High Rhulain

None of this concerned the big hawk as it fought for its life. The bird was cornered, even though it had ripped through the catching net with its fearsome talons. It choked and spat at the remnants of the tidbit which had lured it into the snare. But there was something it could not rid itself of: a star-shaped iron barb, which the bait had been wrapped around. It had pierced the roof of the big bird’s mouth; one of the tips protruded from under its beak. Blood bubbled onto the hawk’s throat feathers as it hissed defiance at two young feral cats. They circled their quarry, yowling and spitting, looking for an opening to catch their fierce prey unawares.

Riggu Felis, Warlord of the Green Isle Cats, stood watching his two sons, scorning their efforts to dispatch the wounded bird. The wildcat chieftain turned impatiently to the pine marten, Atunra, his aide and constant companion.

“Gwurr! Is this a kill or a dance? Look ye, they fight like two frightened frogs!”

Atunra flinched as both young cats leapt back, a hair’s breadth from the wounded hawk’s lethal talons. “The big bird is a dangerous fighter, Chief. It is wise they do not rush in at it.”

Riggu Felis gave a snort of derision. Casting aside his single-bladed war axe, he threw off his battle helmet and cloak, oblivious to the wind and rain.

“Garrah! I have raised cowards for sons! Step aside, ye weaklings. I can snap that thing’s neck like a twig!”

As his two sons gave way, the big wildcat bounded in. Tail waving, ears flattened and fangs bared, he howled his challenge. “Arrrreeeekkaaarrrr!”

The wildcat chieftain made a barbaric sight, but the hawk was a born warrior and not easily daunted. Shaking its wings free of the last net strands, it powered itself straight at the foebeast’s face, avoiding the outstretched claws. The savage, hooked talons struck true, deep into the area betwixt eyes and nostrils. Spreading its mighty wings, the big bird flapped a short distance into the air.

Riggu Felis screeched in pain, hanging helpless for a brief moment. Then his weight sent him crashing to the ground as the hawk winged upward and out of the trees. Both the young cats and the pine marten dashed forward to help, but too late. The bird had flown.

High into the raging gale it swooped, where it was flung by the elements into the maelstrom of keening wind and battering rain. Up and away it went, like a dead leaf in an autumnal gale—head over tail, talons over wings, a flurry of dark brown and white plumage, resembling a tattered quilt. Off, off, over glade, swamp, stream, sward and lough, across dune and shoreline. Out over the thunderous might of raging seas.

The warlord Riggu Felis lay senseless on the wet earth. His sons looked on in horrified awe as Atunra inspected the gruesome injury inflicted by the bird. Quickly she held his head facedown, wiping away the gore as she issued hasty instructions to the young feral cats.

“Jeefra, Pitru, run and get help. I’ll try to keep him breathing while he’s unconscious. Hurry now!”

Jeefra ventured a question. “Is he going to die? Has the big bird killed him?”

The pine marten snapped back, “Nay, he will live, as long as I can stop him choking on his own blood. Go now!”

Pitru leaned over Atunra’s shoulder. The pine marten kicked out at him. “Don’t tarry there gossiping, go and get help—a healer, carriers, bandages and salves. Half of his face is gone, ripped off, most of the muzzle, all of the nose, and his top lip, right down to the teeth and gums. Go quickly, stop for nought. Hasten, before your father bleeds to death!”

As they dashed off through the trees, Atunra stared down at the ravaged features of Riggu Felis. “Ye still have two eyes, though if ye see that face reflected in water, you’ll wonder why I saved ye. Still, half a face is better than none. Now Riggu Felis will be able to slay his enemies with just a look, methinks!”

Lycian still had her best seasons before her. She was rather young to be Mother Abbess of all Redwall. However, nobeast could deny that the pretty, slender mouse possessed wisdom, judgement and the good sense of most creatures twice her age.

On the west parapet of the Abbey’s outer walltop, Lycian and her constant companion, the molemum Burbee, basked in the welcome morning sun, sitting on their portable chairs enjoying mugs of hot mint and comfrey tea.

Burbee scratched her velvety head with a huge digging claw, exclaiming in curious mole dialect, “Hurr, marm, ee wuddent think this morn wot a terrible stormen et wurr larst noight, burr, nay ee wuddent!”

Lycian, surveying the gentle blue sky, blinked in the warm sunlight. “Thank goodness Mother Nature is in a calmer mood today. Just listen to that lark, what a beautiful song she’s singing! Can you hear it?”

The molemum had to listen a while before she could discern the sound. She nodded, smiling. “Hurr aye, marm, ’tis aseedingly noice!”

Lycian began singing a song from her Dibbun days, which harmonised perfectly with the bird’s trilling.

“When the new day is dawning