Brian Jacques - Redwall 06 - Martin The Warrior

"Amid the deep white winter snow, Sleeps Mossflow'r until spring, While snug

in Cavern Hole below, All Redwall's creatures sing. Old autumn gave us plenty,

Our harvest did not fail, No plate or jug is empty, There's good October ale/'

Three young creatures, the otter twins Bagg and Runn, accompanied by Grubb,

their molefriend, hauled a small beech log between them along the path to

Redwall Abbey. The intrepid trio kept stopping to clear away the snowdrift

building up in front of the log as they dragged it through the snow. Singing

lustily, they pelted each other with snowballs, their breath rising in white

plumes as they ran around the beech log.

"Yaow! You'm a drefful villyun, Baggo, leggo oi!" "Hahah! I'll save you,

Grubb. Take that!" "Missed me! You couldn't hit the Abbey gate if you was

stooden in front of it, Runn!"

"Ho, couldn't I then? Well, 'ave some of this, mate!" The young otter flung

the snowball, Bagg ducked. Unaware that two travellers were coming along the

path

from the north, they hurled snowballs wildly at each

other.

"Oof! Great seasons, go easy there!"

One of the travellers, a large sturdy hedgehog, had been struck by a snowball.

He wiped snow from his snout with the edge of his cloak. The three young ones

stopped throwing and hung their heads sheepishly. Grubb took it on himself to

apologize.

"Hurr, us'ns tumble sorry, zurr. Be you'm 'urted?"

The hedgehog's travelling companion, a very pretty mousemaid, stifled laughter

at the sight of the three delinquent snowballers.

"Oh, I'm sure Bultip will live. He's had worse

injuries."

Grinning, the big hedgehog nodded. "I have indeed, mates. Come on, I'll help

you with your log. Where are you bound with it?"

Bagg curved his mittened paw as he pointed. "Jus' round that bend, sir, to

Redwall Abbey. We live there." Bultip nodded at his companion as he took the

tow-rope in strong paws. "I told you we'd find the Abbey on this path. Right,

you three terrors, sit up on the log and I'll give you a ride. You too,

Aubretia, rest your

footpaws."

There was little doubt the hedgehog was a mighty beast. Tossing the rope

across his shoulder, he trudged off through the snow, hauling the log and its

passengers behind with no trace of effort.

Redwall Abbey stood backed by the vastness of Mossflower Woods, its front

facing the path and open flatlands to the west. Capped with snow, the

beautiful building resembled a vast frosted cake, walls, battlements,

belltower and Abbey fringed with icicles hanging over its red sandstone towers

and turrets.

Abbot Saxtus folded his paws into wide habit sleeves, gazing up at the main

building. Beside him old Simeon

the blind herbalist leaned on a hawthorn stick, sniffing the cold air.

"Looks beautiful, doesn't it, Saxtus?"

Knowing his friend's uncanny knack of sensing every movement, the Abbot

nodded. "Remember what our old friend Abbot Bernard said before he passed on:

No matter what the season, Redwall always looks marvellous."

Simeon sniffed the air again and held up a paw. "Somebeast is coming this way.

One, maybe two—it's hard to tell."

They stood out on the path by the open main gates. Saxtus watched until he saw

the party approaching.

"I might have known. It's Bagg, Runn and Grubb. They've brought company, two

travellers."

Simeon tapped his stick on the snow eagerly. "Oh good, we'll have some fresh

tales in Cavern Hole tonight!"

Old Friar Cockleburr hurried along with the preparations for a Midwinter

Mossflower Feast, helped by his assistant, Alder. Both mice worked furiously,

putting the finishing touches to dishes as they called out orders to the

Redwallers on kitchen duty.

"Brush more honey on that pie if you want a good shiny crust!"

"Pass those chopped nuts and greensap milk, please."

"Quick, pull those pasties from the oven before they're too brown!"

"Durry Quill, will you stop loading hotroot pepper into that soup!"

"Ohhh, leave me be, soup's gotter be 'ot t'be any good."

