Chapter 2: The Warriors
Disclaimer: Redwall is © Brian Jacques and Redwall Abbey Company Ltd. I do not claim ownership of the series or of any original ideas of the author of the series. However, the characters Tristyn, Kyo, Ren, Frey, Dinali, Grenn, Osono Caden, Brynmor Caden, Deirdre, Sway, Anwen Caden and Tarian Rhan are of my creation and are not to be used without my permission. Basically, any character you don't recognize from the books belong to me.
Author's notes: I tried to give Michael an Irish accent, so sorry if you think he sounds Scottish.
Brother Augustus rose early at Redwall Abbey, as was his custom. The aging Abbey Recorder was long past the prime of his life, but by no means was he ancient. A dormouse of middle age, he had only just started to feel the pangs of arthritis in his joints, mostly his knees and ankles. Sister June in the Infirmary predicted that in a few more seasons, the Brother would not be able to walk. But he didn't worry about it. For now, he would live every day as normal as he could.
He slowly descended the stairs into Cavern Hole, leaning against the wall, and then rested at the foot of the staircase. His knees were bothering him lately…must be a storm coming. It was mid-spring, and the Naming Ceremony was upon them.
Another season already…Augustus shook his head. Hard to believe how quickly time passed. It seemed like he had only been a young wandering warrior a day ago…then it was as if he blinked and he was in the position he was in. Looking back, he couldn't believe how naïve and stupid he was. Ah, but that was the curse of youth. All that energy, and yet all that stupidity…
"Good morning, Brother Augustus."
He turned round and found himself presented with the Abbey leader, a squirrel named…
"Abbess Charity, good morning to you as well," he smiled graciously. Charity had been an exceptionally lovely maid, and still retained some of her elegance and poise despite her age, a fact Augustus had always admired. It wasn't easy to be in a leadership position, even a small one like he was used to. Yet Charity always acted as her name implied, and was a far cry from the saucy, sassy, wild maid of her youth. Sometimes though, he could still see a small spark in her eye…fleeting, but still there, almost entirely unnoticeable.
That spark was there that morning and her eyes smiled, though her face remained impassive. "You are up early this morning."
"I'm awake early every morning," he reasoned. "What would make this day so different?"
"Ah, your bones tell you of a storm soon?" she smiled slyly. "Mine as well. This summer should be a rough one for us."
"Storms and drought, you mean?" he asked as he walked beside her. She nodded.
"Carys was telling me earlier, and you know she's never wrong about things."
Augustus chuckled. "She's never wrong about the Dibbuns, that's for sure. Her predictions are most uncanny."
Charity smiled that secret grin of hers. "Truly our Badger Mother knows more than she lets on. Ah, there she is…Carys!" she called out.
Carys Seren was a middle-aged badger, who was never without her blue dress and cream-colored smock, which was spotless at the beginning of every day, yet working with Dibbuns quickly sullied it. The female badger was standing next to the door, looking out onto the abbey grounds, and when she spotted the mouse and squirrel, she placed a claw to her lips.
"Shh! Come, he's out here…"
"Who is?" Augustus wondered. Carys moved away from the Abbey door and let him peek through. The door was cracked open, and up on the wall tops, he saw the form of a young mouse silhouetted against the rising dawn.
"Michael," the Brother whispered. "What on earth is he doing up there?"
Carys shook her head. "He was standing up there when I awoke, looking to the west."
"He was doing that last night as well," Abbess Charity informed them. "I wonder…"
Augustus didn't. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Wait here," he told them. "I'll go talk to him."
The mouse reached the wall steps and carefully climbed them, his joints protesting. Finally he reached the top of the wall, and looked over at Michael.
Michael was a quiet, distant sort, an ordinary field mouse by anyone's standards. But his now-vacant expression belied the fact of his sharp mind and keen wit. He had been that the Abbey since he was adopted as a Dibbun. Deep in his heart, he knew he was not an Abbeybeast, a fact Augustus was despondent that he knew. Michael knew he didn't belong; the problem was he had nowhere else, no other group, to belong to.
