The Sable Quean (14 page)

Marjoram pulled herself together resolutely. “Yes, you’re right. I’d best see what we can do for him. I need to talk with that one.”

Globby was lying in a crumpled heap, footpaws twitching, forepaws clasped tight to his chest. The Abbess turned him over carefully, calling to Bartij, “Go and bring something for him to drink.”

She lifted the young stoat’s head. He coughed, a harsh, rattling noise from his blood-flecked lips.

Marjoram came right to the point. “Globby, what’s happened to our two young ones, a squirrelbabe and a tiny mole? Where are they, d’you know? Have they been taken?”

Globby peered up at the Abbess; his eyes were drooping. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

Something told Marjoram that the stoat’s life was ebbing fast. She continued more urgently, “You must tell me—where have the little ones gone? Say something, Globby, speak!”

The Ravager stared at her. He shook his head weakly.

Martin’s words flashed through Marjoram’s mind. She leaned close to Globby, whispering desperately, “Corim, Althier—does that mean anything to you? Think! Corim . . . Althier?”

The young stoat seemed to recover momentarily. He moved as if trying to sit up straight, his eyes wide as he pointed a shaking paw toward the open window. “Althier . . . Althier . . . Sable Quean!”

Then he gave one last bubbling sigh as the life fled from his broken body.

Accompanied by Bartij, Sister Fumbril hurried in. She took a flask from her satchel of medications, but Marjoram shook her head.

“He’s gone, just like Brother Tollum.”

Fumbril nodded sadly. “I passed Skipper on the landing—he was carryin’ Tollum downstairs. An awful thing, Mother Abbess, dreadful! I know ’tis not the time t’be askin’ questions, but did the vermin give ye anythin’ to go on about our missin’ Dibbuns?”

Marjoram relinquished the limp form of Globby. “He never said anything about them. Then I asked him if he knew what Corim Althier meant.”

Fumbril covered the young stoat with a blanket. “Oh, an’ did he?”

The Abbess answered, “Well, he didn’t seem to know anything about the word
Corim,
but it seemed he was trying to tell me something—he looked frightened, pointed to the outside through the window. ‘Althier, Althier, Sable Quean!’ That was all he managed to say. Then he slipped away before I could ask him anything more.”

Sister Fumbril shouldered her bag. “More reason to speak with our Recorder. Let’s go and find Granvy.”

 

Vilaya the Sable Quean stared distastefully at the head of Grullba Deathwind fixed onto the pike point. She turned her attention to Kodra, the river rat who was bearing it.

“Who told you to bring that thing into my chambers?”

The big dull rat looked up at the head, as if expecting it to reply. He spoke haltingly. “Er, Lord Zwilt brought me ’ere, said to show Grullba ter yew. Er, ’e’ll be ’ere soon.”

A moment later, Zwilt the Shade appeared, dragging a laden sack behind him. Signalling to the sentries, he snapped curtly, “Give these to Thwip and Binta. Have them put with the others when they waken!”

Zwilt’s manner changed completely as he turned to Vilaya. A rare triumphant smile lit up his sinister features. “Majesty, did I not say that I would bring you the head of Grullba Deathwind? Well, here it is, along with every beast he commanded—they are with our Ravagers, at the camp in the woodlands.”

The old rat Dirva wrinkled her nose in disgust, pointing to the pike bearer. “An’ who is that big clod, eh?”

Zwilt directed his reply at Vilaya. “That’s Kodra. He’s going to be one of my captains.”

The Sable Quean’s glittering dark eyes turned to the big stolid river rat; her voice was like silk over ice. “Put that dirty thing down and come here, Captain Kodra.”

Laying the pike and its grisly burden down, Kodra approached. He stood stiffly to attention in front of Vilaya. She exchanged a sly smile with Dirva, then beckoned Kodra closer. “Now, kneel and bow your head before me, then repeat these words: ‘I will serve you until I die.’ ”

The river rat obeyed Vilaya, kneeling and repeating the oath. He flinched slightly as she patted the exposed back of his neck. Dirva sniggered, but fell silent at a glance from her Sable Quean, who issued further orders.

“Go outside now, find a stream in the woodlands, and wait until you hear my call, Captain Kodra.”

The river rat marched off with a proud smile on his oafish features. Zwilt was curious.

“I’ve never seen you do that before, Majesty . . . ?”

Vilaya showed her small, sharp teeth angrily. “That’s because you’ve never brought strange vermin to Althier. How many more of your new recruits have you told about this place? Fool!”

Zwilt was unused to being addressed in this manner. He knew how dangerous his position might become. So he answered courteously. “None of the others know about Althier. Don’t worry—I’ll have a word with Kodra. He’ll keep his mouth shut, I’m certain.”

Dirva sniggered again, and Vilaya shook her head slowly at Zwilt’s ignorance. When she spoke again, her voice was a savage hiss. “Oh, Kodra will keep his mouth shut forever—I’ve made sure of that. He won’t be talking to anybeast!”

Zwilt was puzzled. “Majesty?”

The Sable Quean held up her paw, the one that had patted Kodra’s neck. Lying flat upon it was her small dagger tipped with the poisonous adder venom. She returned it to the crystal sheath, which was filled with the deadly fluid. Vilaya exchanged another meaningful glance with the old rat, Dirva.

“Well, he did promise to serve me until his death. How long do you think that’ll be?”

Dirva cackled. “Not long, my Quean, not long at all!”

Vilaya turned to two of her Ravager guards. “Pick up Kodra’s trail. When he’s dead, push him into the stream, ’twill save burying the idiot. Take that head with you and throw it in after him. Go!”

