conger, the giant eel o’ the seas! Yore lucky t’be still alive, Tilly, mate. I never knew nobeast t’stand up to a conger, ’specially a giant one like that rascal!”

Quartle and Portan thought otherwise.

“Except Lord Mandoral an Ole Blood’n’guts, wot!”

“Absolutely! Three cheers for Lord Mandoral an’ Ole Blood’n . . . beg pardon, Major Blanedale Frunk. Hip hip!”

From the mast top, Pandion joined in raucously.

On her return to the mountain, Tiria sought out her room in the guest quarters. She slumped on the bed, overcome by a sense of depression. She had failed to retrieve the coronet and, to compound her misery, had had to be rescued from an eel. Having had little sleep the previous night and wearied by her ordeal in the sea, the ottermaid closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Judging by the angle of the light slanting through the window, Tiria guessed it was early evening when she was awakened by somebeast knocking on her door. She sat up, yawning and stretching.

“Come in, please.”

Captain Rafe Granden marched smartly in and deposited the regalia which Mandoral had given Tiria on the bedside table. The tough-looking hare saluted her.

“Lord Mandoral’s compliments, miz. He requests that y’join him at top table for dinner this evenin’. He sent these togs so’s you can attend in full fig, wot.”

Tiria took one look at the regalia and shook her head. “I’d rather not, Cap’n Rafe. Give his Lordship my apologies. I’ll be staying here on my own.”

The stern-faced captain looked straight ahead, continuing to speak as if he had not heard the ottermaid. “Dinner’ll be served shortly, miz. I’ll send Subalterns Quartle an’ Portan to escort ye t’the mess. Ye’ll be dressed an’ ready to attend!”

Tiria protested. “But I’ve just told you—”

Captain Granden interrupted her abruptly. “I must inform ye, miz, any refusal would be taken as an insult t’the ruler o’ Salamandastron. Nobeast refuses a Badger Lord, not done, young ’un, rank bad form, y’know. So, I’ll leave ye t’make yourself presentable. Y’servant, miz!”

The captain’s tone left Tiria in no doubt that she was to be Mandoral’s dinner guest, willing or not. He saluted stiffly and marched speedily off.

Tiria had hardly donned the new attire when her two subalterns arrived. Both were taken aback at her appearance. Quartle bowed several times, and Portan tripped over his own footpaws whilst trying to make an elegant leg.

He grinned foolishly. “I say I say I say, blow me down an’ all that, wot wot!”

His companion was equally voluble. “By the cringe an’ by the flippin’ left, Miss Tiria, if you ain’t a perfect picture, I’ll eat me aunt’s pinny!”

Tiria had to admit to herself that the regalia fitted her exquisitely. She felt every inch the warrior queen, even though she lacked a coronet. Taking both the young hares’ proffered paws, she smiled regally.

“Let us proceed to the mess, chaps, wot!”

As they strolled down the corridor to the main mess hall, Tiria could hear massed voices raised in a regimental song.

“Here is our mountain an’ this is its Lord,

now sit we down at festive board,

come put aside weapons, both lance an’ sword,

let’s honour the regiment.

One two! I’ll drink to you!

an’ all my comrades good an’ true!

We’ll raise the tankard, fill the bowl,

to Salamandastron’s Long Patrol!

For warriors fallen from the ranks,

defending western shores,

let’s toast ’em all, each gallant hare,

who died for freedom’s cause!

Let blood’n’vinegar be our cry,

forward the buffs an’ do or die,

we don’t know fear or failure,

Eulalia! Eulaliiiiiaaaaaaaa!”

Amid the rousing cheers, shouts and paws pounding tables, Tiria was escorted to her place. She was seated between Lord Mandoral and Cuthbert, flanked by Captain Granden and some very senior-looking officers. When the noise had reached deafening proportions, the brazen boom of a big gong echoed through the mess. With the exception of those at top table, every hare shot bolt upright in rigid silence.

An old colonel, rake thin and sporting long, drooping mustachios, waited until he received the Badger Lord’s nod. Then, in a wobbly voice, he announced, “Gentlebeasts, ye may be seated!”

There followed a resounding clatter of benches and chairs. Then the customary din broke out afresh. Good-humoured ribaldry went back and forth as the orderlies wheeled out laden serving trolleys.

“I say, chaps, who’s that beautiful gel sittin’ next to his Lordship, wot?”

“Well, it ain’t you, Mobbs! You could blinkin’ well turn apples sour by just lookin’ at ’em!”

“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Gribbsy, you’ve got no eye for beauty at all. Hah, your motto is, if ye can’t eat it, then it ain’t nice!”

“Give your bloomin’ jaw a rest, Mobbs old lad. What’s for dinner, cookie old thing?”

The supply master sergeant, a huge hare with a broken nose, glared at the offender. “A dry crust an’ a short whistle if’n you call me cookie again, me laddo!”