The Taggerung (Redwall)

  About the Book

  Sawney Rath, ferret chief of the Juska tribe, and his ruthless band of villains kidnap a baby otter from Redwall to raise him as the Taggerung – a legendary animal said to have supernatural fighting skills. The young otter is trained to be a ruthless killer, but the Redwall spirit lies deep within him and as he grows older he begins to dream of another life . . .

  ‘Not since Roald Dahl have children filled their shelves so compulsively’ The Times

  About the Author

  Before he started writing books for children, Brian Jacques’ life was as full of adventure as the stories he creates. At the age of fifteen he went to sea and travelled the world, before returning to his home town of Liverpool, where he still lives today. He has worked as a stand-up comedian and playwright and now hosts his own programme, Jakestown, on BBC Radio Merseyside. For twenty years, his bestselling Redwall books have captured readers all over the world and won universal praise.

  For more information about Brian Jacques and his work please visit his website www.redwall.org.

  Also by Brian Jacques

  Lord Brocktree

  Martin the Warrior

  Mossflower

  The Legend of Luke

  Outcast of Redwall

  Mariel of Redwall

  The Bellmaker

  Salamandastron

  Redwall

  Mattimeo

  The Pearls of Lutra

  The Long Patrol

  Marlfox

  The Taggerung

  Triss

  Loamhedge

  Rakkety Tam

  High Rhulain

  Click onto the Redwall website and find out more about your favourite characters from the legendary world of Redwall, and their creator, Brian Jacques!

  www.redwall.org

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781446432341

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  THE TAGGERUNG

  A RED FOX BOOK 978 1 862 30245 7

  First published in Great Britain by Hutchinson,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  A Random House Group Company.

  Hutchinson edition published 2001

  Red Fox edition published 2002

  Red Fox edition reissued 2007

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Text copyright © The Redwall Abbey Company Ltd, 2001

  Illustrations copyright © Peter Standley, 2001

  The right of Brian Jacques and Peter Standley to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Red Fox Books are published by Random House Children’s Books,

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  www.redwall.org

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Book One

  The Babe at the Ford

  * * *

  Book Two

  Fifteen Seasons On

  * * *

  Book Three

  Deyna

  * * *

  * * *

  Prologue

  My father always says that the life of a scholar is more rewarding than that of a cook. When I asked him why, he told me it is better to have ink on your paws than flour on your nose. But then he grew serious and explained to me that to be a Recorder at Redwall Abbey is a great honour. He said that my writings will form part of our Abbey’s history. They will remain here for all creatures to see, for ever and ever. Then he laughed and said that no matter how much care goes into the making of a piecrust, it disappears in the space of a single meal. So I am serving my apprenticeship under that good old mouse, Brother Hoben, our senior Recorder. Old Hoben sleeps a lot these days, so I get lots of practice. I am finding more and more that I like to write. My mother thinks my writing shows a great talent. But mothers are like that, aren’t they?

  I have been working since last winter on the strange tale of the Taggerung. I have spoken to many Redwallers about it in the evenings, and spent my days writing it up. What a story it is! Brother Hoben says that every good tale should have the proper ingredients and they are all here, believe me. Sadness and joy, comedy and tragedy, with a little mystery sprinkled throughout and quite a good dose of rousing action. Sounds a bit like a cooking recipe to me. Be that as it may, I have finished writing the account. This evening I am due to start reading my narrative to all the Redwallers, in Cavern Hole. Winter is the best time for stories: a good warm fire, some tasty food and drink, and an attentive audience. Who could ask for more? I can see the snow lying deep on the ground outside our gatehouse; icicles are hanging from the trees instead of leaves. Daylight is fading as night steals in early. All that remains for me to do is to wash this ink off my paws, get my scarf . . . oh, and wake Brother Hoben. The old fellow is in his armchair, snoozing by the embers of the fire. Then it’s off to Cavern Hole to read the tale to my friends. I’m really looking forward to it. Would you like to come and listen? I’m sure you’ll be welcome. If you don’t know the way then follow me and Brother Hoben, though it will take a while, as he shuffles quite slowly and has to lean on me. By the way, don’t forget to wipe your paws before entering the Abbey. Oh, and another thing, please compliment my dad on his Autumn Harvest soup; I know that will please him. Right then, away we go. Watch out for Dibbuns throwing snowballs. Come on, we don’t want to be late. Silly me, how can we be late? They can’t start without me. I’m the one who will be reading the tale of the Taggerung, you know. But I’ve already told you that. Sorry. Up you come, Brother Hoben, you can sleep by the fire in Cavern Hole. But don’t snore too loud or my mother will wake you up and tell you not to interrupt her talented daughter’s wonderful story. That’s mothers for you, eh!

  Sister Rosabel,

  Assistant Recorder of Redwall Abbey.