He sighed, giving himself the faint feeling that his breath was caught on the wind, now wafting towards the west, were his brown eyes were trained. He ignored the sun rising at his back, leaning against the wall, both paws resting on the battlements. He felt the wind rustle his fur but paid little attention to it.
"Michael?"
He whirled around to find Brother Augustus standing there next to him, the older mouse huffing from his climb. Michael immediately moved to help, concern etched into his youthful yet strong voice, lightly accented.
"Brother Augustus! What're ye doin' up here? Ye know ye limbs give ye troubles."
Augustus huffed, "Fiddlesticks! I'm fine, now let me stand…ah…much better." He joined the other mouse in standing at the wall top, overlooking the plains and the surrounding woodland. Augustus took in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "I can feel the heat already."
"Hmm…" Michael hummed, barely paying attention. The elder mouse looked at him out of the corner of his eye, scrutinizing his reactions.
"Something about the west intrigues you?"
Michael's head whipped around to look at the Brother. "What makes ye say that?"
"Even a blind creature can see you are obsessed with it. You've been staring out over the abbey walls ever since you came here seasons ago as a Dibbun. Why is that?"
Michael didn't answer him, only sighed. Then he took in a breath, "Sometimes I think 'twas not meant for me t' be here…I'm an outsider. I don't belong."
It was as Augustus expected. "Ah, a wandering heart…"
"Brother," Michael turned his body slightly to face him. "Ye know 'ow I felt when Cedric left. I wanted t' go with him."
Augustus nodded. The summer prior, Cedric, Carys' son, had finally grown to adulthood, the young male badger deciding that the time had come for him to go and seek his own fortune. The badger had to turn poor Michael away at the abbey gates, before he hugged his mother, giving her and the rest of the abbey a tearful goodbye.
He had gone south. A sparrow flying north after spring returned to Mossflower gave them news of a great and powerful badger in the south…one they called Cedric the Blade. Apparently he'd made quite a name for himself as a warrior, vermin all over feared him, and his skill with his mighty sword. Carys had gushed and said how proud she was.
Michael wished fervently that he could have been there to see it all. He sighed angrily and pounded his fist onto the battlement. "Arg! I cannae stand t' be here anymore! I don't belong here, Augustus! My home is over the western sea, that's where I belong, not cooped up in some old stone building, withering away behind a desk an' a pair of reading glasses!" The minute he finished his rant, he bit his tongue.
Augustus simply gazed at him, his expression unreadable.
"Brother," the mouse tried to apologize. "I'm sorry, I dinnae mean…"
"No," Augustus said harshly. "I know exactly what you meant."
Michael hung his head with shame and Augustus shook his head. "You've got spirit, young'un, that I will admit. No, someone like you was never meant for the life as a member of our order. But you should learn to hold your tongue and control your temper…"
"…or 'twill get me intae trouble," he finished, having heard this speech before. He had an issue with his temper, he knew it. But he never knew why that was the case.
Augustus sighed. "If you are so intent, Michael…then I am giving you permission to leave after Name Day Celebrations…if you still want to leave, that is."
"I can't do that to Abbess Charity…or t' Carys…"
"It would be better you left. Michael, please understand, I am only telling you this because I want you to be happy. And you are not happy here." He turned around and started to walk down the steps. "Breakfast should be ready soon. And if I'm correct, we should be expecting company within the coming days."
"Who?" the young mouse asked eagerly as the elder walked away.
"Why, the otters of course! Skipper Herryk is bringing a troupe with him for the Name Day Celebrations. Mayhap you'll find yourself a kindred spirit…"
Mealtimes at the Holt were never boring; something Frey could have told anyone. He was off-duty that night, and sat inside the holt at one of the few tables for supper that evening. He sighed; he was tired, but not physically. He hated this feeling. He had done nothing productive all day, and yet he was exhausted. His mother had called it "tired from doing nothing", and as far as he was concerned, he could not understand how some creatures could simply be slothful and sedentary their whole lives without actually lifting a paw. Somebeast had told him once that there were creatures out there in the great wide world that were like that; he hadn't believed them.