Paws on hips, Cockleburr glared at the hedgehog. "I wish you'd go back to your

cellars and see to the drinks with your Uncle Gabriel. Go on, be off with

you!"

Durry popped a candied chestnut into his mouth and spoke round it. "Drinks're

all ready, 'tober ale, elder-

berry wine, strawb'rry cordial an' fizzy dannelion cup— nowt to do in cellar.

Old Nuncle Gabe, he's takin' a nap afore feastin', restin' 'is stummick."

Aubretia and Bultip had been shown round the Abbey. They gaped and

marvelled at the great structure, expressing their admiration for it at

every opportunity. Later they had been shown to their rooms by a Foremole. Now

rested, washed and garbed in warm old green habits, they came down to the

place called Cavern Hole to attend the feast. Aubretia smiled at the gallant

young male mice who flocked about her, each one trying to outdo the other as

they saw to every need of the pretty stranger in their midst.

"Sit here, Miss Aubretia, next to me."

"No, sit here, it's more comfortable. Here's a cushion."

"You must have travelled far. Let me get you some

food."

"Perhaps you'd like to try some elderberry wine. It'll

take the chill of your long journey away, Miss Aubretia." Abbot Saxtus looked

over the top of his spectacles, wagging a paw. "So much help for one

traveller! Aubretia, come and sit here with Bultip and Simeon. Here, I'll push

up a bit so you'll be next to me. Why shouldn't a venerable old Abbot have the

pleasure of a pretty mousemaid's company?"

Aubretia curtsied and smiled. "Why not indeed,

Father Abbot!"

Bultip had a massive appetite. Scarcely had grace been said when he was

munching away, sampling this and that as he allowed old Gabe Quill to fill his

tankard. "Redwall October ale, finest in Mossflower. Try it with some nutbread

an' yellow sage cheese, young 'og."

Aubretia sipped from her beaker and shuddered. "Whoo! Taste's lovely, full of

tiny bubbles too. What is

it?"

Simeon pushed a large confection toward her. "It's called fizzy dandelion cup.

Very nice with snowcream

pudding and damsons—fill your plate. My nose told me today when we met that

you are a healer. Am I right?"

Aubretia looked surprised at the blind mouse's keen perception. "Yes, you're

right Simeon. I am a healer."

Simeon reached out and took hold of Bultip's hefty paw. "And you, sir, I don't

think you are a healer somehow."

"I'm no healer," the stout hedgehog chuckled, "just a travellin' companion

protectin' Aubretia."

The blind herbalist felt the strength of Bultip's paw as he flexed it. "I

imagine you do it very well. Woe betide the beast who stands in the way of

this paw!"

Laughter and merry chatter rose to the rafters of the big room beneath the

Abbey. There was warmth there, good companionship and good humour. Dishes went

this way and that from paw to paw, snowcream pudding, hot fruit pies, colorful

trifles, tasty pasties, steaming soup, new bread with shiny golden crusts, old

cheeses studded with dandelion, acorn and celery. Sugared plums and honeyed

pears vied for place with winter salads and vegetable flans. Aubretia and

Bultip joined in the merriment, enjoyed the food and basked in the legendary

hospitality of Redwall Abbey.

It was late night. Sleepy little ones had been carried off to their dormitory

beds and fresh torches placed in the wall sconces. Bultip nibbled on his

fourth pastie. Draining a tankard of October ale, he looked about at the still

chattering Redwallers bantering with one another across the tables.

"Does nobeast ever sleep in this place, Simeon?" The herbalist shrugged. "Are

you tired, friend?" Bultip blew on a bowl of hot soup. "Not me, I'm wide awake

now."

The Abbot watched the soup disappear. "Good, that's the spirit! None of us has

to rise early and work tomorrow. It's winter, and there's not a lot to do save

eat and

sleep, so we eat when we're hungry and sleep when we feel like it. How does

that suit you, Aubretia?"

The mousemaid sat back contentedly. "It suits me fine, Abbot. What happens now

we're finished feasting?"

