I do not own Redwall or any locations or characters from the aforementioned book series. However, all original characters in this fic are the property of me. The first paragraph of this chapter is quoted from the book Martin the Warrior. I do not own that either. I also do not own the Terry Pratchett quote.
Hey, look, I've posted something again! For the first time in over 8 months! Yeah, I was in a bit of a rut there. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter of this up sooner. But don't bet on it.
Anyway, I thought of this after reading Kelaiah's Redwall Fanmail fic and the question that I submitted to Rose was: If she had survived and possibly married Martin, would you have allowed him to go South and ultimately defeat Tsarmina, would you make him stay with you, or would you have gone with him? The answer was, assuming that Martin heard about the crisis in Mossflower somehow, that she would go with him. However, it was mentioned that Martin wouldn't have gone south in the first place. That got me thinking: I've seen several fics the all explore the subject "What if Rose lived?" but very few of them address what actually happens to the poor woodlanders stuck with Tsarmina when Martin stays in Noonvale with Rose, they marry, etc. How would the resistance fare without the noble mouse warrior.
Thus, this fic was born. In essence, it is Mossflower Without Martin. Of course, I couldn't just start it there without some kind of explanation, so…
"It began, as many things do, with a death." –Terry Pratchett
Or in this case, the absence of one.
Location: Fortress Marshank, at the end of the end of the final attack
Badrang swung his sword. It caught the side of the ladle, sweeping Grumm away as his own ladle was smashed against the side of his head. A mousemaid threw herself on him, battering at his face with a pebble loaded in her sling. Once, twice, thrice she struck. Taken aback by the ferocity of the attack, Badrang tasted blood from a mouthwound. The loaded sling caught him hard in his left eye. Snarling with pain and rage, he grabbed the mousemaid…
It watched the battle intently, waiting for the moment. Its was an important job, and it was judged harshly by its superiors. It could not afford to fail this time. As the stoat lifted the mouse into the air, it readied the metaphorical scissors...
There was a nudge, a great many minds that willed so strongly that the being momentarily lost concentration.
Badrang hesitated for a moment, cocking his head as though he had heard something. He shrugged. It must have been nothing. Now to put paid to this blasted mousemaid…
The stoat's eyes rolled back and he toppled onto Rose. Before she could panic, however, the corpse was shoved aside by a strong-looking young mouse. The mouse walked over the sword Badrang had been holding, and with an air of finality picked it up and stabbed it into the ground. Then he looked over to the shrew dagger imbedded in the stoat's back.
And the moment was lost. The being did not notice this, however, and waited…and waited.
"I would have liked to have killed him with my father's sword," he said at length. "But it all comes to the same in the end. "
"So what are you going to do now?"asked Rose.
"I'm leaving my sword here, as a reminder. I don't need it anymore; I'm a creature of peace now. My mission to kill Badrang is finally complete, and I can live out my days in peace."
The mousemaid's paw enveloped his, "I think I can help you with that, Martin the ex-warrior."
Laughing, the two began walking paw in paw to Noonvale, where they would remain for the rest of their lives.
It was slightly puzzled. It had not been created to be imaginative, but it had the nagging feeling that something was dreadfully wrong. Still, everything seemed to have worked out alright, and the being felt no need to remain at this location any longer.
And far away, in a house situated in a leaning tree, an old molewife wept for the future.
To Lose a Sword
Act 1: Winter
Chapter 1
Location: Southeast Mossflower, approximately four seasons since the death of Lord Verdauga Greeneyes.
It was another hard winter. Ever since the mass abandonment of the settlement and the subsequent recapture of many of the escapees, taxes had risen so high that the creatures living in the miserable shacks hardly got a few bites of what they farmed. Rumor had it the Tsarmina had brought in more reinforcements that needed the food, but the truth was that the soldiers had been looking quite well-fed lately. And in the manner of somebeast who has something good and does not want to see it leave, they were punishing those who did not tribute more and more harshly. There had been three executions this season already.
One shack was situated a little ways away from the rest, and seemed a bit newer than the others. Inside this hovel a weasel and a ferret sat around a small fire, contemplating their immediate future. It wasn't very uplifting talk.
"Well, that's it. That piece a'bread was our last food. It's either starve 'r steal now," said the weasel. He was quite old, and scars crisscrossed the fur that was not covered by a heavy coat obviously made for somebeast smaller.