  BOOK ONE

  * * *

  The Babe at the Ford

  * * *

  1

  The clan of Sawney Rath could feel their fortunes changing, much for the better. Grissoul had predicted it would be thus, and the vixen was seldom wrong. Only that day the clan foragers had caught a huge load of mackerel which had strayed into the shallows of the incoming tide. Fires blazed in the scrubland beyond the dunes that evening, as the fish, skewered on green withes, blistered and popped over the flames. Sawney was not as big as other ferrets, but he was faster, smarter and far more savage than any stoat, rat, weasel, fox or ferret among his followers. Anybeast could lay claim to the clan leadership, providing they could defeat Sawney in combat, but for a long time none had dared to. Sawney Rath could fight with a ferocity which was unequalled, and he never spared the vanquished challengers. Sawney’s clan were nomads, sixty all told, thieves, vagrants, vagabonds and tricksters who would murder and plunder without hesitation. They were Juska.

  Many bands of Juska roamed the coasts, woodlands and byways, but
they never formed a united force, each choosing to go its own way under a strong Chieftain. This leader always tacked his name on to the Juska title, so that Sawney’s clan came to be known as the Juskarath. Though they were little more than dry-land pirates, Juska vermin had quite a strict code of conduct, which was governed by Seers, omens and superstition.

  Sawney sat beneath the awning of his tent, sipping a vile-tasting medication which his Seer Grissoul had concocted to ease the stomach pains which constantly dogged him. He watched the clan, noting their free and easy mood. Sawney smiled as some of the rats struck up a song. Rats were easily pleased; once they had a full stomach and a flagon of nettle beer they would either sing or sleep. Sawney was only half watching the rats, his real attention focused upon the stoat Antigra. She lay nursing her newborn, a son called Zann. Sawney could tell Antigra was feigning slumber from the hate-laden glances she threw his way when she thought he was not looking. Sawney Rath’s eyes missed very little of what went on around him. He pulled a face of disgust as he sniffed the mixture of feverfew and treacle mustard in the cup he held, and, spitting into the fire, he muttered the newborn stoatbabe’s name.

  ‘Hah, Zann!’

  Grissoul the Seer stole up out of the gathering darkness and placed a steaming plate of food by his side. He glanced up at the vixen. She was an odd-looking fox, even for a Seer. She wore a barkcloth cloak which she had covered in red and black symbols, and her brow, neck and limbs were almost invisible under bracelets of coral, brass and silver. About her waist she wore a belt from which hung a broad pouch and bones of all kinds. One of her eyes was never still.

  Sawney tipped the plate with his footpaw. ‘Am I supposed to eat this mess?’

  She smiled coaxingly. ‘Yar, ’tis the mackerel without skin or bone, stewed in milkweed and dock. Thy stomach’ll favour it!’

  The ferret drew from his belt a lethally beautiful knife, straight-bladed, razor sharp, with a brilliant blue sapphire set into its amber handle. Delicately he picked up a morsel of fish on the knife point, and tasted it.

  ‘This is good. I like it!’

  Grissoul sat down beside him. ‘None can cook for thee like I.’ She watched him eating awhile before speaking again. ‘Th’art going to ask me about the Taggerung, I feel it.’

  Sawney picked a sliver of fish from between his teeth. ‘Aye. Have there been any more signs of the Taggerung?’

  Antigra interrupted by leaping up and thrusting her baby forward at them. ‘Fools!’ she shouted defiantly. ‘Can’t you see, my Zann is the Taggerung!’

  The entire camp fell silent. Creatures turned away from their cooking fires to see what would happen. Sawney stood up, one paw holding his stomach, the other pointing the knife at Antigra.

  ‘If you were not a mother nursing a babe you would be dead where you stand. Nobeast calls Sawney Rath a fool!’

  Antigra was shaking with rage. The baby stoat had set up a thin wail, but her voice drowned it out.

  ‘I demand you recognise my son as Taggerung!’

  Sawney gritted his teeth. Thrusting the dagger back into his belt he turned aside, snarling at Grissoul, ‘Tell that stoat why her brat cannot be called Taggerung!’

  Grissoul stood between them, facing Antigra, and took a starling’s skull, threaded on thin twine, from her belt. She swung it in a figure of eight until the air rushing through the eye and beak sockets made a shrieking whistle.

  ‘Hearken, Antigra, even a long dead bird can mock thee. Shout all thou like, ’twill not make thine offspring grow to be the Taggerung. You it is who are a fool! Can thou not see the omens are all wrong? Even though you call him Zann, which means Mighty One, he will never be the chosenbeast. I see all. Grissoul knows, take thou my word now. Go back to your fire and nurse the babe, and be silent, both of ye!’

  Antigra held the newborn stoat up high, shaking the babe until it wailed even more loudly. ‘Never!’ she cried.

  Sawney winced as his stomach gave a sharp twinge. He turned upon the stoat mother, roaring dangerously, ‘Enough! You have heard my Seer: the omens are wrong. Zann can never be called Taggerung. Unless you want to challenge me for the leadership of the clan and change the Juskarath law to suit yourself, I command you to silence your scolding tongue and speak no more of the matter!’

  He turned and went into his tent, but Antigra was not prepared to let the matter lie. Everybeast heard her shout after him: ‘Then you are challenged, Sawney Rath!’

