Author's note: This is my first fic, I never had any intention of publishing it but my proof reader persuaded me that it is in fact worth reading. I hope that you agree and that you give me some useful feedback. Also although my pen name is the same as one of the characters I would like to make it clear that the character came first and this is not a blatant case of self-insertion.

Alexei glanced neither left nor right as he walked hurriedly through the deserted corridors of the darkened fortress. He did not speak, and the six guards behind him did not dare make any sound. Alexei's reputation for brutality was well earned; they each knew all too well his harsh and unpredictable temper, as well as the merciless and sadistic punishments he dealt to any who provoked it.

He and his guards were ermine: stoats with snow-white fur, inhabiting the lands of the far North. Since farther back than any beast could speak of the ermine had been divided; a collection of scattered tribes, too busy fighting each other to consider anything more than how best to defeat their neighbours, only coming together to conquer a mutual rival. These loose alliances never lasted for long after the end of the conflict, with two groups fighting alongside each other one season and against each other the next. But that had all changed when Alexei's father: Ivan, the warrior king, had forced them into one nation.

For the first time the ermine looked up from their petty quarrels long enough to see that united they were a force powerful enough to take the land around them for their own. Within a decade they were the unchallenged rulers from the sea in the west far into the tundra in the east. All this was ruled over by Ivan from his fortress of Ivangrad on the coast, built by the hundreds of slaves swallowed up in his ravenous conquest. In the south his realm ended only where his lust for conquest died, while in the north, his rule extended to the edge of the great ice. Superstition and myth told of great and terrible beasts that dwelt on the immense sheets, if anything could indeed scrape a living in those endless wastes. There no-beast ventured; no-beast, it was said, except the wolves.

The strongest, wisest and most mysterious of peoples in all of Ivan's vast kingdom, the wolves roamed the frozen tundra, hunting fiercer game and braving crueller conditions than any ermine could survive. They had been there long before the ermine, from an age long past, long forgotten; an age of stone, and blood. Some common folk even believed they were left from the dawning of the world itself. They were an enigmatic race; governed by honour, blood ties and superstition. Their complex religion was a mystery to outsiders, centred around the spirits of their ancestors and containing a thousand rituals, traditions and sacraments of which only the venerated shamans knew the entirety.

Unparalleled in battle but few in numbers they had sworn their allegiance to Ivan, serving as commanders in his horde. Every company of ermine was led by a captain who answered directly to a wolf general who in turn answered to their marshal. The marshals were selected as the finest warriors and tacticians from among the wolf soldiers, and on the battlefield were second only to the great king himself. Even during peacetime they had as much authority as Ivan's councillors. Of course there were many ermine who resented this privileged position, many who would gladly see the wolves banished or exterminated, but there were few who would be willing to voice such thoughts. The wolves had a harsh code of justice which could reach outside the confines of their own clans.

Alexei knew as his footsteps echoed around the great hall that he couldn't turn back now; what was to be done must be done. He thought of his father, he'd surely be sleeping; Ivan was always tired in his old age. And he was old indeed; the Great King had sat on his throne many long years. Too many. It had been more than forty seasons since he had united the tribes, forty seasons growing more and more out of his prime. Now many of his followers from those early days were dead and buried, and himself wizened and toothless. His body was descending into frailty, his mind becoming slower, and more and more of his subjects believed that his vast reign was drawing to its end. But despite all this the aging ruler refused to die, every season Alexei waited for the throne to be his and every season he was kept that way: waiting.

But now the time for waiting was over; he'd worked too hard for his place on the throne to sit by patiently while his father's reign dragged on and on. Ivan had had three sons in his lifetime: his first wife had died giving to birth his first son, who had died in turn within just a few days. His second wife had given him two sons: Alexei and his elder brother, Vlad. Vlad had of course been heir to the throne, but he'd had a convenient hunting accident two seasons ago, leaving Alexei as Ivan's sole successor.

Vlad's death had hit Ivan hard; he became dispirited, more prone to sudden outbursts and acts of cruelty; even more so following the death of Alexei's mother, Valentina. He'd always liked the idea of his favourite son following in his footsteps. Vlad had always been more like their father; strong but just; ruthless in war yet gracious in victory. He wanted to bring about Ivan's vision of transforming the North into a peaceful, civilised and prosperous land; a land where a beast could spend his hard-earned wealth on luxuries rather than weapons. He'd even tried to introduce coinage to the ermine, although most still clung to the old ways of bartering and subsistence farming.

Alexei was different: he wasn't bothered about maintaining his empire; he was only concerned with building one. Where Ivan was content with his already vast kingdom Alexei wanted more. Who cared if his subjects were rich or poor, if towns and cities traded with each other? The ermine were a warrior people, they had always hungered for conquest but when they were at last strong enough to take all that could be theirs, should be theirs, Ivan was only content to settle for what they had. His father was weak, his brother had been weak, only he was strong enough to be a truly great king.