The ferret, who was much younger and wore an obviously valuable cloak, swallowed guiltily before answering, "We're halfway to both of them now. Do you think that Kotir would let us back in if we promised good behavior? Or we could let them capture us. Even the cells would be an improvement over this."
"Don't even talk abou th' cells. They ain't th' nice cool spot they used t'be, not after that new stoat came in. And they ain't lettin' us back in th' army. Not after yeh called Tsarmina an 'illegitimate usurper who couldn't command a dead mouse, let alone an army.' I thought yeh were supposed to be a strategist, Captain Gregory. Ain't they usually smart enough t' be a bit more tactfulthan that?"
"It had been a bad day. And I definitely paid for that," the ferret indicated with a paw the four ugly scars and one eyepatch on the left side of his face. "Besides, killing a captain didn't exactly endear you to her either."
"Yeah, but I 'ad a reason fer that. Sure as 'Gates I wasn't gonna let 'im-"
They were interrupted by a banging on the door and a gruff voice.
"Official Kotir patrol! Open up!"
The weasel put a claw to his lips, and took the large scimitar that leaned against the shack's wall in his left paw and moved into position so that when the door was open he would be within arm's reach of the knocker. Then he nodded. Gregory opened the portal and revealed the skinny figure of a stoat in Thousand Eyes armor with official spear relaxing in his paw. He opened his mouth to say something when the weasel's paw grabbed him around the neck and dragged him into the hut. Wincing, the old beast dropped the brown-furred soldier to the ground, but placed a footpaw on his chest and tickled the end of the scimitar against his throat.
"Now, now there little stoat. Yeh ain't gonna go painfully. Looks like 'er majesty needs a little remindin' that old soldiers in good standin' are exempt from all taxes and levies, eh Greg?"
The ferret subjected the prone stoat to a long stare before saying, "Greenfang, you really shouldn't do that. You got away with it last time because Tsarmina was too busy trying to round up the woodlanders to bother with one death from a belligerent old beast. Now, with the garrison with nothing else to do but rest on their laurels she'd leap at the chance to make an example of you."
He prodded the soldier with his footpaw, "Besides, you're not really a stoat, are you?"
"Yes!" the beast exclaimed. "I'm not a soldier either! I'm a member of the resistance!"
Greenfang released him, but held the scimitar in such a way as to indicate that even though the beast was technically free he shouldn't try anything funny, like trying to escape.
"Resistance, eh? Why th' 'ölle should I care either way? It's because of the bloody resistance my bloody arm and leg are messed up. And you can't weasel out of this that easily in any case. I can verdammt well see that you are a stoat. I'm old, not blind."
"We don't need two armies trying to kill us, Greenfang…" warned Gregory, "And take a good look before you call him a liar. What stoat has brown fur in the winter?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!" said the apparent stoat, struggling upright. "See, the color's rubbing off."
He held up his arms, were the dampness of the snow had washed off the brown to reveal gray fur underneath.
"Well I'll be roasted over a slow fire an' fed t' th' Gloomer. Wot are yeh, then?" asked Greenfang, whose grip was still on his sword.
"I'm the Skipper of Otters in Mossflower. Well, technically I'm the Skipper's brother, but he's missing and presumed dead which leaves me in charge as long as I don't actually tell the crew what to do. They look down a bit on a chief who prefers spying to fishing and swimming and whatever else they do. You can call me Mask."
The old weasel shrugged at Gregory, who said, "I've heard of you. Weren't you the one who busted Gingivere out of the dungeons?"
"Aye," said Mask, with a trace of professional pride.
"Shame 'bout th' guards," said Greenfang.
"He's doing quite well now, actually. Getting around with only a slight limp."
Greenfang leaned on his scimitar and treated the otter to a half-suspicious, one-quarter amused and one-quarter annoyed glare, "That's all well an' good, but wot I want t' know is why th' Resistance is goin' door t' door dressed as soldiers. Did yeh all take second jobs er somethin'?"
"Heh, no. It's getting really bad for the resistance, you see. We've lost a lot of beasts recently, so I've been assigned to scour the settlement for anybeast who would like to join us. Problem is, there are so many patrols around that a woodlander going from house to house would look a bit suspicious, so I dress up like a soldier to ally suspicion. No one thinks anything of an extra soldier here and there."
