Read Online Loamhedge by Brian Jacques - Free Book Online Page A

Stugg scowled. “My farder says Raga Bol be’s wicked!”
    Abruc tugged his son’s rudder. “Go an’ help yore mamma now.”
    Lonna watched the young otter shuffle off. “He’ll grow up to be a fine big creature someday.”
    Abruc smiled. “Aye, Stugg’s a good liddle son.”
    Abruc sought Lonna’s paw and pressed something into it. “Yore weapon was too badly broken to fix. I wove ye a new bowstring. Mayhap ye’ll need it when y’leave here.”
    Lonna held the cord where he could see it better.“Thankee, friend. ’Tis a fine, tough one, well woven and waxed. This is a good and thoughtful gift.”
    Abruc flushed with pleasure. “Ye have only to ask if ye need ought else. We’ll do our best to find it.”
    The giant badger closed his eyes, speaking softly. “I’d be obliged if you could get some ash shafts for arrows, and a few long stout yew saplings, so I can choose one to make a new bow from.”
    Shoredog replied. “We saved yore quiver an’ the arrows, too. Me an’ Abruc know some stream otters not too far from here. They coppice a yew grove. We can have ye a selection of good saplings by tomorrow night. Now sleep, Lonna, ye must rest if yore goin’ to get better. Relax an’ sleep.”
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    A short time thereafter, Lonna allowed Marinu to feed him. Then he drifted off into slumber whilst Sork tended to his hurts. In his sleep he visioned Raga Bol, swinging down at his face with the broad-bladed scimitar. The big badger concentrated all his energy and thoughts on the Searat’s savage features.
    Mentally he began chanting, over and over, “Look and you will see me! Know that I am Lonna Bowstripe! The earth is not big enough for us both! I will come on your trail! I will find you, Raga Bol! I will seek you out no matter where! The day of your death is already written on the stones of Hellgates!”
    Whilst the big badger was sleeping, young Stugg crept in to see him. The expression of hatred on Lonna’s ruined features was so frightening that the young sea otter ran from the cave.
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    Raga Bol was still out on the heathlands, trekking west with his Searats. They were camped on the streambank in what had once been a vole settlement. Amid the smoke and carnage of burning dwellings and slain voles, the barbarous crew fought among themselves over the pitiful possessions and plundered food.
    Wirga, the wizened old Searat who had healed Raga Bol’s severed stump, stood watching her master chewing on a strip of dried fish.
    With the silver hook tugging at the fish as he pulled totear it apart, Bol grinned wickedly at Wirga. “See, I told ye, the further west we go, the better the pickin’s get. This stump o’ mine ain’t painin’ so much now. Aye, an’ the weather’s gettin’ better, too.”
    Wirga gestured round at the slain vole bodies lying on the bank. “Fling ’em in the stream an’ this’d make a good camp for the night, Cap’n.”
    Bol picked his teeth with the hooktip. “Aye, ’tis nice’n’restful ’ereabouts now. Hahaha!”
    Dutifully, Wirga laughed with him. Her cackling trailed off as she saw her captain go off into a vacant silence, his eyes opening wide as the fish fell unheeded from his mouth.
    Wirga stared at him anxiously. “What is it, Cap’n, a bone stuck in thy gullet? Let me take a look!”
    As she bent toward him, Raga Bol recovered and kicked her roughly away. “Break camp, we’re movin’ out!”
    The healer was bewildered at this sudden change. “But Cap’n, thee said . . .”
    Wirga narrowly dodged an angry slash from the silver hook.
    Bol booted the fire left and right, scattering it. “I said we’re movin’ out, we ain’t stayin’ in this place. Now shift yoreself an’ get the crew together!”
    He strode off, to