The Ashleg Chronicles: Chapter One – The Traveller

In the far northern reaches of Mossflower Woods, all was peace on the fine early summer morning. Songbirds cavorted across the sky, crooning their sweet tune; late daffodils clumped among the tree roots turned their joyful faces to the sun; ants marched purposefully in the undergrowth.

Only one creature could be seen in the serene landscape, walking alone in a brown travelling cloak. He was a pine marten, as his narrow black eyes and compact, lean body told. This particular individual, however, had a hunched, haunted look about him, and his left leg had been replaced by a smooth ash-wood peg. His whole body was twisted and scarred, the testament of some agonising disfigurement in the past. But most of all, his face was the most sorry-looking aspect of the marten; furrowed beyond his seasons, thin-furred, and with an expression of mixed bitterness and anguish set clear upon it.

Ashleg the pine marten was leaving Mossflower. He'd lived and worked there for many, many seasons, but exactly two weeks ago he had decided to depart. The life of any typical vermin, serving the stronger and lording it over the undefended, had got the better of him at last. He wished now only for peace, and a quiet life until his days were ended.

The battle he was deserting was a war between the Mossflower woodlanders and the power-hungry, vengeful wildcat Tsarmina. Her father, Verdauga Greeneyes, had ruled most of that country for many long seasons, until his own daughter had poisoned him; now she was attempting to tighten her grip on the land. But the woodlanders, led by a strange warrior mouse named Martin, were rebelling and it had turned into an out-and-out confrontation. Ashleg himself had been the chief adviser to both Verdauga and Tsarmina, but after an attack from the woodlanders his mistress seemed to have gone mad – literally. Ashleg had lost his nerve and fled south.

But after half a day's travel, Ashleg, still terrified by the thought of what would happen if he was caught by the wildcat, had decided to change his course northwards, to throw any searchers off the scent. Up till then he hadn't bothered to obscure his tracks, wanting to get as far away from the horde as possible, but as he turned north he left almost no trace.

Now, he was well away from the fortress of Kotir and had seen no sign of hunters. He had taken a small haversack of rations, but it was swiftly running out, so he was living mostly off any herbs and edible plants he found. Water wasn't hard to find, with streams and rivulets running to the great River Moss everywhere.

Ashleg had no idea where he was going. There was a vague picture in his head, of a peaceful place, a lonely place where he could build a dwelling easily enough and live quietly, but apart from that he wasn't set on anywhere.

But he knew why he was heading this way. When he was young, Ashleg had lived in the north-west of Mossflower, with his mother and siblings. He sighed as he remembered.

Ashleg had never known his father. Pine marten mates didn't stay together for more than a few months, so by the time the little marten kit was self-aware, whoever he was had been long gone. Ashleg didn't mind; his life was fulfilling enough, at that time.

He was one of his mother's first litter; four kits, three males and a female. Ashleg had never liked his brothers much, not being fond of their brutal play-fight games, but had preferred to spend time with his sister. What had her name been? Ashleg panicked slightly as he cast about for the name, but then relaxed as he remembered. It had been Roseleaf, that was it.

Ashleg's name had not originally been that; he had had another, Jip, but he hadn't used that name in over thirty seasons. His mother had liked the names of plants, being an unusually peace-loving marten, and now Ashleg recalled these trivial things he wished he had got to know her better.

He had loved Roseleaf to the end of the world and back, as their mother had said. They understood each other well, and the first few seasons of his life had been Ashleg's most blissful.

This country he was so painstakingly traversing was very like the home he used to have. But that was away to the east a league or two, and he didn't think he could bear going back to that place.

It was soon midday, and Ashleg slowly sat himself down on the bank of a small streamlet, groaning, practically hearing his bones creak. He wasn't really that old; he was in his late middle seasons, but the terrible injury that had handicapped him most of his life made him feel ancient. He opened his haversack and brought out a small barley loaf with some meagre cheese – not much, but all he could have if he was going to ration his food carefully.

He rested there for a while, taking his ease before the inevitable marching. At one point he thought he saw a small face in the undergrowth over the stream, but as he snapped his head round, it wasn't there anymore. Ashleg put it down to the patchy light and carried on with his small meal.

Just when he was finished, he heard a voice beside him and jumped.

"You, woodenleg!" An adult mouse, about the same in seasons as Ashleg, was advancing on him armed with a large club. Alarmed, the pine marten scrambled up from the grassy bank.

"Get away, vermin!" the mouse shouted angrily. "We don' t want any of yer thievery and murder round 'ere!"

"I'm no thief," said Ashleg warily. But the mouse scowled all the more.

"Sure, and I believes youse like I believes the sky is green!" he yelled. "Sling yer hook, or taste this club!"

"All right, all right, I'm going!" cried Ashleg, holding his paws up to show he meant what he said. He picked up his crutch and haversack, and stumped away from the small clearing.

As he looked for a ford he could easily cross, Ashleg pondered the mouse's words. To any of the peace-loving species, he knew he looked the perfect villain; a pine marten, with wooden leg and scarred body and face. None would ever trust him; none would give him time to explain his intentions. His heart sank as he thought miserably: Maybe I'll never be accepted. Maybe it is just better to end it here.

He looked at the small dagger on his belt, but the last reserves of his youthful pride of the time he joined Greeneyes' horde rose up, and he sheathed it again. There was still something to live for; Ashleg didn't know what it was yet, but someday he would find it.

Ten Days Later

Ashleg felt a sharp kick on his side. Half-asleep, still dreaming, thinking it was his brother Wildvine, he muttered and turned over.

Then memory hit him and he started upright convulsively. A ring of vermin surrounded him where he sat on the sward beside his dead fire. Each of them was holding some form of rusty, chipped but very dangerous-looking cutlass or dagger.

Ashleg found himself being forcibly reminded of that time, long in the past, when he'd been disfigured by a gang much like these. He started to sweat, panicked, and trembled all over. With the last remnants of his reason, he made sure his dagger was well hidden.

Then the fear took over and he started gabbling.

"I haven't got any valuables, take the food, I haven't got anything worth taking, don't hurt me, there's food in the haversack…."

But their sadistic grins just grew all the wider…

Author's note: So, what do you think? This is my first fanfic, so I hope you like it! I always wondered what might happen to Ashleg after he fled Kotir, so I decided to do it myself. Please review!