Three Tales, One Story
In the Tradition of Brian Jacques's Redwall Novels
Chapter 1:
The Healer's Tale Begins
No place but the Northlands held such a legendary status, home to both villainy and awe-inspiring heroism. Nobeast could dare to lay claim that the creatures of the North were not tougher, savvier, more cunning, and more fit to fight their way out of danger than the more relaxed tempers of the Middle Countries and the vast Southlands.
That was the main reason why nobeast thought to challenge the mouse warrior when he came down from the northern climes, a great battlesword strapped across his back, a faded lavender cloak tossed about by the wind. He never even blinked, though the fitful plains winds flicked it cruelly into his eyes. He stared straight ahead, pillaged in his own mind by the horrors of all the war and death he'd seen. There were rumors that the vagabond was cursed with the Bloodwrath, a terrible ailment which doomed a beast to solitude just as it would doom whichever beast was fool enough to get in a Bloodwrather's way. Everybeast with any sense in their skulls evaded an encounter with the warrior.
Though this wish was not always possible. Somebeasts had been merely living their lives when the warrior mouse set on them like a hurricane. His moods shifted like storm clouds, or sunlight through the mesh of a wheatfield. Such was the case of two weasels, hunting on a misted spring morning on the knoll above their den.
They had set out, armed with a pair of spears, looking for quail but accepting of other quarry should they encounter any. The pair sought the birds out among the berry bushes, whose fruits were either not present yet or hard and green. They didn't see much in the way of birdsign, so they were contenting themselves to watch the sun burn off the cloudy grey.
Then a robin landed in a thicket not far away. Becoming efficient, sleek and grim, the weasels had of course pursued. They were a pawslength from skewering the bird when a high piercing cry rent the air. They turned to find a stout figure pelting through the long grasses towards them, materializing from the mists.
One weasel survived the encounter; her mate was cleaved almost the moment he turned around to get a bearing on their attacker. The weaseless was not inclined to speak about the matter, becoming a withered hag and living alone for the rest of her days, but what she did say was not comforting:
"'Twas all th' bird's life, not mine not Brumby's. Now get offa my land."
Given this, news spread like wildfire across the lands between North and Mossflower. Whatever words could be said on the subject were gobbled up greedily in the taverns and tribedens. Our tribe, the Waterfoxes, also heard these tales. But we were more southerly at the time and did not think the mouse warrior would come to us.
"You are a fine storyteller," Euran beamed at his vixen. She bowed slightly sitting down. Ioran tapped his claws on the stony ground until Sitra resumed.
A season crept by, and no word arrived in the middlelands. So it was assumed the warrior had died. Perhaps he had taken on a foe that was too much even for him. As most living in those glades and hills and scrublands thought him mad, it was no surprise to them that he might assault a fighter of great caliber, deadly to even Bloodwrathing mice.
It was but one mouse, but a great deal of thought went into his state of being. And indeed, he was a great cause for concern to many. Some tribes wondered who would be next to feel his wrath.
It would so happen that a tribe lived on a great hill, almost halfway betwixt Northland and Mossflower. The creatures there all dwelt in tents, which they moved in the dry season to a small lake two leagues from the tor. All of the tribe were numbered at about fifty, and all were foxes, cousins to the Waterfox tribe from which we hail. They were seasoned hunters and skilled at crafts of all kinds. Their baskets woven of rushgrass made it to markets on the south of the continent, which was no mean feat for a tiny tribe on the frosty end of a great landmass.
The chief of this tribe was called Audyl. He was best known for his nose, which was uncommonly black in color even though the rest of him was a fabulous pale orange. His eyes, also orange, were quick to laugh and jest with his tribesbeasts. Close friends gave him the nickname "Cyndernose", which he was eager to go by as it brought attention to his best feature. Though young he had a quick wit, and was eager to use it.
That morning a runner came into Audyl's tent whilst he was gaming with several of his hunters, playing shell and acorn on a section of trunk.
"What's th' matter?" the Chief said. The runner struggled to gain his breath as he answered.
"My Lord, a lone figger approaches from th' north," he gulped visibly, "Shall I tell our warriors to send him away?"