Foremole looked up from his turnip 'n' tater 'n' beetroot pie. "You'm

travellen beasts, may'ap you'm gotten gudd stories to tell us'ns, rnizzy. We'm

'card all our tales ten 'undred toimes o'er."

Cushions and chairs were set in a half-circle round the big fireplace, fresh

logs placed on the fire, damped down with snow-soaked herbs to give a sweet

aroma to the air. Every Redwaller who did not want to sleep took a seat.

Aubretia and Bultip were installed in carved highback chairs. The audience

settled down, watching the two travellers eagerly.

"Today as we walked through your beautiful Abbey we saw a tapestry," the

mousemaid began. "1 immediately recognized the mouse pictured there, Martin

the Warrior. As I understand it he is the guiding spirit of this place and one

of its founders. Do you know much

about him?"

Abbot Saxtus sighed, shaking his head slow. "Martin has always been here to

guide us in times of trouble. His presence was felt when two of our young

ones, Dandin and Mariel, were here. Unfortunately they have been gone a season

and a half now. Martin's presence has not been felt since. We know too little

of our Abbey Warrior. 1 dearly wish we knew more."

A faint smile hovered about the face of Aubretia. She leaned forward and

looked at the Abbot and his Redwal-lers sitting in the flickering firelight.

"Then you shall, for I have a long and great tale to

relate to you...."

It is said that Badrang's dream was to be Lord of all the Eastern Coast. A

former corsair, he ceased plundering the high seas to carve out his own empire

on land. He chose good territory, facing the Eastern Sea, with hills to

the north, cliffs to the south, marshes to the west and wild forests beyond.

Secure at the edge of the shoreline the battle-hardened stoat could defend his

position from any attack. There he set about making his dream become reality,

a fortress of timber and stone.

Marshank!

Badrang was Chieftain of a horde: weasels, ferrets, foxes and rats. He did not

trust other stoats, considering his species to be the most cunning and

resourceful of all creatures. Scuttling his crippled ship on the northwest

coast, Badrang had set out overland, striking for the far coast where corsairs

and searats seldom sailed the grey-blue waters of the great Eastern Sea. As he

travelled, the vicious stoat ravaged the land, killing those he could not

conquer and enslaving those he could. It took two long seasons until he

finally arrived triumphant at his destination, laden with plunder, backed by

his ruthless horde and driving a long chain of wretched slaves before him.

Badrang set his slaves to work, forcing them to carve a rock quarry and

commence building his fortress. The work went well, and soon a living quarters

was erected, followed by a perimeter guard wall with its gates facing the

shoreline.

He scanned the open sea each day, for he had made enemies among his own kind

when he was pirating. Fortunately there was never a sign of sail or ship on

the horizon. However, he bullied and drove both slave and hordebeast to have

the fortress fully built and established. Only then could he rule completely,

burning and killing his way in all directions until he was absolute ruler of

all he surveyed. Tyrant! Badrang loved the sound of the word.... Tyrant!

BOOK ONE

The Prisoner and the Tyrant

He was only a young mouse, but of strong build, with a glint in his eye that

proclaimed him a born fighter. A creature of few words who never chattered

needlessly. The early summer sun of the Eastern Coast beat down pitilessly on

his unprotected head as he carried and stacked chunks of rock beside the

masons who would shape it into blocks that would enlarge Fort Marshank.

A weasel Captain named Risk swaggered up/ cracking his long whip

threateningly, looking for an excuse to cut loose on the slaves who toiled in

the dusty heat around him. His eye settled on the young mouse.

"You there, liven yourself up! Come on, stir yer stumps. Lord Badrang will be

round for an inspection soon. Get movin' or y'll taste my whip!"

The mouse dropped the rock he was carrying and stood staring levelly at the

bullying weasel. Hisk cracked the lash viciously, the tip flicking the air a

fraction from his victim's face. The young mouse did not move. His eyes hooded

over as he stood in silent defiance.

The weasel Captain drew the lash back to strike, but the bold, angry eyes of

the young slave seemed to challenge him. Like all bullies, the weasel was a

coward at heart. Averting his gaze from the piercing stare, Hisk

11

snapped his whip in the direction of some more timid

creatures.

