Mattimeo Part 3

I'd strangle a snake, all for the sake Of lovely nutbrown beer. . . .

Nuhuhuhut broooowwwwwnnnnn beeeeheeeyer!"

Upstairs in the vegetable store, Mrs. Lettie Bankvole was remonstrating with her young offspring baby Rolio. He had learned the words after his own fas.h.i.+on and was singing uproariously in a deep rough gurgle, 44.

"I strangle a snake an' wet his throat, I wrestle a dragon an' steal his coat-"

"Baby Rollo! Stop that this instant. Cover your ears and help me with this salad."

"I wallop a snake wiv a old rock cake-"

"Rollo! Go and play outside and stop listening to those dreadful songs. Strangling dragons and swigging beer -where will it all end?"

Mattimeo was finding out that roses had sharp thorns. For the second time that day he sucked at his paw, nipping out the pointed rose thorn with his teeth. Tim Churchmouse had gone off shrimping with the otters, Tess stayed behind out of pity for the warrior's son.

"Here Matti, you stack those baskets on the cart for your mum. I'll arrange the roses for you. You've got them in a right old mess."

Mattimeo winked gratefully at her. "Thanks, Tess. I'm about as much use as a mole at Hying, with all these flowers. I never thought it would be such hard work."

"Then why did you volunteer for it?"

"I never volunteered," he explained. "Dad said I have to do it as part of my punishment for fighting with Viteh."

Tess stamped her paw. "Oh, that little rat. If s so unfair, it was he who provoked you into that fight. Look, mere he is now, over by the tables, having a sly sn.i.g.g.e.r at you."

Mattimeo saw Vitch, leaning idly on a table. He sneered and pulled tongues in the young mouse's direction.

Mattimeo felt his temper rising. "I'll give him something to stick his tongue out at in a moment," he muttered under his breath. "I'll throttle him so hard if 11 stick out permanently!"

Tess felt sorry for her friend. "Pay no attention to him, Matti. He's only trying to get you into more trouble."

45.

It was difficult for Mattimeo to ignore Vitch. Now the rat was wiggling a paw to his snout end at his enemy.

The young mouse straightened his back from the pile of baskets. "Right, thaf s it! I've taken all I can stand of his insults."

Quickly less dodged past Mattimeo and ran towards Vitch, who was still grimacing impudently. Angrily the young churchmouse picked up the first thing that came to her paw. It was a pliant rose stem. "Look out, Vitch, there's a great big wasp on your tail," she cried out urgently. "Stay still, I'll get it!"

Startled by Tess's warning cry, Vitch obeyed instantly, turning and bending slightly so she could deal with the offending insect. There was no sign of a wasp behind Vitch.

Tess swung the rose stem, surprised at her own temper but unable to stop the swis.h.i.+ng descent of the whippy branch. It thwacked down hard across Vitch's bottom with stinging speed.

Swish, crack!

"Yeeehoooooowowow!" The rat straightened like a ramrod. Leaping high in the air, he rubbed furiously with both paws at the agonizing sting.

Cornflower came hurrying over. "Oh dear, the poor creature. What happened, Tess?"

The young churchmouse looked the picture of innocence, though she felt far from it. Blus.h.i.+ng deeply she stammered an excuse.

"Oh golly. Vitch had a wasp on his bottom, but I couldn't brush it off in time. I think he's been stung."

Vitch was thras.h.i.+ng about on the gra.s.s, tears squeezing out onto his cheeks as he rubbed furiously at his tender rump.

Cornflower was genuinely concerned. "Oh, you poor thing. Don'trubit, you'll make it worse. Go to Sister May at the infirmary and she'll put some herb ointment on it for you. Tess, show him where it is, please."

46.

Scrambling up, Vitch avoided Tess's paw and dashed off, sobbing.

Tess turned to Mattimeo. "Aaahhh, poor Vitch. It must be very uncomfortable," she said, her voice dripping sympathy.

Mattimeo tried hard to keep a straight face. "Indeed it must. If s a terrible thing to be stung on the bottom by a churchmouse, er, wasp, I mean."

Cornflower put her paws about them both. "Yes, of course. Now you two run off and play. There may be other wasps about and I don't want either of you stung."

"Come on, Matti, lef s go water-shrimping with Tim and the otters," Tess suggested.

"Great, I'll race you over there. One, two, three. Go!"

Cornflower shaded her eyes with a paw as she watched them run.

"What a lively young pair," she said aloud.

Mrs. Churchmouse arrived, carrying a pansy and kingcup bouquet. "Yes, but you watch your Matti. He'll let her win. He's very fond of my little Tess."