He scratched under his chin and leaned heavily against the table. He didn't bother to look up when the other young males came into the den, whooping and hollering up a storm. He, like a good ten percent of the otter clan, was an unmarried otter, and unmarried males especially were expected to active duty as warriors for the clan. They were not even considered adults until marriage. Frey sighed; still a kit, and it didn't seem like that would change any time soon.
One male sat himself down next to him. This otter was grinning ear to ear, laughter in his eyes. He nudged his friend, "C'mon Frey m'lad! Why so glum? R'member wot yore Amma says…yore face could stick like that!"
Amma was the kind elderly otter who had taken care of Frey for many seasons; she was also considered the matriarch of the clan. Frey sighed and rolled his eyes. "Erek, I'm not in th' mood…"
Erek slapped a heavy paw onto his friend's slender shoulders, causing the smaller otter to slam into the table. "Yore ne'er in the mood, matey! Erm, Frey? You a'right?"
Frey coughed and sputtered. "Aye…fine…just fine, mate…" he was cut off by a loud shout from the cook, a plump fellow, with a scurvy disposition. The young otter males all turned to gaze hungrily at the two trays balanced on the cook's paws. He glared at them all, then sighed, resigning himself to what he figured was a fate worse than death: preparing food for a score of hungry and growing male kits.
Finally, the cook revealed his dish: fresh crawfish. The otter males whooped and hollered and the cook placed the first tray down. The two otters sitting at the end of the long table started taking individual crawdads and in their haste to serve their fellow otters, threw the shellfish down the length of the table. Soon the air was filled with crawfish being tossed here and there, the otters laughing and roaring. The cook shook his head,
"In me day, manners didn't cost much."
"In yore day, the sun 'ad'nt been lit," one cheeky male shouted.
"'Oo said that?" the cook roared. No one answered, but started tearing into the meal, feasting on the fresh trout that was passed around the table after the crawfish was "served", with fresh rye bread still steaming from the oven. Fresh-churned butter was smeared over the bread, and eaten straight along with the seafood as the otter warriors laughed and joked, telling embellished stories of their exploits that day. One young warrior named Ari was telling a rather crude joke to his four closest friends, all leaning in close to hear his hushed tones. Then they erupted into laughter at the punch line.
Frey largely ignored them, because they usually ignored him. He wasn't like any of them: he was scrawny, weak, and worthless. He looked up from his meal just as two more otters entered the den. Immediately, the younger otters stood and saluted their skipper.
Herryk Streamdog was an otter of average height, dark brown, and muscular, still in fit shape despite the fact he was past his prime. His wisdom as a leader was unparalleled, and though he looked like no threat, he had disproved that mistaken theory many times over on countless vermin.
Standing beside him was the only unattached male who was considered an adult in the holt. Frey gulped.
Magnus was huge. He was tall, well-equipped with muscular arms and firm, sturdy legs. He was the strongest swimmer, the most able warrior, and easily the most respected individual in the clan…despite the fact that many considered him extremely arrogant.
Herryk spread his arms wide and motioned for the males to sit, which they did in perfect unison. The Skipper cleared his throat.
"Lissen up, boyos, 'ard times are a'ead, an' we're lookin' fer a few good warriors…"
The youthful faces of the otters lit up with glee. Finally, their first battle! Magnus looked unperturbed, and Frey hated him for it. He hated all of them for it. The truth was, he was scared. Frey was not stupid, he knew what war meant; he had experienced it first-hand at a much younger age. He felt Herryk's eyes on him and he panicked; he often wondered if Herryk knew exactly what he was thinking…
"I wouldn't be so excited as ye all are…war is not a game. I've known too many mates perish in battle. Too many lives are ruined by it…only the strong survive."
At this, Magnus smirked. Frey wished he could have smacked that smirk right off his smug face.
"Nonetheless," Herryk continued, "I will be choosin' a select few o you lads t' journey t' Redwall. I received information from the Guosim th' other day…there's bad news afoot in Mossflower.
Again…Frey held back on saying it aloud.
"Aye, again…" Herryk sighed.