"C'mon, you worthless idlers, no work, no food. Move your carcasses. 'Ere

comes Lord Badrang!"

Flanked by his aides, Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox, Badrang the Tyrant

strode imperiously onto the site. He waited while two hedgehogs hurriedly

built him a makeshift seat from stone blocks. Skalrag swiftly covered it with

a velvet cloak. Badrang sat, gazing at the work going on around him.

The stoat Lord addressed Hisk: "Will my fortress be finished before summer is

out?"

Hisk waved his coiled whip about at the slaves. "Lord, if the weather was

cooler an' we 'ad more creatures..."

Badrang moved swiftly in his anger. Seizing a pebble, he hurled it, striking

Hisk on the jaw. The weasel Captain stood dumbly, blood trickling from his lip

as the Tyrant

berated him.

"Excuses! I don't want to hear complaints or excuses, d'you hear me? What I

need is a fortress built before autumn. Well, don't stand there snivelling,

get on with

it!"

Immediately, Hisk got to work, flaying about with the whip as he passed on his

master's bad mood.

"Move, you useless lumps! You heard Lord Badrang, Marshank must be ready

before the season's out! It'll be double the work an' half rations from now

on.

Move!"

An old squirrel was staggering by, bent double under the burden of a large

rock. Hisk lashed out at him. The whip curled around the aged creature's

footpaws, tripping him as he dropped the rock. The weasel began laying into

his victim, striking indiscriminately at the old one's frail body.

"You worthless layabout, I'll strip the mis'rable hide

off yer!"

12

The lash rose and fell as Hisk flogged away at the unprotected creature on the

ground.

"I'll teach yer a lesson yer won't ferget..."

Suddenly the whip stopped in midswing. It went taut as Hisk pulled on the

handle. He tugged at it but was yanked backwards. The young mouse had the end

of the whip coiled around his paw.

Hisk's eyes bulged with temper as he shouted at the intruder, "Leggo my whip,

mouse, or I'll gut yer!"

The weasel reached for the dagger at his waist, but he was not fast enough.

The mouse hurled himself upon Hisk. Wrapping the whiplash round the Captain's

neck, he heaved hard. Hisk thrashed furiously about in the dust, choking and

slobbering as the lash tightened. Gurrad blew a hasty alarm on a bone whistle

he carried slung about his neck.

In a trice the mouse was set upon by the nearest six guards. He disappeared

beneath a jumble of ferrets, weasels and rats as they pounded him mercilessly,

stamping upon his paws and breaking his hold on the whip. They continued

relentlessly beating him with spearhandles, rods and whips until Badrang

intervened.

"That's enough. Bring him to me!"

His paws pinioned by whips and a spear handle pulled hard across his throat,

the young mouse was dragged struggling and kicking into the stoat Lord's

presence.

Badrang drew his sword and pressed the point against the young one's heaving

chest. Leaning forward, he hissed into the captive's face, "You know the

penalty is death for attacking one of my horde. I could run you through with

my sword right now and snuff out your life. What d'you say to that, mouse?"

The strong young mouse's eyes burned into the Tyrant's face like twin flames

as he gritted out, "Scum! That sword is not yours, it belongs to me as it

belonged to my father!"

Badrang withdrew the swordpoint. He sat back, shaking his head slowly in

amazement at the boldness of the creature in front of him.

"Well well, you're not short of nerve, mouse. What's

your name?"

The answer was loud and fearless.

"I am called Martin, son of Luke the Warrior!"

"See the roving river run

Over hill and dale

To a secret forest place,

O my heart, Noonvale.

Look for me at dawning

When the sun's reborn

In the silent beauty

Twixt the night and morn.

Wait till the lark ascends

And skies are blue.

There where the rainbow ends

I will meet you."

The mousemaid Rose sat quite still as the last tremulous notes of her song

hovered on the evening air. From a vantage point in the rocks south of

Marshank she looked out to sea. The water was tinted gold and scarlet from

soft cloud layers, reflecting the far westering sun at her back. Below on the

shore an ebbing tide gurgled and chuckled small secrets to itself as it lapped

the

pebbles.