As he rounded a corner he came face to face with none other Alek Silverpelt. He was a wolf, one of Ivan's most trusted marshals; his leadership, fighting prowess and loyalty to his king were unquestionable. He had long been a thorn in Alexei's side; he was doubtless wary of his ambitions as king, and may even have suspected his involvement in Vlad's death.

Alek gave him and his six guards only the briefest of glances, but his sharp eyes took in everything. Even for a wolf he was big: he towered over the ermine, standing almost twice as high as Alexei, who was by no means small in stature. A magnificent physical specimen of a wolf, his gargantuan frame was covered by sinew and powerful muscle, all hidden under his silver-grey fur, which glistened in the moonlight shining through the fortress' windows. Two bright yellow eyes and knife-like fangs made a fearsome sight. His face was devoid of expression, but in the shadowy corridor it made him look all the more menacing.

'Where might ye be going with six of your father's soldiers at this hour my prince?' His thick lupine accent came out strongly in his calm voice.

'Just on my way to check up on the wall guard,' Alexei replied just as calmly, 'you of all beasts would understand the need for disciplined soldiers.' Alek raised one silvery eyebrow,

'And yet I find you inside?'

'I wanted to find captain Vilnik, since it's his company on sentry duty tonight.' There was a silence as Alek considered Alexei's words.

'Very well my prince I was merely curious. Just be careful, someone may find it suspicious for young princes to wonder the fortress at night with half a dozen armed beasts.' As he strode off the way Alexei and his guards had come thoughts raced around Alexei's mind. Alek knew, he was sure of it, his cursed mind was conditioned to smelling out treachery. He turned to two of his guards,

'Split up and find Vilnik. Be quick about it, do not allow the marshal to find him first. Tell him to gather as many ermine as can be found and wipe out the Silverpelt clan.' There was silence as his guards wondered if they had heard right. Finally one dared to speak,

'My Lord?' he said nervously, 'What did you say?'

'I said wipe out the Silverpelt clan before that accursed marshal can tell them of what we're going to do. Now I suggest you go now and never question me again, or would you prefer to go back to the barracks and find a dozen wolves waiting for you?' This time there was no hesitation. The two ermine hurried off as Alexei and the rest of his guards entered the throne room. The room was mostly plain, but attention was immediately drawn to the magnificent throne. It truly was fit for a king; formed from dark imported hardwood and encased in gold, marble and diamonds mined from the frozen tundra and raised on a dais of granite so that all Ivan's subjects had to look up at their king.

At the rear of the room was a small door which led to a small corridor. As he walked the length of the corridor and through the door he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His paw trembled slightly as he opened the door and stepped into the royal bedchamber. There were no guards; gold and promises had done their treacherous work. His whole body was tense as he made his way across the room to where his father lay sleeping. It took an age, but then at last he was standing over Ivan's unconscious form. It was almost ironic, he thought: the great king, who had conquered all around him, brought all of the North under his rule, would die in his sleep without a word.

It wasn't him that drew the knife, he was merely watching from a distance, he couldn't feel his paws around the handle as he pressed it to his father's throat. Then the silver blade flashed across the soft skin of his neck, and then it was him again. Ivan's eyes snapped open for an instant, then closed slowly as a river of crimson flowed from the lifeless corpse. Alexei raised a paw to his cheek and felt the blood that had sprayed across his face. He studied his father's body, remembered how those eyes had been fixed on him in their final moment of life. Had they seen him? Had Ivan known it was his own son who betrayed him?

He brought himself sharply back to earth as the magnitude of what he had done hit him like a sledgehammer. He had murdered the king. He had killed his brother. He was king. Or at least he would be, for until the army swore allegiance to him he was merely first in line. He turned to his guards,

'Find whatever guards you can, tell them that the king has been slain, then go and deal with that grey-furred problem that calls itself Alek.'

'Why should they want to kill the marshal sire?' asked one of the guards. Alexei's face was fixed in a wicked grin,

'The old king has been murdered, and the new king orders them to execute the murderer.' As the guards hurried away to do his bidding he strode casually into the throne room. Sitting on the magnificent throne he looked around at the empty room and laughed, starting softly, then rising until it was eerie and maniacal. He was king.

x x x

Lyla kept her eyes closed as she submerged herself in the sounds and smells of summer. She could hear the sharp trills of birdsong, the laughter of dibbuns as they raced across the lawns, the soft drone of insects that buzzed lazily around the abbey grounds. She could smell the blossom blowing gently over from the fruit trees in the orchard, soup simmering in the kitchens, and, her favourite, the sickly sweet scent of the honey in the beehives. Honey was for her what just-caught fish is for an otter, or a banquet to a starving hare. She adored the deep, sugary taste that clung to her tongue, the way a single drop could fill her mouth with flavour. Sometimes she wished she was a bee purely so that she could live off it.

Lyla was unusual for two reasons: firstly, she was extraordinarily young to be Abbess of Redwall, and secondly, she was the first abbot or abbess that was a vole. At only eighteen seasons she was barely into adulthood and already governing the abbey - many had said that it was too much responsibility for one so young. But she had proven herself as a capable an abbess as any could hope for, and silenced even the most traditional of beasts. She had no regrets herself, which was more than could be said for the young male voles she held captivated by her pretty blue eyes.

