Lord Brocktree, Page 2

  A large, dim-looking stoat, Drigg’s eldest son, pushed forward. ‘Then tell us wot you got in yer bag, an’ don’t say it isn’t nothin’.’

  Dotti clucked reprovingly. ‘You mean don’t say it isn’t anything. Dearie me, I’ll bet you never attended woodland school.’

  The big stoat snarled, pawing at a long dagger he wore hanging from his belt. ‘Just show us wot’s in the bag, rabbit!’

  The haremaid wagged a paw at him. ‘There you go again with that rabbit error. Did I call you a stoat? Of course I didn’t. It’s obvious to anybeast you’re an oversized toad. Oh, sorry, the bag. Here, you take it!’

  Dotti swung the bag, hard. There was a cracking noise as it struck the stoat’s head, laying him out flat. She whirled upon the others, a perilous glint in her eyes. ‘I can forgive bad grammar and insults, but that was a good flagon of old cider, a gift for my aunt Blench, an’ that oaf has just broken it with his head. Unforgivable! Ah well, there’s only one thing I’ve got left to say to you lot . . . Eulaaaliiiaaaaaa!’

  The time-honoured war cry of fighting hares rang out as Dotti hurled herself upon the would-be robbers, laying about her with her bag left and right, leaping and kicking out fiercely with powerful rangy footpaws.

  From the shelter of a broad beech nearby, another traveller watched the mêlée. He chuckled quietly. The young hare seemed to be doing fine, despite the number of vermin she was facing. Dotti had accounted for three more stoats and was in the process of depriving the fat frowsy one of her remaining snaggle teeth when Drigg caught her footpaws in a noose. The haremaid was yanked off balance and floored as three stoats leapt upon her back. Drigg Slopmouth drew a sharp double-edged dagger and circled his fallen victim, calling to those who had piled in on her: ‘Get ’er on ’er back an’ stretch ’er neck, so’s I can get a stab in. ‘Old ’er still, ye blitherin’ oafs!’

  From his position behind the beech tree, the watcher decided it was time to step in and help the beleaguered hare. Drigg screeched in terror as he was lifted into the air and used as a swatter to knock the other stoats willy-nilly. His flailing paws swept vermin left and right, the wind was knocked from him as his stomach connected with the back of another, and stars exploded when his head cracked against the jaw of a hefty young stoat. Dotti scrambled upright swinging her bag, but there was nobeast to strike. Vermin lay everywhere, those still conscious moaning aloud, nursing their injuries. Drigg still hung, half dazed, from the paw of a mighty male badger. The huge creature looked like one who would brook no nonsense from anybeast, from his wild dark eyes and rough bearded muzzle to the homespun tunic and traveller’s cloak he wore. An immense double-hilted battle sword hung at his back. He tossed Drigg aside like a discarded washrag and nodded sternly at the haremaid.

  ‘I’ve been watching you awhile from behind yon beech. For a young ’un you were doing well, until they came at you from behind. Remember, if there’s more than one enemy always get your back against a rock or a tree.’

  The haremaid kicked over a stoat who was struggling to rise. She addressed the badger none too cordially. ‘Well you’ve got a bally nerve I must say, tellin’ a gel how t’conduct her battles, whilst you sit hidden on the blinkin’ sidelines watchin’. Are you sure it wasn’t too much bother, havin’ to jolly well get off your bottom an’ help me out?’

  The badger shrugged non-committally. ‘As I said, I thought you were doing quite well. If I’d thought you could have taken them single-pawed I wouldn’t have stepped in.’

  Dotti was subject to instant mood changes. She smiled, scratching ruefully at her long ears. ‘Hmm, suppose you’re right. I lost my head a bit when that flagon of rare old cider got broken. Confounded stoat must have a noggin like a boulder. Never lose one’s temper, that’s what my old mum used t’say.’

  The badger nodded sagely, carelessly stepping on Drigg’s tail as the stoat tried to crawl away. ‘She sounds like a wise creature to me. Pity you never heeded her words. By the way, my name’s Lord Brocktree.’

  The haremaid clapped a paw to her cheek. ‘Oh my giddy aunt! I do apologise for speakin’ to you in that sharp manner, sah. I didn’t know you were a Badger Lord!’

  A ghost of a smile hovered round Brocktree’s stern face. ‘No matter. You were upset at the time. What do they call you, miss?’