It was scary how well that otter could read his mind…
"An' normally, that means Redwall's th' bloody target…erm, no pun intended. Tomorrer, I'll announce which o' you lads will be joinin' me and Magnus 'ere on th' journey. Ye'll be judged based on 'ow well you perform yore duties, fight, an' above all, 'ow well you lot obey orders. Right, that's all. Eat up, me 'earties, an' sleep well. But be ready to leave at daybreak, all o' you."
Frey turned his eyes away and back down at his barely-eaten food. He didn't know why he bothered sometimes. He wasn't going to be picked to go—what good could he possibly do?
Erek was called away from the table to speak with the Skipper. Frey frowned. Erek would definitely go—he was the Skipper's son, and unwritten law stated that the son would accompany the father on these kinds of missions. He watched out of the corner of his eye as father and son communicated in soft tones, and was interested when Erek's expression turned to one of surprise, then distress. Magnus, too, was looking a little worried.
What did it matter anyhow?
Frey finished his dinner and went to wash his plate and utensils. As he scrubbed away, he sighed again; he realized he'd been doing a lot of that lately. He had no chance of ever being counted as one of the greats. Nevertheless, that night before he laid down to sleep, he packed some provisions and used his knapsack as his pillow, as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
However, it seemed that the minute his head was laid down, he was jolted awake. It was dawn already, and the whole holt was awake. He joined his companions on the riverbank, awaiting their orders. He looked out at the crowd.
Mothers and children, and the unattached females in the holt, watched impatiently. A trio of young female otters giggled and pointed at various males, cooing and gushing over them. He frowned; they never would have looked at him.
"Frey!" a female voice called out. His head snapped up and he saw to his amazement…it couldn't be. He turned his head and looked about, but there was no one else looking her way.
Liv was Herryk's daughter, and Erek's younger sister. She was also, in Frey's opinion, the most beautiful otter he had ever seen. She was smiling warmly at him and waved. "Good luck!"
He waved back and almost smiled himself but for the sharp order to attention.
Herryk and Magnus reached the front of the line. Both otters were dressed in simple green tunics, already armed and ready for the journey. The otter chieftain held out his arms and encouraged everyone to be silent. The mothers of the young males were quivering with excitement, each one hoping their own would be chosen.
Herryk began, "I've made me decisions, an' I'm stickin' to em. Anybeast wif a problem can see me. Lets begin. Magnus, th' list." The taller otter handed him a piece of bark cloth, where names had been written in ink made from soot. The Skipper cleared his throat. "Th' Followin' 'ave been chosen t' accompany me to Redwall: Dag…"
On young male grinned wildly and almost whooped, had his self-discipline not been as grounded.
"Ari…"
The otter whooped, and then quieted down after Magnus sent him a glare.
"Brandi, Blyn, Fridleif, Geir, Haldan…"
The list went on, to name nine…
"…Aegir, Kelsig, and…lesse, who'm I fergettin'…ah yes…and Frey."
"WHAT?" his head snapped up. All eyes turned to him. Erek was gaping at him like the catch of the day. And so was Magnus. The tall otter asked his leader, "Are you certain that is wise?"
"'Course it is. th' lad's got a good 'ead on 'is shoulders. An' e's got great potential."
"Herryk," magnus argued. "Having 'potential' isn't going to help in battle!"
"He'll 'ave plenty of time to practice at th' Abbey," the skipper said firmly. "An' I'll arsk ye t' respect me judgment, Magnus…yore not the Skipper 'ere fer a reason. Remember that."
Directing his attention back at the ranks, he looked down into the disappointed faces of those who's names were not called…including his son.
"I've asked ye t' stay 'ere while we're gone: th' holt needs t' be protected at all costs, which is why I'm leavin' me son, Erek, in charge while I'm gone. Son," he said tenderly, laying a paw on his shoulder. "Make me proud."
"Always, Daddo."
Frey looked at his friend sorrowfully. Erek knew it was coming—his father must have broken the news to him the night before. still, Frey couldn't believe it: he was chosen to go!
He approached Herryk. "Erm…sir?"
"'Oo's 'sirrin' me?" the skipper asked. When he turned and saw frey, he smiled. "Ah…just the lad I wanted t' talk to. walk wif me, wouldja, lad?"
