Doomwyte

Glisam went to the wall to one side of the tapestry. He took the blade from the silver pins which held it, passing it to Bosie. “This is the sword of Martin the Warrior. Long ago in the mists of bygone times, it was made by a Badger Lord at Salamandastron, from a piece of a star which fell from the sky. You may borrow it, to fight in defence of our Abbey and its creatures.”

The Laird Bosie McScutta of Bowlaynee took it. Testing its weight and balance, he inspected the sword from the bloodred pommel stone, to the plain, black-bound grip, over the elegant, flaring, crosstree hilt and down the channelled and embossed blade. The entire weapon shone with a radiance of its own, sharp as a midwinter ice storm, pointed like a deadly needle.

Bosie swung it, revolving the sword in a figure-eight motion. He flipped it back and forth until the blade gave out a high-pitched whine. Whipping it down to floor level, he spun it in a blinding arc of steel, leaping over the blade nimbly. Banging to a sudden halt he thrust the blade at Bisky’s face, stopping it a hairsbreadth from the young mouse’s nose. Whirling about, Bosie charged full-tilt at Umfry, yelling, “Bowlaaaayneeee awaaaaa!”

The young hedgehog stood frozen, immobile, as Martin’s sword neatly clipped a single spike from between his ears. Bosie halted his performance by holding the sword to his lips and kissing it. “Oh, mah babbies, ’tis a braw blade, an’ Ah think Ah’ve got the hang of et now. By mah sporran, yon Martin didnae have much bother bein’ a warrior wi’ a weapon sich as this beauty!”

The Abbot was full of admiration for Bosie’s prowess with the sword. “That was superb, but you said that you weren’t one for swords. Unwieldy things, so you said?”

The Highland hare shrugged. “Aye, true enough, Father, but Ah’d ne’er felt a bonny blade like this afore. Let’s go an’ take a peek at how our friend Samolus is getting on with yon door.”

They were halfway down the stairs when a loud boom rent the air. Hitching up his habit, Glisam hurried the pace. “What was that? I hope nobeast has been hurt!”

The door had been knocked flat. Samolus was dusting off his paws; he appeared to have cheered up somewhat. Skipper and Corksnout were busy hauling a barrel back up the little flight of steps.

Samolus told them how he had solved the problem. “Hah, ’twould’ve taken me more’n a day to move that lock. So I rolled a barrel of October Ale at it. Sometimes there’s nought like brute force to get a result, aye, plus a big drop of good October Ale!”

Corksnout heaved the barrel upright. “Huh, first time my ale’s been used as a batterin’ ram. Don’t seem any the worse for wear, though, do it?”

Bisky stood on the fallen door, sniffing the air of the dark, rough corridor that stretched out in front of him. “That’s strange, the air down here seems quite fresh. You’d have thought an old, sealed-up tunnel like this would be smelly, musty and dank.”

Samolus joined him. “Hmm, yore right. So, what d’you think we should do, stand here sniffin’ the air, or get on with the search for the Eyes o’ the Doomwyte?”

It was a rough and tortuous tunnel, twisting and dipping unexpectedly. Sometimes the walls were natural rock, but mostly they were earth, with roots of trees protruding downward. In places, the going was wet and sloppy, where stream- or springwater seeped through.

Bosie and Samolus led the way, with Bisky, Dwink and Umfry following. Skipper Rorgus and Foremole Gullub were rear guard. Holding their lanterns, they pressed onward into the narrow world of looming shadows and hanging roots.

It was Skipper who posed the question: “Ahoy, mateys, ye don’t mind me askin’, but have we got any clues t’go on?”

Foremole chuckled gruffly. “Hurhurr, et do sounds loike ee gudd question, zurrs, elsewhoise we’m bees a-wunderin’ willy an’ nilly!”

Bosie halted at a spot where the passage widened a bit. “Let’s halt here an’ see what we’ve got. You young uns, recite the poem again tae us.”

Dwink recited the lines, slowly and clearly.

Samolus scratched his chin. “We’ve been through most o’ that, ’twas all about the door an’ the key, that’s been solved. Give me the last four lines, Dwink, maybe they mean somethin’.”

The young squirrel recited:

“That’s a good place to begin.

What connects a front and back,

find one, and just three you’ll lack.

Pompom Pompom, the trail leads on and on.”

Skipper questioned the leading line. “What connects a front an’ back. What’s that supposed t’mean?”

Umfry explained, “We h’already solved that, ’twas h’a door, that’s the connection. Front door, back door.”

The Otter Chieftain continued, “Must be the next bit. ‘Find one and just three you’ll lack.’ Sounds to me like we’re searchin’ for just one o’ the jewels. Then there’s all this Pompom stuff. Where does that leave us?”

Bisky crouched with his back against the tunnel wall. “Nowhere, I s’pose, it says the trail leads on an’ on, but it doesn’t give any clues on where to search.”