"Hurr Miz Roser, you'm cumm an' get this yurr supper. Oi bain't a-cooken

vittles to lay abowt an' git cold 'n' soggy. Bo urr no."

Rose's companion Grumm waved a heavy digging paw at her, and the mousemaid

wandered over to join her mole friend at the low fire he had been cooking on.

She sniffed appreciatively.

"Hmm, wild oatcakes and vegetable soup! Good old Grumm, you could make a

banquet from nothing."

Grumm smiled, his dark velvety face crinkling around two bright button eyes.

He waved the tiny ladle which he always carried thrust through his belt like a

sword.

"Hurr, an' you udd charm'ee burds outener trees with yurr sweet talken, mizzy.

Set'ee daown an' eat oop."

Rose accepted the deep scallop shell full of fragrant soup. Placing her

oatcake on a flat rock across the fire to keep it warm, she shook her head as

she sipped away.

"You're worse than an old mousewife, Grumm Trencher. I wager you'd rock me to

sleep if I let you."

Grumm wagged the small ladle at her. "Hurr aye, you'm needen all yore sleep.

Urrmagine wot yore ole dad'd say iffen oi brought 'ee 'ome tired out an'

a-starved, hoo arr!"

The mousemaid took a hasty bite of oatcake, fanning her mouth. "Oo, 's hot!

There'll be no sleep for us until we've found out whether or not Brome is held

captive in that dreadful fortress."

Grumm wiped his ladle clean with some sedge grass. "May'ap ole Brome jus'

a-wandered off 'n' got losed, may'ap 'ee bain't catchered in yon fortress."

Rose shook her head.

"You must understand, Grumm, the name Brome and the word trouble go together.

He was always in trouble with Father at home—that's why he went off wandering.

You weren't there at the time but they had a furious argument over Brome just

taking off and roaming as he pleased. Father said it was no way for the son of

a Chieftain to learn his responsibilities, but Brome wouldn't listen, he ran

off alone. Well, we've tracked him this far, Grumm, and I'm certain that my

brother has run straight into trouble again. That's why I'm sure he's been

taken by Badrang's scouts. I hope that he hasn't been forced to tell them

where Noonvale is. The whole tribe of Urran Voh would be in danger if Brome

gave away our location to that filthy Tyrant."

Grumm refilled Rose's shell with vegetable soup.

"Doant'ee fret, mizzy. Ole Brome can keepen his'n mouth shutted toighter'n a

mussel at low toide, ho urr!"

The mousemaid unwound the throwing sling from about her waist. "I hope you're

right, Grumm. I'd hate to think of the things those vermin would do to a young

mouse to get information."

The mole patted Rose's back gently with a heavy digging claw. "Doant'ee wurry,

Roser. Us'll get ole Maister Brome out'n yon pest'ole iffen him be in thurr."

When they had finished eating they extinguished the fire and broke camp. A

stiff breeze had sprung out of the east, bringing with it a light spatter of

raindrops which threatened to get heavier as night set in.

Scrambling down the rocks, the two friends gained the shore, their paws making

soft chinking noises as they trotted through the shingled tideline. Marshank

stood grim and forbidding up ahead, a dark hump of misery in the moonless

night.

16

The old squirrel Martin had saved peered through the cracks of the wooden

slave compound at the lone figure tied between two posts on the walltop above

the, main gates. His son, a burly male named Felldoh, stood behind the elder.

He gritted his teeth savagely.

"The scurvy toads, they'll pay for this someday!"

Barkjon, the old one, shook his head sadly. "Martin will have a bad time

tonight if the weather gets worse."

Felldoh thumped a sturdy paw against the wooden compound fence. "It's the

morning I'm more worried about, when the gannets and gulls and those other big

hungry sea birds come searching for food and see him tied up there. They'll

rip Martin to bits!"

A weasel guard called Rotnose banged his spearbutt on the fence alongside

Barkjon's nose.