"Erm…" he sent a look to Erek, who encouraged him with a nod. "Sure, Skip."
Herryk led him down the bank, away from the main group, to have a private chat. They stopped at a calm place in the river and the otter chieftain picked up a smooth stone and flung it; it skipped five times. "I betcher wond'rin' why I picked yew." It was a statement, not a question.
Frey nodded numbly. "That'd be nice. Magnus is right though, wot do I 'ave to offer?"
Herryk handed him a pawful of skipping stones and took up some himself. "Don't let that blowhard git t' ye. 'e may be the best fighter, but 'e's got nothin' t' yew."
"How can you say that?" Frey asked angrily. "Wot about yore son? Wot about Erek?"
"Erek was not meant for war…'e's too…" the stone he was trying to skip failed and sunk to the bottom. "Too innocent," he finished. "Idealistic…'e wouldn't survive."
Frey hung his head; he felt guilty. He felt like he was stealing his friend's rightful place. He told this to Herryk, who shook his head.
"Yore not takin' anythin' from 'im. I discussed it wid him, an' 'e agrees to it. Besides, 'e was th' one 'oo told me t' pick you."
Frey's pebble flew the wrong way and bounced off a fallen tree trunk before plopping down into the water. "Wot?" he winced. He sounded like a hare!
"Aye…I told him I wasn't gonna let 'im come wid me…an' 'e recommended yew."
"WHY?"
Herryk smiled slyly. "Coz 'e said yew 'ad a good 'ead on yore shoulders, an' that yew were mature fer yore age. I don't need a bunch o' wet-be'ind-the-ears kits. I needed somebeast 'oo woz brave, realistic…":
"I'm not brave! I'm terrified of war!" he argued.
"An' yet yore still goin'."
Frey said nothing, and suddenly seemed intently focused on the pebbles still in his paw. Herryk threw his last pebble and watched as it skipped three times then fell to the bottom of the river. "Frey, I ne'er knew yore father…I knew yore mother though…a right classic beauty, she was. I admit, I woz jealous when I 'eard she'd gotten married. But I'm glad at least that yew came out of th' bargain. I know their deaths woz 'ard on yew…"
Frey battled tears as flashbacks of that horrible night came flooding back. He shook his head to dispel them as Herryk continued.
"…An' ye were so young. Bringin' yew into me holt, me clan, as me own flesh an' blood…'twas the least I could do for Amora."
Frey bit his lip at the sound of his mother's name. His paw gripped the pebbles fiercely. This did not go unnoticed.
"Ye got the passion and the iron will, Frey. I can see that. One day, you'll be a great warrior…mayhaps better than Magnus."
Frey snorted. "Like that will ever 'appen."
Herryk placed a comforting paw on his thin shoulder. "It will. Ye got th' strength inside o' you…ye just need t' find it." With that, the otter chieftain started to walk off, leaving him standing still at the river's edge, still holding the skipping stones in his paw.
Frey looked out at the river, watching meditatively as the water swirled around rocks, and as ripples formed where the water bugs landed. Angrily, Frey threw the largest pebble in his hand and watched as it made a significant splash. However he was not alone for long.
"The funny thing about pebbles," Liv said in his ear. Frey yelped and jumped back. She giggled. "Did I scare you?"
"No…No, you just…startled me. Yew…yew were sayin' somethin' about…pebbles?"
She nodded and took one from his paw and skipped it. "When they hit the water, they cause ripples. Look how calm the water is…" she threw in another, and Frey watched as the entire surface was disturbed. Liv smiled at him and pointed at the place where the stone dropped to the river bottom.
"See? One small thing can cause that much to happen. I have faith in you, Frey. I just wanted to wish you good luck." With that, she winked, grinned, then walked off, humming a shanty, and leaving Frey standing still on the river bank, wondering what had just happened.
He had one more pebble left. Nonchalantly, he flung it; it skipped six times.
A/N: hope you guys were paying attention. There's a lot of significance in the imagery in this chapter, and a lot of foreshadowing too. Can you tell who's majoring in English?