  The haremaid did an elegant leg, half bow, half curtsy. ‘Dorothea Duckfontein Dillworthy at y’service, sah, but I’m generally called Dotti, though my papa always said you could call me anything as long as you didn’t call me late for lunch. ‘Scuse me a tick . . .’

  The fat frowsy female stoat had risen and was preparing to make a run for it. Dotti reflattened her with a well-placed swing of her bag. She gestured at Drigg’s band. ‘What do we do with this covey of curmudgeons, m’lord?’

  With a fearsome swish, Lord Brocktree drew his great battle sword. It was almost as tall as himself, with a blade wide as two dock leaves. A moan of fear arose from the stoats. Holding it single-pawed between the double hilt, Brocktree swung the huge weapon, making the air thrum like a swan taking off into flight.

  Whump!

  He buried the point deep in the earth, and his voice dropped to a dangerous growl as he addressed the cowed vermin.

  ‘I save my sword for proper combat with real warriors. Scum such as you would only dishonour its blade. But I will make exceptions if any of you are still within my sight by the time I have counted to three. Remember, I always keep my word . . . One!’

  Dotti was bowled over in the mad scramble. Before the Badger Lord had counted further, Drigg Slopmouth and his wicked brood had vanished. Dotti chuckled. ‘By gum, that’s what I should’ve done in the first place. Pity I didn’t have a sword like this one. What a smashin’ old destroyer it is!’

  She tugged with both paws, unearthing the blade, then fell over backward under its colossal weight. ‘Flamin’ sunsets, sah! How d’you handle a weapon like this?’

  For answer, the badger picked up his sword, twirled it in a warrior’s salute and stowed it one-pawed across his broad back, nodding seriously at her. ‘Strength, I suppose. They say I was born even stronger than my father, Lord Stonepaw.’

  Dotti flopped her ears understandingly. ‘I know what y’mean. Beauty’s always been my curse – they say I was born more beautiful than the jolly old settin’ sun at solstice. That’s prob’ly what made those blinkin’ stoats attack me – somebeasts take beauty as a sign o’ weakness, y’know. I say, did you mention that old Lord Stonepaw was your pater?’

  Brocktree retrieved his travelling bag from behind the beech and shouldered it. ‘I did. Why, do you know of him?’

  Dotti pulled a face and scuffed the dust with her footpaw. ‘I should bally well say so. I’m bein’ sent to his blinkin’ old mountain, Sallawotjacallit . . .’

  ‘Salamandastron?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the place. My aunt Blench is the chief cook there. I believe she’s a right old battleaxe.’

  Lord Brocktree sensed a story behind Dotti’s remarks. Seating himself with his back against the beech tree, he unpacked provisions from his bulky haversack. ‘Sit down here by me, Dotti. D’you like oatcakes, cheese and elderflower cordial?’

  The haremaid plonked herself willingly on the grass. ‘Rather! I haven’t eaten for absolute ages – almost an hour, I think. Mmmm, that cheese looks good!’

  Lord Brocktree could not help but smile at the hungry youngster. ‘Well there’s plenty for two, miss. Help yourself and we’ll exchange our stories, you first. Tell me, why are you being sent to Salamandastron?’

  3

  IT WAS AN hour past dawn. The gale had passed on and the winds subsided; mist from the seas cloaked the western shoreline. Stiffener Medick, an old boxing hare, was just completing his daily exercise on the sands above the tideline. Though he was well on in seasons, Stiffener never neglected his daily routine. He had finished his dawn run, lifted stone and log weights, and was on to the final part of his duck and weave drill. Throwing a final few com
bination jabs into the mist, he retrieved his champion’s belt from a rock and began fastening it about his hard-muscled waist.

  Stiffener’s scarred ears picked up an unfamiliar sound on the ebbing tide. Batting at his nose with a loose-clenched paw, he jogged down to the water. A narrow sailing boat, with its sail furled, was being rowed in by a dozen big rats, their fur dyed dark blue. A cloaked figure stood at its prow as it cut through the sea mist. The hare stood his ground, ready for trouble. Its keel scraping on the sand, the craft nosed up on to the beach. Shipping their oars, the rats silently piled out and threw themselves prone upon the wet sand. Without a glance at them, the gowned and cowled figure used them as a bridge to reach dry land without wetting its elegantly shod footpaws, treading carelessly upon their upturned backs.

  Stiffener nodded towards the newcomer aggressively. ‘Ahoy there, mate, who are ye an’ what do ye want ’ere?’

