Author's notes:

Besides all the violence, death, mutilation and cruelty to talking animals, you can rightfully expect from a Redwall story, this fic might contain a bit more bad language, and suggestive elements, than the original books. While I'll try not to go overboard with them, consider yourself warned.

I'm not a native English speaker. So, while I hope that I can at least write without egregious errors, I decided to avoid using typical Redwall accents, except for minor characters who have few lines, as I still have hard time imagining how exactly sounds should be distorted in particular accents.

Finally, this story takes the place many seasons after the events of the chronologically last Redwall book (The Rogue Crew).

Redwall is © Brian Jacques, I do not own any of the characters from his books, etc, etc...

Prologue

It was autumn in Mossflower, the time of it when leaves already turned russet and gold, but had not yet fell, and pleasant chill that replaced heat of summer had not yet turned into freezing cold. Most of the work in the fields and in the orchard of Redwall had already been completed for this turn of seasons, and now it was time for rest and entertainment, from famous Redwall feasts to exchange of stories. For the aged Recorder and Librarian of Redwall, this was a time to shine, for no other beast in the Abbey could come close to his knowledge of stories, tales and legends. The Recorder could recite from memory great many of them, some related to Redwall, some to other famous places. And when his memory was not quite up to the task, he could fall back upon his books, both old tomes, left by Recorders and Librarians of the days of yore, and those he wrote or copied by his own paw. But there was one story he didn't like to recount at usual gatherings of Abbeydwellers, even though – or maybe exactly because – it was the story dearest to him.

The young beasts – there were five in all, a small group of friends – who walked to the Library one evening knew about this. They also knew that the Recorder spent the last few seasons writing a huge book, which he guarded jealously and refused to show to anybeast, except maybe Father Abbot. Two of them even tried to sneak into the Library the last spring and take a look at that book, as much for the thrill of doing a forbidden thing, as out of curiosity. After catching them, the Recorder only laughed and promised to tell them how the book was hidden, when they are old enough to hear the story in it. After making sure that this pair will be doing all the most unpleasant chores in the Abbey for the next couple of weeks, of course. Needless to say, that did nothing to curb the youngsters' curiosity, although they had to admit, that there is still much to learn before the could hope to outwit the old Recorder. And when one day their small band were invited to the Library for an evening reading, they barely could contain their excitement.

"Uncle Recorder?" called out their leader, a tall ottermaid, as they walked into the library. "Uncle Recorder, are you here?"

"But don't you know already that I'm here?" The Recorder appeared from one of the large bookshelves, that filled the Library, a large tome under his paw. "Now, come in, throw some more wood into the fireplace, be seated, make yourselves comfortable. Let me guess – you can't wait to hear my story?"

"Yes!" answered an energetic mouse youngster. "Oh, and we brought you October ale here and your favorite roast shrimps, and some nutbread and blueberry pies for everyone, and Father Abbot said that we can stay even for the entire night!"

"Ale and shrimps you say? How exceptionally considerate of you." The Recorder – carefully, as his right paw lacked a thumbclaw – picked the basket of foods, brought by his guests, and walked towards his massive chair of carved wood next to the huge table, on which he usually worked with his books.

"Now, my dears." Said the Recorder, placing the food on the table, sitting down, and opening the book he held. "Perk up your ears and listen well. You certainly have heard most of this story already, but now you will hear all of it, or at least all that I know. You already know that it is a story of fierce beasts and perilous paths, of great friendship and great woe, the story of unlikely comrades, who walked together through the rains of arrows and forests of spears. But all of that, all you've heard before was just a part of a greater whole. Of the story that I just finished penning, the story that I know by heart because I was at the heart of it. Even I can't say when it all truly began, but I know that my part in it started on the island far in the great Western Sea…"

…what was written down in the Recorder's book begins here.

The Ergaph Island in the great Western Sea, far to the northwest of the Green Isle, was a large and rocky piece of land, with many tall cliffs, rising to form veritable mountains in the center, many dark pine forests, many swift streams and small, cold rivers, many caves and narrows. It only lacked in good soil, and numerous vermin and woodlander tribes, inhabiting the island, fought for strips of fertile land as long as their memories went. Otter sea wanderers and searat corsairs, often stopped at Ergaph to replenish their stores, repair their ships and obtain weapons made from iron, which was mined in several places on the island. And their favored stop was the Seacrag Bay, large and well-sheltered from storms. Over that bay, an old, grim stone castle, the square of forbidding walls, overlooked by the massive central tower, was perched. The legends said, that it was built by wildcat conquerors, who sailed from the forgotten lands in the west, beyond the boundless ocean, in the days that long since faded from living memory. Every chieftain on Ergaph coveted the Seacrag Castle, because control over the best place for sea trade meant great wealth and prestige. Beasts who had enough power to hold the castle for prolonged periods of time sometimes styled themselves kings of Ergaph, but the island was big, its inhabitants warlike, fiercely independent and divided by countless old feuds, so this title remained merely a boast of the first warlord among equals.

Until Kunas the pine marten appeared. Among the vermin warlords on Ergaph, Kunas wasn't the fiercest in battle, or the most devious, or even the most terrifyingly cruel. But he always had good fortune in everything he did, and – perhaps because of that – he gathered around himself the most capable captains, and a Seer of fearsome reputation. Kunas' enemies, vermin and woodlanders, fell one by one under his merciless assault, and their heads decorated the walls of the Seacrag Castle, until the victorious pine marten was the King of Ergaph in both name and reality, and nobeast dared to oppose his tyrannical reign anymore.

Well, almost nobeast…