Skipper, Foremole Grudd and Brink Greyspoke. Skipper shook his daughterâs paw heartily.
âStripe me rudder, gel! Thatâs a fair ole cargo oâ wood, but is that a dead bird youâve brought us?â
The little twins piped up together, âItâs a hinjerbeast, Skip!â
Abbess Lycian hastened forward to inspect the creature. âItâs alive, but only just, poor thing. How did this happen?â
Girry explained eagerly. âA gang of water rats had it tied up, hanging from a tree. They were tormenting it, but we stopped âem with our staves. Hah, you shouldâve seen Tiria, though, she charged right in and battered the bark off those rats with her sling. They soon cleared off, dirty cowards!â
Brink interrupted. âTell us later, young Girry. Letâs get this pore bird some attention afore âtis a deadbeast. Tribsy, run anâ fetch Brother Perant, heâll know wot tâdo. Brinty, go anâ get ole Quelt the Recorder. Iâll wager heâll know wot kind oâ bird this âun is.â
Molemum Burbee hitched up her vast flowery apron. âHurr, anâ oiâl goo anâ make ee gurt pot oâtea!â
Abbess Lycian smiled appreciatively at her friend. âGood idea, Burbee. Would you be so kind as to bring it up to the Infirmary? A nice cup of tea never goes amiss.â
Brother Perant was Redwallâs Infirmary Keeper and Healer. The good mouseâs knowledge of herbs, salves, potions and treatments was without peer in all Mossflower. No sooner was the bird borne into his sickbay than Perant began practising his art.
âHmm, a giant of a bird, not like any hereabouts. Probably some kind of eagle or hawk. Thereâs an object lodged inside its mouth. Nasty thing, looks like a star made of iron. See how it sticks out from beneath the lower beak? Skipper, get that hardwood pestle, force the beak open and hold it still whilst I work. Huh, wouldnât like to lose a paw if it snapped shut as I was operating!â
Most of the gentler woodland creatures had to look away as Perant pried at the object with his instruments. He worked swiftly, muttering to himself, âWhat sort of villain would do this to a living creature? Ah, here it comes . . . dreadful thing, just look at that!â
Wiping the barb clean, he passed it to Tiria. She felt the sharp edges of the iron star, her face grim as she dropped it into her pebble pouch.
âSomeday I may get the chance to pay the scum back with his own weapon!â
3
Beyond the high seas, far away on Green Isle, a monumental bulk loomed over the landscape of swamps, streams and watermeadows. The once-proud timber fortress of the Wildlough otterclan, it had been inhabited for untold seasons by cats. Riggu Felis, and his barbaric ancestors before him, had held sway over Green Isle for as long as anybeast could remember. The isle had become no place for otters to live. Apart from a small band of outlaw otters, the rest were slaves, completely subjugated by the mighty warlord and his cats. It was the catsâ home nowâa solid fortress, built entirely of pine logs, on the lakeshore. Part of the structure jutted out over the lake, where it was supported upon pillars of stone in the shallows.
On the stairs outside the upper tower chamber, Lady Kaltag, the mate of Riggu Felis, sat in a window alcove with Atunra, the warlordâs pine marten aide. Kaltagâs lustrous black tail twitched back and forth restlessly beneath her furtrimmed cloak as she waited to be admitted into the chamber.
On the lower stairs, the two sons of Felis and Kaltag were arguing and fighting. Jeefra was the burlier of the two. His brother, Pitru, was half a head shorter and not as well fleshed, but it was he who was the fiercer.
Pitru lashed out at Jeefra, snarling, âIf he dies, I will be Warlord of Green Isle. Then you will have to watch out, flabbytail!â
Jeefra dodged past him and ran