  His stomach pains immediately forgotten, the ferret Chieftain emerged from the tent, a half-smile hovering round his slitted eyes. Vermin who had seen that look before turned away. Only Antigra faced him as he asked quietly, ‘So, who challenges me?’

  He saw the creature, even before Antigra replied, ‘Gruven, the father of Zann!’

  Gruven stepped forth from the shadows. In one hefty paw he carried a small round shield, in the other a tall slim spear, its point shining in the firelight. He struck a fighting stance, his voice loud and clear.

  ‘I challenge you, Sawney Rath. Arm yourself and face me!’

  Sawney had always liked Gruven. He was a valuable asset to the clan. Big, strong, but not too intelligent. Sawney shook his head and smiled patronisingly.

  ‘Don’t do it, Gruven. Don’t listen to your mate. Put the spear and shield down; live to see your son grow up.’

  Antigra whispered something to Gruven which seemed to embolden him. He circled away from her, jabbing the spear in Sawney’s direction. ‘I’ll live to see my son become Taggerung. Now fight like a Juska, or die like a coward!’

  Sawney shrugged off the insult. ‘As you wish.’ He turned, as if to fetch his weapons from the tent, then half swung back, as though he had forgotten to say something to the challenger. ‘Oh, er, Gruven . . .’

  There was a deadly whirr as the knife left Sawney’s paw. Gruven coughed slightly, a puzzled look on his face, then fell backward, the blade buried in his throat up to its decorative handle. Sawney finished what he had been saying. ‘Don’t ever hold your shield low like that, it’s a fatal mistake. Grissoul, I’ll see you in my tent.’

  Ignoring Antigra’s wails, Sawney beckoned the vixen to sit beside him. ‘What have you seen?’

  Grissoul emptied her bag of stones, shells and bones on the ground, nodding sagely. ‘See thou, my omens have fallen the same since the end of the last rain. Our Taggerung is born at last. There are other Juska clans abroad in the land, and any of these would deem it a great honour to count him as one of them. Such a beast is a talisman of great power. The Taggerung can change the fortunes of a clan. Nobeast is mightier; none can stand before a Taggerung. Long seasons have passed since such a warrior lived. Who would know this better than thee, Sawney, for was not thine own father the chosen one? Ah, those were glorious days. Our clan was the largest and most feared then. Everybeast had to bow their heads to your father. Zann Juskarath Taggerung! Can you not remember the respect he commanded wherever we went—’

  Sawney cut the Seer off impatiently. ‘Cease your prattle about my father. I know how great he was, but he’s long dead and gone. Tell me more of this new Taggerung. How do you know he’s born, and where do we find him?’

  The vixen studied a single speedwell flower, which she had picked earlier that day. It was pale pink, with three fat petals and one thinner than the others. She smiled slyly.

  ‘My visions tell me a mark shaped like this little blossom will be upon him, or maybe her, for who can tell if Taggerung be male or female?’

  Just then a weasel called Eefera entered and gave Sawney his knife back, cleaned of blood traces. Sawney dismissed Eefera and placed the blade lightly against the Seer’s nose.

  ‘You said any clan would deem it an honour to count him as one of them. The Taggerung will be a male creature. Stop playing your little games and get on with it!’

  Grissoul turned the knifeblade aside with one paw. ‘He will have the speedwell mark on him, where I know not. See thou these two bones, fallen next to each other, with this shell a
cross the ends of both? That means a river, or a stream, and the shell is for a place where those who dwell not in the waters may cross the stream. Do thou see it also?’

  Sawney nodded. ‘That means a ford. The long path from north to south has such a ford, where the stream crosses it in Mossflower country, a good five-day march from here.’

  Grissoul closed her eyes, swaying back and forth. ‘Today I saw a hawk strike a dove in the air. Their cries mingled, and gave out together a bell-like sound.’

  Sawney gave a start. ‘You mean the old Abbey of Redwall! That’s the only place that gives out bell sounds in all that region!’

  The Seer kept her eyes shut. ‘Methinks that would be it.’

  Sawney grabbed Grissoul’s shoulder so tightly that her eyes popped open. He pulled her close, his voice like a rasp. ‘Speak not to me of Redwall. I would not go within a mile of it. I have listened to the talk around the campfires since I was nought but a whelp. The place is accursed!’

  He released the quivering vixen and gestured dramatically. ‘I am not stupid. The history of Redwall Abbey has taught me a lesson. I know how many warlords and conquerors, with vast hordes and mighty armies to back them, have been defeated by the woodlanders who dwell behind those walls. Even in the seasons long before our great-grandsires’ ancestors were born. You’ve heard their names, everybeast has. Cluny the Scourge, Slagar the Cruel, Ferahgo the Assassin, and many others. All of them defeated and slain. But I’ll tell you one name that won’t be added to the list. Sawney Rath, Chieftain of the Juskarath!’

  Grissoul spoke soothingly to calm Sawney’s rising ire. ‘Nay, fret thou not. The bell-sound omen is a warning, telling thee not to go near yon red Abbey. Beware the sound of the bell!’

  Sawney spat neatly into the fire. ‘Hah! I already knew that. I’m as wise as any omen. Just tell me what part Redwall Abbey plays in all this?’