Gregory was somewhat impressed by this tactical thinking. The previous woodlander attacks on Kotir had been little more than mobs. It was nice to see some actual brainwork going on.
"Well, I suppose you'll be going then?" asked the ferret.
"Not yet. You haven't introduced yourselves yet."
The old weasel saluted crisply, "Sergeant Greenfang of Kotir, currently retired."
Mask raised an eyebrow, "Retired?"
"Well…honorably discharged, at least."
"Honorably?"
Greenfang sighed, "Just discharged, then."
"Really?"
The weasel threw his paws up in the air, "Fine, they were going to execute me and I deserted. Happy?"
The otter grinned slightly and motioned to the ferret, "And you?"
"Gregory, former Chief Strategist of the Thousand Eyes army. Not ashamed to admit that I was thrown out," he added with a glance at the weasel, who ignored the jibe.
Mask looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened the hovel's door and walked out. Before he had gone two steps, however, the otter turned around and spoke to the pair of vermin.
"You know, we could really use beasts with your talents in the resistance. If you would like to join us, I'm sure that you would find it to your bene-"
Greenfang slammed the door shut and limped back to the fire.
"Wot did yeh think of that, Greg? Th' nerve of that dummkopf. Th' resistance? I got more pride than that."
The ferret shrugged, "I don't know, it seems like the best deal we're going to get. You were the one who said we were going to starve, and you've certainly heard the rumors about all the food the woodlanders have."
"Yer right, but…th' resistance? Tsarmina's a right 'ündin, but I've never outright betrayed any army I've served in before. I 'ave some honor."
Gregory hugged his coat closer to his body against the freezing wind that blew through the holes in the shack's wall, "Honor? Really? Greenfang, after I was kicked out of Kotir you spent a week teaching me to forget about honor. You just don't want to join the woodlanders because you're embarrassed. You spent most of your Kotir career killing them and now you have to ask for handouts."
The old weasel sighed, and leaned against the most solid wall, "Eh, yer right. But think about it. Even if Masky otter was serious, there's still th' fact that 'e ain't th' entire resistance command. They might not be so inclined t'go along with this, wot with th' fact that we've been killin' 'em fer th' past who-knows-'ow-many seasons. If we're lucky they'll just sling us back out in th' snow, or they might just 'ang us up fer target practice."
"They're woodlanders. They practically have their entire lives based on honor. It's one of their more annoying qualities."
"That and th' fact that they could foil yer brilliant plans 'alf th' time even though they were outnumbered, untrained and 'ad no real strategy?"
"Yes."
Greenfang grinned*, "Never fails. Yeh sure yeh want t' throw in our lot with th' woodlanders, after they've kicked yer tail fer so long?"
"That's not going to work, you know. I'm not that stupid."
"Eh, it was worth a shot. Did yeh 'appen t' catch 'im sayin' 'ow we could go about findin' th' resistance headquarters?"
"No, you slammed the door in his face before he could mention that. I figure we could just lurk around the settlement a bit and see if we notice a soldier going from door to door and not coming out with any food. Then we -that is, you- grab him and see if he changes color after we pour a bucket of water over him."
"And if 'e's not th' otter?"
"Then I suppose you can rough him up a bit before we throw him back. We'll be leaving, after all, and if this doesn't work out I say the, what is that word from your old country… the hölle with this, we're getting out of Mossflower. If we're quick enough we can make it past the border patrols."
Greenfang rubbed his paws together and held them in front of the fire, "Okay, that plan works. One question, though."
"What?"
"Everybeast knows that th' woodlander 'ideout is in th' woods east of 'ere. Wouldn't it make more sense to just 'ead in that direction an' explain things to th' woodlanders that'll pick us up as soon as we enter their territory? Instead of, yeh know, sulkin' round Kotir-controlled territory jumpin' random soldiers? "
Gregory glared at the old weasel while he thought up a suitable rebuttal, "…because the resistance might shoot first and ask questions later, that's why."
"But we're not wearin' armor an' yeh yerself said that th' woodlanders are really big on honor. They wouldn't shoot us 'less we attacked 'em first."
"Okay, fine. We'll go with that."
"Chief Strategist, eh?"
"Shut up."
*A frightening sight. Greenfang thought that "oral hygiene" had something to do with not swearing, and practiced neither definition. It was easy to see how he got his name.