"Gerraway from there, you two, or you'll be next up there with the mouse.

Double work for you tomorrow. Get some sleep while you can. Sweet dreams now,

haw-hawhaw!"

Floodtide returned, bringing with it a storm. The gale shrieked, driving heavy

rain before it. On the walltop Martin bowed his head against the battering

elements. It was all that he could do, tied as he was by four paws between two

thick wooden posts. Rain plastered the

17

single frayed garment he wore close to his body, and the wetness ran down his

back, into his ears, across his eyes and over his nose into his mouth,

battering his bowed head and numbing his whole body, which shook and quivered

in the ceaseless gale. He hung there, like a rag doll in the wind.

Martin's mind went back to the caves on the northwest shore where he had been

born. Luke the Warrior was his father. He had never known a mother; she had

been killed in a searat raid when he was a tiny infant. Luke had raised him

the best way he could, but Luke was a warrior and sworn to the destruction of

searats and corsairs. He was unused to rearing babies.

Martin was only two seasons out of infancy when his father and some other

warriors captured a searat galley after a hard pitched battle on the

shoreline. Flushed with success and driven by the awful rage to take vengeance

upon his wife's murderers, Luke the Warrior gathered a crew and decided to

sail off in his prize vessel, to wage war on the searats. Martin remembered he

was still very young, but fired with a determination to accompany his father.

Luke, however, would not hear of it. He left Martin in the care of his wife's

mother, Windred. The day he sailed Martin sat stonefaced outside the cave.

Luke could not reason with him.

"Son, son, you would not last two moons out there on the high seas. I cannot

risk your life pitting you in battle against the sea scum I am sworn to do war

with. Listen to me, I know what is best for you!"

But Martin would not listen. "I want to sail on the ship and be a warrior like

you!"

Luke spread his paws wide and sighed with frustration. "What am I going to do

with you, Martin? You have my warrior spirit and your mother's determination.

Listen, son, take my sword."

It was a fighting sword and well used. Luke pressed it into his son's paws.

The young mouse gazed wide-

18

eyed at the battle-scarred blade and gripped the handle tight as if he would

never let go.

Luke smiled, recalling the time when his father had passed the sword on to

him. Tapping a paw against the crosshilt, Luke said, "I can see it is in you

to be a fighter, Martin. The first thing warriors must learn is discipline."

Martin felt as though the sword were speaking for him. "Tell me what to do and

I will obey."

Relief surged through Luke as he commanded the would-be warrior. "You will

stay and defend our cave against all comers, protect those weaker than

yourself and honor our code. Always use the sword to stand for good and right,

never do a thing you would be ashamed of, but never let your heart rule your

mind."

He tapped the blade once more as its pitted edge glinted in the winter

morning.

"And never ever let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as

you live. When the time comes, pass it on to another, maybe your own son. You

will know instinctively if he is a warrior. If not, hide the sword where only

a true warrior who is brave of heart, would dare go to find it. Swear this to

me Martin."

"I swear it, on my life!" The young mouse's grey eyes reflected the wintry sea

as he spoke.

Coming back to reality, Martin lifted his head in the teeth of the gale. Was

it a tear, or just rain running from his eyes as he pictured the small figure

standing upon the pebbled strand alone, waving the sword in a warrior's salute

as his father's ship was lost on the horizon in an afternoon of snow and icy

winter spume.

Martin's head slumped onto his sodden chest as he recalled the day of his

capture. Timballisto was a budding warrior, several seasons Martin's senior.

He had been left in charge of the tribe by Luke. The young mouse resented his

older friend's authority and often showed it by wandering far along the coast,

away from the safe boundaries of the caves. It was on one such

day that Martin took his father's sword, following the tideline north until

the short winter afternoon began darkening. He was busy chopping away with the

great blade at a driftwood log, reasoning that he could not be scolded for

bringing back firewood to the cave fires.

Windred saw him from afar. She had been following his pawtracks since early

Brian Jacques - Redwall 06 - Martin The Warrior

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