  One of the rats arose and walked over to face Stiffener. He was a big, evil-looking creature, clad in armour under a tabard embroidered with a sickle hook insignia. The rat’s voice was heavy with contempt as he addressed the old boxing hare.

  ‘Koyah! Creatures of the lower orders are not allowed to speak with the Grand Fragorl. Kneel before her and stay silent until I address ye further!’

  Stiffener smiled dangerously at the armoured rat. ‘I think you’d better kneel t’me, laddie buck. A lesson in good manners wouldn’t’go amiss in your case.’

  A smart whack to the jaw caused the rat to totter groggily. Stiffener clubbed down with his left paw on the rat’s shoulder, forcing him into a kneeling position. Suddenly the boxing hare found himself hemmed in on all sides by the swords of the other rats. One of them looked towards the hooded figure, who made a few gestures with its shrouded paws. The rat turned back to Stiffener and spoke.

  ‘Nobeast ever raises paw to the Chosen Ones and lives. You are fortunate that the Grand Fragorl has spared your miserable life, for she wishes to deliver a message to your chief, he who rules the mountain. You will take us to him.’

  Stiffener was not about to argue with twelve blades. He nodded to the cloaked figure, speaking as he turned to go. ‘Y’best foller me, marm. I’ll take ye to Lord Stonepaw, though I doubt he’ll offer yer breakfast if’n yore bound to keep actin’ all ’igh an’ mighty.’

  Stonepaw was back in his living quarters when Fleetscut ambled in without knocking, as usual. Turning from the fogbound view at his window, the old badger raised his hoary eyebrows at the absence of a trolley. ‘No breakfast today? Has Blench overslept?’

  Grave-faced, the ancient servant bowed stiffly. ‘I think the trouble we were talkin’ about has finally arrived, m’lud. Somebeast t’see you down at the shore entrance. You’d best get dressed for company.’

  Wordlessly, Stonepaw allowed his retainer to select a flowing green robe from the closet. When the Badger Lord had shrugged out of his nightgown, Fleetscut climbed on a chair and assisted his master to get into the robe.

  ‘Hmm. I’ll get your red belt to go with that, an’ maybe a war helmet an’ javelin.’

  Stonepaw ignored Fleetscut’s selection. ‘Bring my white cord girdle. No helmet, it keeps slipping over my eyes. There’s no need of a javelin, either.’ Picking up a long ceremonial mace, the badger surveyed himself in a long copper mirror. ‘Get Stiffener, Bungworthy, Sailears and Trobee. They can accompany me.’

  Now that dawnlight was clearer and the mist had begun to disperse, one or two of the old hares watching from vantage windows in the mountain remarked on the curious appearance of the rats and their cloaked leader below, at the mountain’s main entrance.

  ‘Stap m’whiskers, they’re blue!’

  ‘Must be somethin’ wrong with your eyes, old chap. Whoever heard o’ blue rats?’

  ‘No, he’s right, see, their fur is a sort o’ darkish blue. Can’t tell what the dickens colour that one with the cloak on is. Sinister-lookin’ bod, wot?’

  Blench the cook took a final look before going off to supervise breakfast with her kitchen helpers. ‘Pink, blue or rainbow-coloured, that lot down there look like trouble, you mark my words!’

  The heavily robed figure of the Grand Fragorl stood immobile and mysterious, but the rat who had challenged Stiffener paced up and down impatiently. He was obviously some type of officer. After a lengthy while Lord Stonepaw and his retinue of four hares, all carrying javelins, appeared. The spokesrat swaggered forward. Toying arrogantly with his sword hilt, he looked Stonepaw up and down.

  ‘Are you the one in charge here? Speak!’

  Lord Stonepaw brushed past him as if he were not there, and pointed a great gnarled paw at the cloaked one. ‘Who are you and why do you trespass upon the western shore with armed soldiers?’

  Removing the cowl of her cloak the hooded one revealed herself. She was a blue-furred ferret wearing a nose ring, from which hung a gold sickle hook amulet. Her voice carried with it the haughty tone of one used to being obeyed.

  ‘I am Grand Fragorl to Ungatt Trunn, Ruler of the Earth. You are one of the inferior species, but he has given me permission to deliver his message to you.’

  Feeling his hackles begin to rise, the Badger Lord growled, ‘Inferior species, eh? Stand here talking like that to me, vermin, and you’ll be crabmeat before the mist lifts fully. Aye, and your rats too. If you have something to say then spit it out and begone whilst I’m still in a reasonable mood. So, speak your piece now!’