"Bless them, that's the way it should be." Cornflower nodded, smiling.

47.

It was late afternoon on the common land at the back of Saint Ninian's. Slager had marshalled his band of slavers. Threeclaws the weasel and Bageye the stoat stayed inside the ruined church, together with the wretched little group of slaves, who had been manacled to a running chain. They were to await the return of Slagar and the others that night.

Now the Sly One reviewed his force. They were dressed as a band of travelling performers. None looked evil, Slagar had seen to that. Every ferret, stoat or weasel had a sifiy grin painted on its face with berry stain and plant dyes, and all wore various types of baggy comical costume. The fox swept up and down the line, adjusting a ruffle here, affixing a false red nose there.

Dressed as the Lord of Mountebanks, Slagar the Cruel looked neither comical nor amusing. There was a mysterious air about him, hooded and caped in swirling patterned silk which showed the black lining of the moon and stars motif at every turn.

"Right, listen carefully. Throw down any weapons you are carrying. Right now!" His voice was a warning growl, flatly dangerous.

There was an uneasy shuffling. The slavers were apprehensive of entering the Abbey without weapons.

48.

Slagar paced the ranks once more.

"Last chance. When 1 say throw down your weapons, I mean it. Next time I walk around I will search you, and anyone carrying a weapon - anyone, I don't care who -I'll kill that creature with his own armoury. I'll gut him, right here in front of you all. Now, throw down your weapons!"

There was a clatter. Knives, hooks, swords, strangling nooses, daggers and axes fell to the ground like a sudden shower of April rain.

Slagar kicked at a saw-edged spike. "Wartclaw, gather 'em and sling 'em into the church until we get back. The rest of you, form up around the cart, ten in front pulling, the rest at the sides and back shoving. We'll take the path nice and easy now, travel at a steady pace. That'll bring us there in the early evening."

As they trundled along the path, the Sly One said to his minions, "Leave all the talking to me, I know these creatures and I can handle them. n.o.body talks, is that clear? I don't want any loose-tongued addlebrain blowing the gaff by mistake. If anyone speaks to you, then pull a silly face, smile and turn a cartwheel. Act the goat. You're supposed to be a travelling entertainment, so look amusing. If they ask us to share their food, which they probably will, then mind your manners and don't go piggin' it down. Take a slice or a portion of whatever and pa.s.s the bowl to your neighbor. If there's ladies present, then be polite and offer them the food first, before you start wolfin' it down your famine-fed gobs. Be friendly with the little ones and keep your eyes out for any likely looking youngsters, straight-limbed, st.u.r.dy. Don't for the claws' sake recognize Vitch. You've never set eyes on him before. Right, any questions?"

Fleaback held up a paw. "Er, how'll we know when the moment is right, Chief?"

"I'll tell you, dunderhead."

49.

Halftail was a little puzzled. "But how will you know, Slagar?"

The Sly One looked at him pityingly. "Because they'll be asleep, nitbrain."

"How will you know that they're all going to go asleep together at the same time?" Halftail persisted.

Slagar patted his belt pouch. "Don't worry, I'll see to that. Oh, and after we've put on our performance, don't drink anything, whatever you do. When you are sitting at the table you can drink what you like, but not once you've left the table to perform."

"Dun huh huh hu!" Skinpaw laughed oafishly. "Yer goin' to drug 'em, aren't you, Chief?"

Slagar looked down from his perch on the cart. "I'll drug you if you don't shuttup, rurniphead."

Halftail piped up again. "But if we drug 'em all, whaf s to stop us taking over this Redwall place ourselves?"

The Sly One nodded. "I was wondering when somebody was going to ask me that one. Well, I'll tell you. I think the place is bad luck. Others have tried and failed, and I mean real warriors, not like you dithering lot. No, all I want is slaves and revenge. A mere pawful of rabble could never hold a place like that. You'll know what I mean when you see the big badger, or the otters. They really know how to fight. They're not afraid of death if their precious Abbey is threatened."

"And we're going in there unarmed?" Halftail's voice sounded shaky.

"Of course we are, halfwit," the fox said sarcastically. "You can bet they'll search us, and we wouldn't last a second if they found arms on us. That Matthias the Warrior would go at us like a thunderbolt."

"Matthias the Warrior? Is that the badger?" Halftail asked.

"No, he's a mouse."

"Haha, a mouse," Skinpaw sneered.

"Yes, a mouse. But you won't laugh when you see him. That one's a born warrior. He has a sword too, and I think it's magic!"

"A magic sword! Hoho, I might just borrow that for meself," Halftail howled.

"Stop the cart!" Slagar commanded.