Finally she opened her eyes and spied the lean figure of an otter standing on the abbey walls. She squinted and made it out to be none other than her friend, Tarna Bloodfjord. She smiled to herself and made her way to the steps that led up to the ramparts. Tarna was the same age as her to within a few weeks, and the pair had been best friends since they were dibbuns dashing around the abbey and hiding under the beds at bathtime together. Unlike Lyla however Tarna had not been born at Redwall. She and her brother, Riktor, had travelled to Redwall from the far North when he had been a mere seven seasons of age, and she scarcely more than a babe. Their mother had died not long after Tarna had been born, and after their father died the two had travelled south and arrived at Redwall as orphans, starving and weak from their incredible journey. No-beast could believe that two such young children could make a journey as far as they described: the abbey records spoke of lands to the north where Luke, father of the legendary Martin the Warrior had come from, and beyond that the land of the warlord Urgan Nagru, the so-called Foxwolf. But according to Tarna and her brother they came from a land further north still: a land of constant snow and ice and day-long darkness in the winter. Most doubted that such a land even existed, let alone that two otter cubs could travel from there to Redwall alone, but that season a rare and exotic bird had come to Redwall. His name was Ozymandius, and he told them that he was an albatross.

He told the Redwallers that he had spent his entire life travelling, and, among other things, that he had seen many strange and distant lands, to the East, West, South, and, of course, to the North. He confirmed that there were lands so far north that snow lay on the ground for nearly the whole year, though it was still a wonder that the two young otters could have made such a journey. Ozymandius had left at the end of the season, continuing his nomadic existence, but during his time at Redwall they had learned a great deal about the world outside the abbey walls. He had not been seen in Mossflower since, although they had heard word once that he had been spotted by a sea otter travelling down the Western Coast.

But all that was many seasons ago, Tarna and Riktor could barely remember their icy homeland, nor their parents or any other beast from their old life. Both had become as much a part of Redwall as any beast could, Riktor had even risen to the highest honour among otters, the Skipper of Otters.

Tarna turned around as she heard Lyla coming up the steps. She was leaning against the battlements and holding a nearly empty bottle of cordial. She looked and dressed just as any ordinary ottermaid, with a plain smock belted around the waist with a pouch hanging from it, probably holding shrimp or prawns for her to snack on. She wore no jewellery or ornaments, as is common with many otters who prefer to sacrifice fashion for practicality. As she spotted her friend her face broke into a smile and she waved a webbed paw cheerily.

'Hello Lyla,' she said, 'out enjoying the sunshine?'

'As usual,' Lyla replied, 'we don't get enough good weather these days.' Tarna nodded in agreement,

'You're right there, it's been one storm after another this summer; Brother Jonah's distraught over his orchards.' Lyla shook her head in exasperation,

'I keep telling him it really doesn't matter; we've such a surplus of fruit every year that the cellars are overflowing with jams and pickles. Hieronymus is already up in arms about storing them in the wine cellar. Maybe he could make some space by getting rid of that awful absynthe.'

Hieronymus was the abbey's resident cellarhog. Recently he had been causing Lyla a great deal of annoyance with his latest invention, a potent brew he called spring vegetable absynthe. He claimed to have based it on an ancient recipe passed down through his family, and that he was merely following a hallowed cellarhog tradition, but whatever his motives it was far and away the strongest drink ever brewed within the abbey's walls. After her appointment as abbess Lyla had made her views on spirits very clear, but she as yet been unable to ban their consumption owing mainly to the popularity of the drink among members of the abbey council.

'So what brings you up here on this fine afternoon?' said Tarna.

'Nothing important, I just fancied some company. You?'

'Just wanted some peace and quiet, away from the swarm of dibbuns trying to make you carry them all. I thought about going for a swim but knowing dibbuns they'd probably have followed me.' Lyla gave a short chuckle,

'You mean like you used to when Riktor didn't want to play hide and seek with you?' Tarna smiled as she fished a shrimp from her pouch and popped it in her mouth. Lyla wrinkled her nose in disgust, 'How can you eat those things raw?' she said.

'With much delight.' Tarna replied, tossing another one up and catching it in her mouth. Lyla shook her head,

'Otters.' she muttered under her breath.

'By the way,' said Tarna, 'have you spoken to Koona recently?'

'No, why?'

'It's just he's been acting a bit...I don't know, a bit odd I guess.'

'Odd? How do you mean?' Tarna shrugged,

'Well he just seems like he's on a cloud somewhere all the time, and when he speaks he just gabbles.' Lyla thought for a moment,

'I don't know, I guess he must be going through one of those phases, you know what I mean?'

'I suppose, I'm just a little worried about him. Do you think you could talk to him the next time you see him?'

'Ok, anyway it's probably time for lunch soon. Shall we go inside?' Tarna smiled,

'Sounds like a plan, I'm almost out of shrimp.' The pair walked away, Lyla shaking her head in wonderment as Tarna shoved the last pawful of pungent shellfish into her mouth.