  Drawing a scroll from her robe the ferret read aloud: ‘Be it known to all creatures of lowly order, the days of Ungatt Trunn are here. All of these lands and the seas that skirt them are from hereonin his property. You have until nightfall to vacate this place. You must take nothing with you, neither victuals nor weapons. You will also leave behind you any serving beasts who are of use. This is the will and the law of Ungatt Trunn, he who holds the power to make the stars fall from the sky and the earth to tremble. Obey or die!’

  Stiffener Medick raised his javelin. ‘Just say the word, m’lud, an’ we’ll give ’em blood’n’vinegar. Us lower orders are pretty good at things like that, y’know!’

  Stonepaw touched Stiffener’s javelin so that it pointed down to the sand. He heaved a sigh of resignation as he replied to the Grand Fragorl.

  ‘Deliver this message back to whatever lunatic scum you serve. Tell him that Lord Stonepaw of Salamandastron is accustomed to the blowing of windbags, as your master will find to his cost if he dares to land here. Now get out of my sight and take those blue-painted idiots with you!’

  Wordlessly the ferret and her soldiers retreated to their boat and rowed off into the mists.

  Sailears, a garrulous old female warrior, twirled her lance nonchalantly. ‘Nice little parlay, wot. Well, is that it?’

  Shaking his grizzled old head, Stonepaw turned and stumped back into his beloved mountain. ‘I wish it was, friend. I wish it was!’

  4

  LORD BROCKTREE LISTENED with amusement as Dotti unfolded her story.

  ‘Well, sah, what with one bally thing or another, I was always in trouble back home in the mid-eastern hills. If a confounded pie went missin’ from a window sill, or somebeast had bin at the cider store, guess who got the blinkin’ blame? Me! Troublecauser, rabblerouser, scoffswiper – I’ve been called all of those, y’know. Not t’mention frogwalloper an’ butter wouldn’t melt in me mouth. Fiddle de dee, I say, ’twas all because of my fatal beauty. They always pick on the pretty ones, I’ve already told you that. Anyhow, just after Grandpa’s whiskers went afire an’ some villain tore the seat out of Uncle Septimus’s britches, my dear old parents made a decision. Here, cast your lordly peepers over this little scrawl!’

  Dotti dug a tattered barkcloth letter from her armbag. Brocktree’s dark eyes twinkled as he read it.

  Dear Sister Blench,

  Cramsy and I can no longer put up with Dorothea, so I am sending her to you. Your Badger Lord has our permission to deal with the wretch as he sees fit, short of slaying her; you also ma
y do likewise. Please keep her captive upon your mountain until such time as she is civilised enough to live among decent creatures. Teach her to cook and other domestic skills. I know it is too much to ask that she be taught etiquette, deportment and other maidenly pursuits – she is a fiend in hare’s fur, believe me. Sister dear, I implore you to take her off our paws whilst we still have a roof over our heads, which are grey with care and worry. I would be fibbing if I said Dorothea does not eat much. She is an empty sack with legs – her appetite would frighten a flock of seagulls. Grant her father and me this one favour, and you will have our heartfelt thanks, plus the beaded shawl Mother passed down to me and a flagon of palest old cider from Cramsy’s drinks cabinet. Please write to let me know she has arrived safely, and if she does not return by winter I will take it that she has settled down to her new life. Cramsy sends his love to you, Blench. I remain your devoted sister.

  Signed, Daphne Duckfontein Dillworthy.

  Brocktree had to turn his head aside and wipe his eyes on a spotted kerchief, to keep from laughing. Dotti, surmising that he was wiping away tears, nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Sad, ain’t it, sah, the woeful tale of a fatal beauty. I say, did you get chucked out by your parents too? You’ll forgive me sayin’, but a chap of your size must’ve taken some bally chuckin’, wot wot?’

  The Badger Lord patted his young friend’s paw. ‘No no, ’twas nothing like that, Dotti. I was restless, just like all Badger Lords before me. It grieved me to leave behind my young son. Boar the Fighter I named him. A badger’s son is his pride and joy, when he is a babe. But he must grow up, and it is a fact that two male badgers cannot live together in peace, especially Badger Lords, for that is what Boar will grow to be one day. So I had to observe the unwritten law. I left Brockhall and began roaming, to follow my dream.’

  Dotti carefully stowed the letter back in her bag. ‘Beg pardon, sah, but what dream is that?’