Audyl had already had quite a bit to drink that morning. He was known for a fox that liked his wine, but he would easily settle with ale or brandy or even strong cattail cane gin. The chief balked at the suggestion.
"What, turn him away? He's one beast, mate," he sniggered. "What harm could a loner do, eh? Betcha he just wants some comp'ny. Lead him in if he presents no arms!"
"Sounds surprisingly reasonable... fer a drunken vermin," said Kellos, coming swiftly awake and aware as Sitra's powders worked their magic. Ioren's nape rose visibly and he growled at the squirrel, but was stunned when the hefty creature growled back.
"I said to you beasts--we are not vermin," Euran huffed. "Good to see you are alive. Now shut up and listen unless you want to be out cold again."
Kellos felt warrior blood stir up in his veins as he made as if to lunge at the big fox. Tigand's paw shooting up and catching him on the wrist was the only thing that stopped him.
"Stow it, mate. We're in no position to fight here." he said. The squirrel nodded and sat again, glaring hate at the Chieftain.
Sitra exchanged odd glances with the other vulpines and continued with her tale.
The pair of stoic-faced hunters Audyl had sent to welcome in the strangebeast were brothers, named Husken and Doren. Each carried a long slim spear, the blade of which possessed a long barb on the left side but was like an ordinary polearm on the right. They stood side by side at the point on the edge of the tribal lands where they knew the figure would have to cross through, where the hill met another and a tempting path ran up it through the waving sedge.
As the beast came closer they could tell it was a mouse. A strong male, clad in ragged purple tunic and cloak, with a large and dangerous-looking sword at his back. The brothers exchanged glances, knowing of the rumors.
"Halt," Husken called to the mouse as he neared a ditch, ten pawsteps away from the pair, "How goes it, traveler?"
The mouse glared out at them from deep brown unblinking eyes. Doren shuddered, but hid it and clenched his spear's haft tighter.
"I'm going this way," the mouse said, "So you'd best move if you want to keep your lives, mangefurs."
"Hold on a tic," Doren said while narrowing his eyes, "Yore on our land an' we greeted you civilly enough. Follow our laws or suffer our punishments!"
"I follow no laws of vermin," the mouse retorted, baring teeth, "I'm going to pass!"
The mouse took a step in their direction, to which the hunters were forced to lower their war spears at him. The mouse stopped short and snarled at them, paw itching to reach for his sword.
" No vermin impedes me and lives!"
"Half a minute!" Huskem scoffed, keeping his spear leveled at the mouse's chest, "You don't even know us, our tribe, our chief, our names! We don't know you and so until you got on yore shoutin' an' carryin' on we weren't foes at all!" he took a step toward the headstrong creature, "So what reason have ya to challenge our most basic of demands? We were sent 'ere to greet you an' take you to our Chief for a goodwill meeting!"
The mouse said nothing, then slowly drew out the long sword. It was pitted and rusty, looking as if nobeast had ever thought to clean or polish it in a long while. Drawing back his lips in a full-on battle cry, the mouse answered them fiercely.
"My reason is... that I am Martin the Warrior! Son of Luke the Warrior! And I never back down to tyrants or vermin!"
"You filthy piece of--" This time it was Tigand who had to be restrained by Kellos. The mouse was absolutely livid, his eyes widened and bloodshot and his lips drawn back in full snarl. "How dare you smear the name of the Warrior..!"
Sitra paused and looked over with concern in her jade eyes. She sent a questing paw into her beltpouches and drew out a small tin flask.
"Calm yourself," she said sweetly, handing the flask over to the straining mouse. "One can be easily upset when dehydrated..."
"Easily upset?!" Tigand yelled. The young mice quivered but poked their heads up, staring wide-eyed at daddy. "You just called our greatest hero a berserking home-wrecker with no regard for boundaries!"
Sitra nodded.
"Maybe that is indeed part of who he is."
Tigand had to be restrained again. Chief Eoren guffawed loudly and banged a paw on the stones.
"This is something, isn't it then?" he grinned, "Continue, Sitra. I want to know more of this Martin." he winked, "He sounds like my kind of beast."
