Doomwyte

Bosie saw what was happening; he bounded up, striking the club from the Guosim shrew’s paws. “Ach, ye cowardly wee beastie, yer nae better than a tree rat yersel’. Look up, can ye no hear that?”

The Painted Ones had given up any idea of warfare since their Chieftain had fallen. They draped themselves over the high branches, wailing and moaning. Nokko, whom they had already been introduced to, leant on his war hatchet, shaking his head. “Yer can’t fight scrinjin’ beasts like that lot.”

Tugga Bruster still thought that he was in the right. “Huh, says who? The only good painted rat’s a dead un. I say finish ’em all off!”

Nokko grinned, winking at the Shrew Chieftain. “Lissen, mate, yew go a-slayin’ all those Painty Ones, an’ all yer’ll get is wotever loot they’ve got on ’em. Wot gain is there in that, eh?”

Samolus liked the ragged Mousechief. “So, what do ye suggest we do, sir?”

The Gonfelin leader explained readily, “Well, me ould mate, wot I’d do first is to get ’em down outta those trees. Then I’d make ’em take us to their hideout, that five-topped oak. I’ll wager they’ve got plenty o’ loot stowed there, enuff fer us all to divvy up atween us. ’Ow’s that fer an idea?”

Bosie nodded. “Sounds like a bonny scheme tae me. But ye still havnae told us what we do wi’ yon bunch.”

Umfry voiced a sensible suggestion. “H’if you’ll h’excuse me sayin’, I think h’it might be better to march the Painted Ones h’off from their ’ideout, right to the flatlands beyond Redwall.”

Samolus was beginning to see the merit in the young hedgehog’s idea. “Of course, then we scatter them t’the four winds on the open plains. Without a woodland full o’ trees to hide in, and with no one to lead ’em, the Painted Ones’ll be a threat to nobeast anymore.”

Skipper chimed in, “Aye, then we can spend the rest o’ the summer at the Abbey, with all our new friends, feastin’ an’ singin’ to our ’earts’ content, mates!”

Bosie brightened visibly at the mention of Redwall feasting. “Och, now that’s what Ah call a canny scheme. Ah suggest we put it intae practice forthwith!” The Laird of Bowlaynee’s enthusiasm squashed any arguments. Everybeast set up a hearty cheer.

Spingo latched onto Bisky’s paw, overjoyed at the prospect of visiting Redwall. “Ain’t it excitin’, I’m finally gonna see where me ancestor Gonff came from!”

Bosie put up his sword, calling up into the trees, “Yore lives will be spared if’n ye come doon here now, wi’out weapons. Do ye surrender?”

There was no question, the goodbeasts had won the day.

23

Dwink had taken off into the trees at the near side of the clearing, with the hope of capturing a Painted One. If the venture were successful, Bosie and his friends could gain valuable information from interrogating the captive. The young squirrel wrapped Samolus’s long sling about his waist, and set off about his task. Launching himself from a sycamore bough, he sailed through the air, landing heavily in the swaying branches of an aspen. Grappling awkwardly amidst the foliage, Dwink quietly reprimanded himself as he regained control of his balance. “Didn’t judge that un very well, did ye mate? Out o’ practice, that’s yore trouble!”

He perched in the aspen for a moment, letting its swaying boughs settle, hoping nobeast had gotten wind of him. Dwink’s quick eyes detected a movement in a stately elm, several trees from where he was. He moved stealthily, with a swift hop, skip and a jump, landing in the low branches of a spruce. Keeping his gaze trained on the elm foliage, he spotted more twitching in a high fork. Dwink smiled grimly, muttering under his breath, “Hah, that’ll be a scout! Right then, ye painted vermin, let’s see if’n we can’t turn the tables on ye. Stop right there, I’m comin’ for ye!”

Smooth as a streamripple, the young squirrel threaded his way upward, until he reached the top section of the spruce. He was closer now, though he could not clearly make out his quarry. The telltale rustle of leaves told him the other beast was still there, but beginning to move in a sideways direction. Climbing higher, he dropped neatly down into the outspread limbs of a holm oak. Now he was next door to the elm. Unwinding the sling, he loaded it with a stone from his belt pouch. Some of the elm branches were almost touching the holm oak.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Dwink crossed from one tree into the other. His paws were trembling slightly, but he carried on upward, telling himself, “I’ll show the blighter how a Redwall warrior operates!” When he was as close as he could get to the spot where he had seen the last movement of his foe, Dwink threw caution to the winds. Whirling his sling, he raced up the final boughs of the upper tree terraces, roaring the warcry: “Redwaaaaall!” He lashed out at the leafy screen with the loaded sling. Whock! Thud! Wallop! Leaves showered about his head as he plunged in. But nobeast was there.