As they hurried off, she turned her attention back to Zwilt. Obviously flustered by events, he shrugged lamely. “Majesty, accept my apologies. I didn’t think—”

The Sable Quean leaned forward, claws bared, clutching the sides of her throne, eyes blazing and fur bristling. “Althier is my own secret place, d’you hear? If you ever bring ragtag newcomers here, then I vow you’ll be following them to wait by the stream. Nobeast must know of Althier—all my plans hinge upon it!”

Zwilt the Shade bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Dirva waited for him to look up again before speaking. “What was in the sack you brought? More young uns?”

The tall sable looked to his Quean for approval. “Two hares, very young creatures.”

Vilaya toyed with her necklace of snake fangs. “I did not know there were hares in this area.”

Zwilt made his report. “As I was bringing the river rats back, I came across what looked like a small farm. These were the babes of the two hares who were working the land there. I slew the father and wounded the mother, but left her alive to tell the tale.”

Vilaya’s manner changed, her voice became silky. “You did well, my faithful Zwilt. I see you are carrying a new blade. Show me—and the medallion, too.”

Zwilt swept aside his cloak. “Majesty, there is nothing I could hide from one so keen as you.” He took the medallion from his neck, passing it over by the scarlet and black woven cord.

The Sable Quean inspected it, reading the engraved word,
Blademaster,
noting the picture of a paw holding a sword aloft. “ ’Tis of little use to me. Blademaster, eh? Do you consider yourself a Blademaster, Zwilt?”

The Shade drew the broadsword. He twirled it, allowing the lantern light to reflect along its length. “I was always the best with a broadsword, Majesty. Though only now do I truly feel like a Blademaster. My former weapon was nought but a crude lump of metal compared to this wonderful blade. Whoever forged this sword was an expert with steel. Look at the quality of it, the balance, the edge, the length. Truly wonderful!”

Vilaya placed the cord over Zwilt’s blade, letting the medallion slide back down to him. “Keep the trinket. How will you use your new sword?”

Zwilt saluted skilfully with the blade. “Only in the service of Vilaya, my Sable Quean!”

She nodded. “Well spoke, Zwilt. You may go, but I will soon use you and the sword when I make my move.”

BOOK TWO

Go Find the Babes!

10

One thing was certain, the Flitcheye had never faced two battle-crazed Salamandastron hares before. It soon became clear that the furtive vermin had bitten off far more than they could chew. The Guosim shrews, headed by Jango Bigboat, were fearless. They waded into the ragged, prancing enemy with rage and vigour, yodelling, “Logalogalogaloooooog!”

Not to be outdone, Oakheart Witherspyk seized a blazing log from the fire, laying about him like a madbeast, whilst being joined by the rest of his troupe. What they lacked in warrior’s skill they made up for in energy and enthusiasm—they invented their own war cries.

“Haharr, strewth an’ have at ye, stinky vermin!”

“Zounds an’ batter pudden, ye rascally snivellers!”

“Raxilly snivvers!” (That was baby Dubdub’s contribution.)

Diggs got to the truth of the matter when he walloped a loaded sling over a Flitcheye head. He shook his quarry like a rag doll, until all the trailing weeds, clinging vines, leaves and a barkcloth mask fell from the beast, exposing it for what it really was.

Diggs shouted, “What’n the name o’ raggedy trousers is this? I say, you chaps, these cads are nought but runty little weasels. You impudent rogues, c’mere, tatty bum!”

In a remarkably short time, the Flitcheye found themselves being soundly trounced by hares, shrews and hedgehogs. None of their assailants seemed the least scared of them. Even Trajidia found herself throttling one of them and declaiming, “For shame, you dreadful scruffy midget—trying to pass yourself off as an ambush ing warrior, eh? Take that, you snotnosed impostor, and that, an’ that’n’that’n’that! Now, are you ready for another walloping?”

Caught twixt the blazing campfire and the stream, the would-be ambushers found themselves severely punished. Their numbers were swelled when Sniffy and his band drove in the Flitcheye from the woodlands. These were the beasts who had been creating the noxious smoke.

The travellers had battled so wildly that all the fight had been knocked out of their enemies. Surrender was total.

The defeated vermin fell down, grovelling for mercy amidst agonised sobs.

“Yowwwooooow! Spare us, kind gennelbeasts!”

“Ye wouldn’t ’ave me kil’t, would ye, sirs? I gotta pore mother an’ ten liddle uns ter look arter!”

Young Rambuculus pointed the pleader out to his sister. “Hah, ye could take lessons from that rascal, Trajidia!”

Buckler restored order, bawling out in fine parade-ground manner, “Silence, you horrible lot! Next beast to make a sound gets slain forthwith. Now shut up!”

This had the desired effect. The Flitcheye fell quiet, apart from the odd groan, sob or sniffle.

Dymphnia Witherspyk glanced fearfully at Buckler. “What do you plan on doing with these unfortunate wretches?”

Baby Dubdub echoed her—“Affortunate wrenches!”—and went back to sucking his paw.

Diggs twirled his loaded sling nonchalantly. “Aye, thought up any blinkin’ dreadful fate yet, old lad?”

Jango Bigboat interrupted, with the age-old solution: “Wipe ’em all out, mate. They’d have murdered us—aye, an’ not swiftly either. I’ve ’eard tales o’ Flitcheye deeds that don’t bear thinkin’ about. Right, Sniffy?”

The Guosim scout tested the point of his rapier. “Right, Chief. The only good vermin’s a dead un!”

Oakheart protested, “ ’Pon me spikes, sirrah, you don’t mean that we should slaughter them all? It’s unthinkable!”

Oakheart’s mother, Crumfiss, a shrewd old hedgehog, looked to Buckler, who was obviously in command. “What’s your opinion, Longblade?”