Immediately the cart ground to a halt. The silken mask puffed in and out furiously with savage temper.

"Don't dare touch that sword. Its magic is only for the Redwall mice; there's probably a spell on it. It would be the death of us. Stick to the slaving, do you hear me? If 11 be bad enough stealing his son, but if you follow my plan we'll get away with it."

There was an ominous silence. Dust rose off the path where the cart had stopped. The slavers looked doubtfully at one another, the unspoken question hanging like a rock in their mouths.

Steal the son of such a warrior, so that was Slagar's revenge. A fearsome warrior with a magic sword, strong enough to protect a whole abbey.

"Who told you to stop? Come on, stir your stumps and get this cart moving," Slagar told them.

They pushed and pulled with mixed emotions.

"Do as you're told and I'll make you rich," Slagar egged them on with his sly tongue. "You all know me, Slagar the Cruel, the Sly One. Nowhere is there a cleverer slaver than me. I am the Lord of double-dealing, and my plan will easily confound an abbeyful of honest woodlanders. There's not a stoat, weasel, rat, ferret or fox among them; they're too n.o.ble for their own good. They'll never find us. I will have my revenge on Redwall and you will all be rich, when we go to sell them where none can follow."

Scringe the ferret asked the question, dreading the answer as the words tumbled out.

"Where'll we sell the slaves, Chief?" He swallowed hard and wished he had not spoken.

"In the Kingdom of MalkarissM!"

A moan of despair arose from the slaving band.

Slagar was talking of the realm of nightmare.

Nadaz, the purple-robed Voice of the Host, led a party of Mack-robed rats up from the depths of the underground construction. The causeway steps wound their way around the sides of the abyss, from the green misted deeps to the broad torchlit ledge. The blackrobes halted, and Nadaz came forward until he stood before the statue of Malkariss. Sometime in the distant past it had been carved from a column of limestone which stood near the brink of the ledge. The thick column was the result of stalagmite meeting stalact.i.te, and it reared from the ledge to connect with the high arched cavern ceiling. It was carved into a monstrous effigy of a white polecat with teeth of rock crystal and eyes of the darkest black jet. The torchlights from a large wheel-shaped chandelier illuminated the terrifying idol. Nadaz bowed his head and began chanting, "Malkariss, Ruler of the pit, Lord of the deep and dark, I am Nadaz, the Voice of the Host To which your servants hark. Hear me, O Ruler of eternal night, Whose eyes see all we do. King of the void beneath the earth, we bring our pleas to you."

53.

"Speak, Nadaz. Tell me that my Kingdom is ready." Malkariss's voice was a labored hiss which echoed around the rocks as it emanated from between the un-moving crystalline teeth of the statue.

The purple-robed rat stretched his daws in supplication. "Lord Malkariss, the rocks will not haul themselves, nor will they be cut into blocks to be laid one on another. Four more slaves have died of late. We need more workers, strong young woodland creatures who can labor for many seasons."

Nadaz stood awaiting his master's answer, not daring to look up at the awful glittering jet eyes.

"Are there no more new captives lying in my cells?"

"Lord, the cells have stood empty for a long time now."

"What of the longtails at the river; have none pa.s.sed this way?"

"None, Lord, who dares to climb the high plateau and risk the pine forest."

"Hmmmm. Then you must carry on with what you have and work them harder. Get word to Stonefleck. Tell him to watch for the masked fox. He has been gone two seasons now."

There was a prolonged silence. The torchlights flickered and winked from the flecks of mica and crystal which studded the cavern walls as the blackrobes stood impa.s.sively at the head of the steps, waiting upon the Voice of the Host. Finally Nadaz bowed.

"Malkariss, I hear and obey!"

Turning, he swept through the ranks of blackrobes, leading them back down the causeway steps. They were soon lost in the green mist that arose from the depths. From below, there came the sound of chiselling and hammering, the sc.r.a.ping of great stones being dragged and the crack of whips, intermingled with the weak anguished cries of young woodland slaves imprisoned beneath the earth into a life of forced labor.

The statue of the immense white polecat stood alone in the torchlight. A sigh emanated from the mouth.

"Aaaaanhhhh, my kingdom!"

54.

At Redwall, sporting events for the youngsters had been going on since early afternoon. Matthias woke refreshed. He sat on the west wall steps with John Churchmouse, Abbot Mordalfus, Basil Stag Hare and old Ambrose Spike. They drank cider and watched the antics of a young mole trying to s.h.i.+n up a greased pole to retrieve the bag of crystallized fruits from its top. The little fellow was over halfway up, further than any had got, and the watchers on the steps yelled encouragement: "Dig your claws in, Gilly. You'll make it!"