Book One: The Skippers Daughter
Waves lapped against the side of the sturdy wooden ship as it drifted closer and closer towards the tall mound of rock looming in front of it out of the fog. The place seemed to be a harmless sea volcano sticking out just above the waves.
Soft moonlight was reflected on the water, slowly breaking and fragmenting as the dark blue waves rolled about lazily near the ship, hardly making a sound. The silence was eerie, and almost unnatural. The creaking of the timbers and riggings was barely audible. There was no wind to stir them from their normal positions.
Even the shifting, deep, and mysterious sea seemed silent. This was an odd occurrence. The ocean was rarely silent. But this night it was. It was as if the entire night was still, held in one fragile moment. If any sound was heard, the moment would break in an instant and shatter into a thousand pieces.
All of the noisy seabirds were at rest, and none of the crewbeasts on the ship were brave enough to make a sound and disturb the quiet atmosphere. It was a quiet atmosphere, yes, but not a peaceful one. A strange tension hung over the sea and ship, and the almost unnatural silence only added to the uneasiness.
The crew- made up of ferrets, weasels, foxes, stoats, and even a rat or two- stared out at the land mass they were approaching. Moonlight shone down upon them, caressing them with its silvery radiance, but not a one of the evil vermin could feel its soft touch upon their fur.
Each crewmember aboard the ship could hear themselves breathing. Their heartbeats echoed like drums in their ears, and the smallest sounds seemed magnified a thousand fold. There was a feeling of foreboding about the crew that stood on the decks, keeping their watches and waiting.
The sails were hoisted for a speedy getaway, and all that the crewbeasts had to do before the ship reached land was to wait; wait in total silence. The silence was necessary for the task they were about to perform.
And so the ungainly lot sat about, scratching ears and bottoms, rubbing eyes to fend off sleep, and yawning. Sleep was impossible for all of them. How could they sleep in such a tense and unnerving atmosphere? It was far too quiet.
None of them even considered sleep. They only feigned tiredness as something to do, to keep away boredom. But boredom too was impossible to feel. All that remained was that indescribable, nervous feeling that loomed over them like a specter.
They acted tired and bored to distract themselves. And they all needed a distraction from the strange feeling about the night that they were about to endure. It was a night that would change the lives of all.
The large rat standing at the prow of the ship failed to notice any of the beauties that can only be seen on a moonlit night at sea. Of course, the uneasy beating of hearts and the shifting of many crewbeasts diluted the scene that would have been enchanting on any other night out at sea.
The beauties of the night were still there to be enjoyed; however, none paid them any heed. The crewbeasts were uneasy, and the magnificently muscled rat knew it too. He didn't care. Even if he had cared about their feelings, what could he have done to ease their minds?
So, as a wise captain, the rat decided to ignore the strange feelings that seeped like mist into his own heart, and into the hearts of his crew. He wasn't one to care for beauty, except for the beauty of plunder and power. He cared for that type of beauty quite a lot. His love for the beauty of plunder and power could almost be considered an obsession.
In fact, it WAS an obsession. But, then again, weren't most vermin apt to feel those longings? Even so, this rat felt a love for plunder and power that was stronger than those of other vermin. That was why he was a Captain, and why they were not.
He had lusted after power, and had worked hard to have it. Planning and scheming, training and bullying, spying and betraying, he had forced his way to the top against all who opposed him. He had started out as a scullyrat, but had worked his way up from there, gaining higher positions by any means necessary.
It had paid off. He had become Captain of his ship by ousting all the competition. But, he would do more than that. He had plans for the future. Why be content with being a Captain? He had other things in mind. He wanted to be a warlord. Why settle for one ship when you could control dozens? He had made it this far, why not farther?
His eyes were fixed on the dark shadow that stood before him. The dark, looming volcano that reclined silently in the sea was more than it seemed. It held a deadly secret that few knew, that few would ever know. Hardly anyone knew where the mound was, or who happened to live in it. He knew its secret though, and was going to use the volcano's hidden treasure for his own purposes: to become a warlord.
The rat spat into the sea, scratching an ear with a claw. He smiled. Soon, the treasure inside the sea volcano would be his! This is what would make him the greatest legend there ever was. He would not die like the weaklings of the past: he would be their king! All would bow to him. Soon, he would rule! Soon.
He was a large rat; his fur matted and tattered from dried salt water. His beady black eyes were small in his large and shaggy head. As he opened his mouth, yellowish fangs with hints of green in them glistened in the soft moonlight. He had quite a few earrings in each of his ears as well.
He wore a fine leather belt, in which he kept his scimitar, silver with a finely jeweled hilt. A black cape made of velvet hung about his broad and strong shoulders, and he wore a fine white tunic, though his tunics needed washing often, as they were stained with blood and most of the time.
