Disclaimer:
Redwall is (c) Brian Jacques, of course. Like I could even consider
claiming it as my own. Of course not. I would never dream of such a
thing. Everything else is mine, unless by some absurd coincidence
someone created a character or whatever else that exactly mirrored one
of my own. But I doubt that would happen. It could, though...
~@~
A/ N: This story is loosely based on a plot my friends and I were
discussing quite a while ago. It takes place between The Long Patrol
and Marlfox, when Arven is Abbot. It may offend a few really hardcore
Redwall fans, because of its… strangeness… Anyway, this is my first
orthodox (or so it seems) Redwall fic. Enjoy!
~@~
A Warrior No More, Chapter 1~
It was a dark and stormy night in Mossflower. Every creature in the
Abbey of Redwall, and many more besides, were huddled together in Cavern
Hole. The luckiest ones sat closest to the dying fire, soaking up its
warmth like so many ripe fruits on a lazy summer day.
That evening, everybeast from the great Western Mountains to the far
shore of the Big Inland Lake had appeared at the Abbey gates, begging
for a night's shelter. Father Abbot Arven had graciously accepted them,
pointing them in the direction of Cavern Hole. Soon, the
semi-underground hall was literally packed to the rafters, a fact
advertised by the multitude of squirrels perched over the heads of the
other refugees.
Abbot Arven stood in the front of the room, and all fell silent as he
addressed them.
"Brothers, Sisters, and friends, I have grave news. It seems there is
trouble afoot in Mossflower, and it is highly unfortunate that it should
choose this unnaturally cold season to appear.
"You all noticed the early start of winter and the sudden snows.
However, this night has been the worst yet. Coldness as has never been
known sweeps the land, blown here by the North Wind. Perhaps it is from
the Northlands that all our troubles come, for I have heard reports of a
great horde of vermin pillaging the barren wasteland country to the
north, and even the farthest fringes of Mossflower Wood. If they
continue south, they will be here before spring."
A few gasps and moans were heard from various corners of the room, but
were stifled as Arven continued, "As if this threat to our peaceful
existence were not enough, my informants have told me that this army is
led by none other than the warlord Baron Itharos himself!"
This time, strangled cries were heard emanating from the mouth of every
beast old enough to understand what this meant. if it was true that
Itharos was coming for them, they were already as good as dead. The
Baron's army was made up of everything from searats and corsairs to
mercenaries to poisoners and anybeast else who could lift a weapon to
follow him in his quest to conquer the Northlands. They indeed followed
him, a great horde of vermin marching in his wake as he pillaged the
land, leaving nothing behind but ashes, corpses, and broken weapons.
An old mouse sitting on a rock ledge gave a stricken moan and
collapsed, but none of the other creatures, imagining their fate at the
claws of the infamous Itharos, took any notice. Finally a mole, who had
seen the old one fall, scrambled clumsily up to the small, moss-covered
precipice and helped him to his feet.
"Doan't ee wurry, zurr, Oi've got ee, ho urr," the small creature
assured as he guided the mouse towards the narrow, steep staircase that
curved around behind the great hearth of Cavern Hole.
The mouse shuddered violently for no more than a second, then sat
down. "Thank you for your help, kind mole, but I will stay here. I am
perfectly comfortable where I am."
The young mole shrugged his velvety black shoulders and trundled off
down the stairs, leaving the old one alone, huddled in a thin wool
blanket, on a rocky ledge overlooking the masses of creatures packed
into the underground hall.
~@~
Panic ran rampant not only in Redwall Abbey that night.
In the far northern reaches of Mossflower, another town had fallen to
the clutches of Itharos and his vast army. Tents, ranging from richly
adorned silken officers' tents to scraps of hide stitched roughly
together and thrown over a wooden frame, radiated out from the town
square, a simple plot of land with nothing on it but grass, a
now-decapitated statue of some forgotten hero, and the tent of Itharos
himself.
In another tent, a sturdy canvas shelter pitched on the burnt ruins of
what was once some successful merchant's stately mansion, nine pitiful
soldiers lounged about, while one scurried around, attempting to prepare
for inspection.
"Sharpsnout! Oneglim! Clean up those dice and seashells! You know
how much trouble you'll get in if the Boss catches you gambling!"
The speaker, a lean, sinewy rat, was the Spokesbeast for his tent. His
duty of being responsible for the other nine soldiers in his "domain"
led to his constant snappishness, a fact aggravated by their obvious
lack of concern for tidiness.
"Aw, give it a rest, Brownlug. We ain't gonna get in no trouble fer a
liddle mess."
"I don't care!" screamed Spokesbeast Brownlug, "I want this tent
cleaned by the time the inspector comes!"
"'Ey look, Luggie! There's a speck o' dust by me paw! Best gimme yer
duster so I ken dust it up 'afore it eats me!" a fat weasel roared,
grabbing Brownlug's feather duster in his massive paw.
The lazy vermin guffawed loudly as the overworked rat snatched back his
beloved feathered friend and straightened his spotless white tunic with
a look of great disdain upon his thin, pointed face. A resigned sigh
escaped his lips, and he flopped down on his immaculate cot to await the
inspection.
~@~
Abbot Arven rapped the table with the hilt of his sword, and all fell
silent again. "Friends, it is time we resigned to our beds. For those
who have nowhere to go, feel free to sleep in Cavern Hole or Great Hall,
and I bid you good night."
