Doomwyte

Bisky raced ahead, shouting, “I was right, it’s daylight, comin’ through a hole in the ceilin’. C’mon, mates!”

The young mouse put on an extra burst of speed, outdistancing his companions. He arrived in the golden-moted shaft of light. A shadow passed overhead. Cupping paws about his mouth, Bisky called out, “Lend a paw up there, we’re from Redwall Abbey!”

A carved rock about the size of an apple, attached to the end of a long, greased line, struck Bisky on the side of his head. He slumped forward, half-stunned, the line whipping round his body. Several other similar lines hit him, snaring the young mouse completely. A multitude of paws hauled him swiftly up through the hole. Shrill voices chanted jubilantly, “Yikyik! Gorramouse! Yeeeeeeeh!”

Skipper could not make out what was going on up ahead. Hearing the sounds, he dashed toward the shaft of light. Not being as fast, Umfry stumbled behind, calling anxiously, “Where’s Bisky gone, ’as somethin’ ’appened to ’im?” Almost at the spot, Skipper skidded to a halt.

Dark shapes were pouring through the hole, lots of them. Another cry rang out. “Hiyeeeh! There’s more, gerrem, gerrem!”

Suddenly the passage was crowded with foebeasts. In the gloom, Skipper could not make out who, or what, they were. Acting instinctively, he hurled his lantern at their front ranks. Turning, he grabbed Umfry. “Out of here, mate, quick!”

Phut! A plumed splinter of wood shot the otter just above his right footpaw. Kicking it out, he pushed Umfry into a headlong run.

“There’s too many of ’em. Get goin’ or we’re finished!”

Both otter and hedgehog fled for their lives, with the screeching mob at their heels.

“Yeeeyeee! Gerrem, catcher ’em! Hiyeeee!”

BOOK TWO

A Prince’s Descendants

Was there ever such a thieving tribe?

13

The passage to the right was not only pitch-dark, but it began going downhill sharply. Bosie was in the lead, he dug his footpaws in and held on to the damp rocky wall, calling advice to Samolus and Dwink. “Och, iffen this gets much steeper, we’ll fall doon tae who knows where. We’d be best tae rope oorselves taegether.”

Dwink passed the rope, which they looped about their waists before continuing. It was just as well that they were roped together, because Dwink slipped. Dropping his lantern, the young squirrel gave a yell of dismay as he shot past his companions. Samolus was too late to stop Dwink. He bumped into Bosie.

“Grab the rope, stop him!”

The rope played out, then tautened. Bosie grabbed a rocky protrusion, bracing himself, steadying Samolus by pinning him against the wall. They both stared downward, watching Dwink’s lantern light disappearing into nothingness. Dwink’s voice came up to them, tight and urgent.

“Don’t let me go, hang on to the rope, I’ll try an’ climb up. Don’t let go o’ that rope, keep a tight hold!”

By the light of Bosie’s lantern, both he and Samolus could see that they were on a narrow rim. Below them yawned a wide, massive hole, a pit which looked bottomless. The mountain hare shouted to Dwink, “Are ye alright doon there, laddie, d’ye want us tae pull ye up?”

Dwink’s answer carried a touch of indignation. “I’m a squirrel, y’know, I can get myself up.”

Samolus could not resist a wry rejoinder. “If’n yore so nimble, then how did ye manage to fall down there, eh?”

Dwink was about to reply when a booming voice interrupted, “Beware the eye of death and the pit of lost beasts! Go back now, or die! Woooooooooh! Baliss!”

Dwink scrambled up onto the ledge like a shot. He huddled behind his two friends. “Who said that?”

The phantom voice echoed out again. “Your fate is sealed if ye do not turn back now. I am the Eye of Death, I see all, heed my warning! Woooohooohhhhhh! Baliss!”

Dwink was frightened. He whispered to Samolus, “There’s nothin’ for us down here, we’d be better doin’ wot the voice says an’ turnin’ back!”

The mountain hare, however, was made of sterner stuff. Clipping Dwink’s ear lightly, he called into the dark void, “Ach, away wi’ ye! Eye o’ Death mah grannie’s apron! Ah’m the Laird Bosie McScutta o’ Bowlaynee, a braw warrior, an’ frit o’ naebeast. If’n Ah’m no mistaken, ye have the voice o’ a bird. So hearken tae me, auld Deatheye, d’ye see mah blade?” He waved the sword of Martin in the lantern light, adding as it shimmered and shone in the gloom, “Lissen, mah friend, Ah’ll clip yore wings wi’ this bonny thing, aye, an’ send ye intae yer own pit!”

A soft, green light appeared at the far arc of the narrow ledge. As it travelled closer, the light increased in brilliance. Samolus swallowed hard as it approached them.

“Great seasons, what creature has an eye that size?”

Bosie nudged him, none too gently. “Haud yer wheesht, y’auld ninny, let’s see what it has tae say for itself!”