Unlike most vermin, this rat was a cleanly beast. He was above the dirt and muck. Baths, he had discovered, were not harmful to a beast at all. They only made one look more impressive. Right now, though, he was dirty. They had been sailing for a long while to get to this mountain, and he had not had an opportunity to bathe.
"Grongar!" The rat called, turning his gruesome head and fixing his hard, cruel black eyes upon the ferret that sat up in the crow's nest of the ship. Grongar the ferret was almost asleep at his post. He had been on watch for days upon days, and hadn't had time to rest. Despite the uneasy feeling in the air, the ferret had managed to ignore it because of the amazingly fatigued state of his mind and body.
The ferret opened one eye and squinted down at the rat Warlord before him. Grongar couldn't help wincing a bit as he saw the greenish fangs and the golden hoop earrings illuminated in the moonlight. Mavarl, for that was the rat's name, was truly a terrifying figure to behold! And the legends about his deeds of cruelty were already starting to spread.
Grongar leaned forwards slightly from his position in the crows nest to answer his Master. "Aye, Cap'n! Whatcher want me t'do, eh?" he asked, opening both eyes for the first time. He fervently hoped that Mavarl hadn't caught him napping.
He also hoped that the Captain, or more accurately, tyrant, was in a good mood. Cap'n Mavarl had been known to give out beatings for anything and nothing, and the ferret didn't fancy getting a tanning, or even receiving death. Captain Mavarl was as unpredictable as the weather on the northern sea, and as cold and as harsh as the Northlands as well.
"Well, scum brain, what d'you see up there? That is, iff'n ye haven't fallen asleep at yer post, y'great idiot. Iff'n we're goin' to attack this floatin' rubbish 'eap, lets get th' damn job over with, by th' Claws of Hellthunder! I want t'know iff'n ye sees any creatures or guards about. These Otterfolk don' know that anyone has discovered their liddle secret village yet, bu' they might 'ave sentries."
Otters. That was the secret of the sea volcano. Inside its hidden depths, a peaceful tribe of Otters lived, able to farm the fertile soil of its interior and catch shrimp and fish from the sea in which they lived. Mavarl intended robbing them of all they had, as well as keeping them as slaves on his ship.
Unbeknownst to the creatures aboard the ship there was indeed a creature out and about that night, though she wasn't exactly a guard or a threat. A young ottermaid, perhaps about twelve seasons of age, sat playing a set of pipes on the volcano's hard surface.
Holt Ruddaring, as the place was called, was the home of a few hundred otters. The maid was quite content with her life as the Daughter of Skipper Ironjaw Trueflight. Holt Ruddaring had been a secret for countless seasons, and only once had any creatures not living there discovered it. Ships carrying Corsairs and Vermin armies passed right by, thinking it was nothing but an inactive volcano.
Many seasons ago, a mouse by the name of Martin, the son of Mattimeo the Warrior and descendant of Matthias of Redwall, had come to the Holt with his peaceful band of followers. The otters, wanting desperately to protect their secret Holt, implored Martin to keep their secret so that harm would not befall Holt Ruddaring.
One of his companions, Grath Longfletch of Lutra, had even remained at Holt Ruddaring and had married Inbarr Trueflight, who was to inherit the title of Skipper. Of course, the otters couldn't have expected their secret to stay a secret for long. Exactly how they had been discovered, nobeast knew. But, they had been found, and Mavarl was one of the few who had learned of this hidden place.
Right after he had, the rat had determined to loot it. A bunch of untrained otters sitting on a treasurehouse? How easy could it get? He, of course, was wrong. Ever since Grath Longfletch and Inbarr Trueflight had taken over the Holt, both had made sure to train at least a few guards, just in case they were discovered and attacked.
These Otters were warriors, but they would surely be outnumbered if it came to a fight between them and the vermin. If the vermin attacked, the otters would surely fall. The only things the young ottermaid mentioned before had known were love and friendship, though.
She had always found relief in her twin, Ronil, after a hard days training, or a boring day spent in the Holt with the aged resident Historian. With him, she learned how to read, write, and had memorized her history and the stories of her ancestors. The only lessons she had ever enjoyed were the ones about brave otters who fought in great, bloody battles.
She especially liked the story of her Granddam, Grath Longfletch, and of her Grandsire, Inbarr Trueflight. Theirs was a tale of great length and one of great valor as well, and Kyrani Longfletch- Kyra, or Kys, for short- enjoyed telling the tale almost as much as she loved to hear it.
Ronil was her brother and her twin, though their temperaments were as different as day and night. Ronil was a warrior born with a quiet and firm personality, like a rock. He was deadly with almost any weapon, though he was only a young beast as well, and was expected to take over the leadership of Holt Ruddaring and all of the Sea Otters.
Kyra had always been a bit miffed at being the younger of them, and at being female. Being a Skippers Daughter, she would never grow up to be a warrior, or a Skipper. Her brother was older, male, and would inherit all: Title, Wealth, the Holt, everything. Everything Kyra had ever dreamed of having.
And she wanted it. She lusted after the position her brother held. But what could she do? Ronil was only older by a few seconds. Her father was, of course, proud of her, but the 'Great Ironjaw Trueflight' refused to recognize his daughter's potential.
And so Kyra pushed herself even harder to force him to notice her, to make him watch and learn how wonderful she could truly be, but none of it came to anything. She was still younger, and she was still a girl. Perhaps part of the prejudice was in Kyra's own mind, distorted by her intense jealousy, but the fact remained that she was indeed overshadowed by her brother.
What infuriated her even more was that she was a better marksbeast even than her brother. The small ottermaid's skill with a bow was enough to rival even her fathers... or even her Granddams. Of course, Kyra hadn't been allowed to learn how to wield any other weapons. She had learned about the bow in secret, from her Grandmother.
Her lessons in bowmanship had started at the age of four seasons. She had a remarkable talent for the bow and arrow, and she learned quickly. However, the small ottermaid's attempts with a saber, or even with a sling or javelin, were rather pitiful. She fumbled them, dropped them, and seemed to be wielding a writhing snake in her hand instead of whatever weapon she chose.
Still, her bowmanship was remarkable, almost as if it made up for all of the other weapons that she couldn't really wield well. And so, she spent all of her time training, whenever she wasn't at her lessons. It might seem strange that a young ottermaid should work so much, but she did.
For eight seasons Kyra had wanted her father to notice her, and for eight seasons she had known that her skill with bow and arrows was better than best. It was her talent, and she would win her father's affection with it. She might not be able to wield a saber or bolases, but Kyra Longfletch was the deadliest bowbeast ever to shoot an arrow.
Ronil, surprisingly, sided with Kyra when it came to leadership of the Holt. He wanted the leadership of the Holt, and would do a wonderful job at it, but he would have rather seen his little sister happy. His was a quiet and loving temperament. Kyra was a clever little rogue. But both siblings were inseparable. The two loved each other with a fierce passion that words could hardly describe.
And both would die for each other. Ronil knew Kyra was a much better bowbeast than he was, and he knew why too. Kyra was better because she was jealous. Jealous of the attention his father gave him. Their mother had died when Kyra was born, though Ronil didn't blame her in the least for that.
He knew that Kyra spent any free time she had practicing. Practicing with any bow she could get her paws on so that her father would notice her. But he never did. He loved her, but he only had eyes for Ronil. Kyra Longfletch had gone over these thoughts thousands of times in her head, but she could never find solace from them.
Relief eluded her, and she could never be at peace with her situation. She absolutely hated being the second best, being invisible. Her greatest desire was for her father to notice her and accept her as a daughter. A great anger at her father burned within her, but she also loved him too.
She often snuck out of the Holt on moonlit nights to reminisce and complain, if only to herself. Perhaps it was a simple childish envy, and many said it was. But deep down, she knew it wasn't. She didn't hate Ronil, or her father. She hated the fact that she was younger. She hated the fact that she would never be something. She hated it.
But Kyra would never complain in front of her father, or anyone else. Anyone except Ronil. But then again, Ronil wasn't just anyone. Kyra had, as she so often did, brought her grandmothers bow with her. It often made her feel more complete to hold it in her paws and think of the marvelous things it had done.
She patted the bow with its green fletched arrows that lay beside her, smiling happily as she ran her paw along the smooth wooden surface. The long, smooth, round shafts, the polished yew with a rough rope binding for a paw-grip, and razor sharp, deadly points.
It reassured her, somehow, being able to touch the bow that was her family's legacy. She loved the feel of the grains of wood beneath her paw. And the tears and story it held. Her Granddam had made it, and the young maid had always felt that the special bow had been meant for her use. The story behind the bow made it even more valuable in Kyra's eyes.
She had often stolen it from her Granddams chambers to use for her practices. Grath always made sure that the secret of Kyra's stealing was never discovered. Besides, she was proud of Kyra's marksmanship. It rivaled even her own. With Grath as her teacher, Kyra flourished over her eight years of training. Now, she just had to find a way to show her father.
Then, surely, he would allow her to be trained as a warrior like her brother! She accepted the fact that she was the youngest of his children with dignity, and had reluctantly adjusted to the knowledge that she would not be ruler of the Sea Otters because she was the second to be born, but not being able to wield a weapon infuriated her.
Only then did Kyra notice the ship coming closer and closer. It was swiftly nearing her perch on the Volcano that was really the hidden Holt Ruddaring. Her soft brown eyes widened with fright, and her heart pounded wildly, making her head pound.
For a moment she froze, watching in horror: many a time she had seen a vermin ship go by, but she had never felt the feeling she felt now. Deep, deep fear. She got up, notching an arrow to her Grandmothers bowstring, and started to run towards the secret entrance to the Holt, the same one she had crept out of. Her small paws fumbled slightly with the large bow, but she kept a firm grip, despite her fearful sweat.
She saw the ship bump against the cold, hardened magma that had once bubbled from the volcano, and now made a barren and tiny island. Her home. Her heart thumped faster as she quickened her pace, bolting towards the entrance as fast as she could move.
From atop the ship, Grongar was peering out over the island, trying to see if he could spot any otters lurking about. He saw none. And then, suddenly, a shadow caught his eye. Leaning forwards, he tried to get a closer look.
"Oi! Mavarl, yer mightyness, I think I be seein' sommat out on that island o'er yonder. Somebeast moved a bit. T'was a dark shadow runnin' to the volcano!" The ferret squinted, confirming his report. He had seen somebeast move, and they were moving fast! Only then did he realize the creature's intentions.
"Sire!" the ferret called out, his voice filled with fear, "It's goin' to warn the Holt! It'll wake up them warrior H'Otters fer sure! We're done for now! H'I dunno what we're gonna do, fightin' them otters!" Lord Mavarl cursed under his breath, spitting out any oaths he could think of. His element of surprise was totally lost, thanks to that little Otterbrat... unless...
Before the boat had fully reached the shore of the Volcano/Island, Lord Mavarl hopped into the cold, icy waters of the sea, his cutlass drawn from its scabbard and the golden, jewel encrusted blade waving about in the air. He waded ashore and his eyes were alight with battle and bloodlust. The rat warlord made his forwards, moving swiftly through the chilling, dark waters and heading towards the running Kyra.
If he could reach her in time, the Holt wouldn't be warned, and he could put his plan into action! "Come ashore, mateys," he called, turning his ugly head behind him to watch his crew's progress through the shallow sea. "We may still have time yet to keep that beast from warnin' them otters what lives 'ere. There's killin' to be done tonight, an' I want to be the one doin' it!"
The Captain laughed as he put one wet paw on the Volcano's hardened magma. He could see the runner clearly now, and almost laughed. This was what he was worried about? The shadow had turned out to be a tiny creature, no more than a babe! Never mind that, it would have to be killed nonetheless, or at least captured and put out of the way.
The Ottermaid knew before she saw Mavarl coming at her with his cutlass that she would not have time to reach the Holt before he reached her. Her heart pounded, and her head throbbed even more wildly than before. Everything about her seemed to sway as she used the last breath in her lungs to give one final war cry.
She would not die a coward, begging for mercy. Inside, she knew that was not her fate. She narrowed her eyes, slowing her pace slightly, and fixing her posture. She would die a brave death, like a true Warrior. She was going to be brave and strong! She would show her father that his daughter was no weakling, if it was the last thing she did!
She exhaled the breath from her lungs as she let ring the war cry her Granddam had used while killing vermin, hoping to let the name of her ancestors ring clearly just one more time. She sucked in a deep breath, and with all the might in her tiny lungs, all the envy and hatred she had for herself having to be the one without the ability to wield a weapon, she let out a bloodcurdling cry.
If her father would not be proud of her after this, she didn't think anything would impress him.
"HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLT LUTRAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Mavarl winced as the ottermaid's war cry rang through the empty air, and cursed at her fluently under his breath. She had warned the Holt after all! There was no way that he could attack Ruddaring now! The rat ran swiftly and silently towards Kyra, his green teeth gleaming as he moved.
His crew, however, turned around swiftly and waded back to the ship, raising the sails to retreat. Cap'n Mavarl would not be long in joining them. The rat corsair raised his cutlass and, instead of striking the ottermaid with the blade, brought the hilt end down upon her head, knocking her unconscious.
"I'll have some fun wid yer yet, brat, an' make ye scream loud and long fer a fast end 'fore I'm done wi' ye! I swear it as a Son of 'Ellgates!" The rat recited a fluent string of vulgar and foul curses as he saw a band of heavily armed otters running towards him from the Volcano, and grabbed the ottermaid's limp and unconscious form in his arms. He would make her pay for his lost chance at plundering Ruddaring!
And now, he had a new slave to bring back with him to the ship. He jumped aboard the ship, throwing the ottermaid's battered and bruised body to the ground roughly before barking out orders to his crew. "Yew there, throw this 'un inter the barracks an' chain 'er up, good 'n tight. We've got a new slave." Kyra was carried off, her limp form breathing lightly.
"Now, Hagtail, go 'n steer this ship south'ards. We've enough plunder as it is, an' losin' this bit them Otters 'ave won't 'urt us. Turn the ship two points to th' south!" He looked around at the still and silent crew, and waved his cutlass threateningly. "Well quit gawpin'! Git back t'work! Move it!" he snarled, rousing the crew into action.
The journey of Kyra Longfletch had begun.