Chapter 4: The Renegades
Sorry it took to long to get this out. School's been cutting into my time. I should learn to manage time better…
Disclaimer: Redwall belongs solely to Brian Jacques. I'm only borrowing his little world for my own creative musings.
Frey took in a sharp breath when he first spotted the abbey through the trees. He nudged the otter marching beside him. "Ari, is that really Redwall?"
Ari, a light-brown stringy male, shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I'm s'posing so, matey. It's got red stones, so's I'm a-thinkin' it's the abbey, alroight."
"Its huge…"
"As it should be," Dag said, directly in front of them in the line. "Considerin' th' number o' times it's been attacked or under siege…I dunno 'bout you buckos," he turned back to look at them, "but I 'opes it don't come t' war."
Ari heckled him, "What'sa matter, mate? 'Fraid of a couple o' vermin?"
"It's never just 'a couple 'o vermin'," Frey said quietly, the cryptic edge in his voice not lost on the two otters. Ari shut his mouth at a glare from Dag; Dag himself didn't know the whole story, but from what little he knew, the otter figured he didn't want to know. If he needed to know, he certainly wasn't going to force Frey to talk.
"Herryk's been quiet today," Kelsig, Dag's marching partner whispered. "Wonder wot th' problem is?"
Dag was curious as well, but he hissed back, "Stow that talk! If 'e 'ere's yew, it could get us in trouble."
Kelsig just shrugged and carried his javelin straighter, stiffening his grip on the simple weapon. "Just a 'armless question. Ye think 'e's expectin' a war?"
"Heavens, I 'ope not," Dag sighed.
Frey was watching Dag closely; the elder otter's usual sunny disposition has disappeared as if a dark cloud had passed over him. Now that he thought about it, a dark cloud seemed to pass over all of them. They had been marching for nearly four days, not much of a trek, and certainly in the neighborhood of the abbey, but there were otter clans closer to the great redstone building.
There was the Greyback clan, led by Skipper Gris, from the southern part of Mossflower, and then there were the Greenstones, led by the head Skipper of the Mossflower otter tribes by the name of Finn. Any otter clan living within the Mossflower woods were all members of that nation, divided into individual clans, with a different tattoo marking their adherence. Frey was born into the Red-River clan, and had a mark on his left shoulder of three wavy lines in red, and since he was now a member of the Wide River otters, he sported Herryk's mark: the rough image of an arrow wrapped around his upper arm; his mother Amora had been one of the Wide River otters, and married into the Red-Rivers. Of his father, Frey knew next to nothing. Had he been killed? Deserted? Banished? Every time he thought about it, he was certain that he had no father for a good reason: something dishonorable had been done…
Disgrace or not, when he was barely seven seasons, Frey had lost what little he had already had. All because of one creature's greed…
And now here he was, marching off to war. What was he doing? What was he even thinking? This was lunacy! What did he know of fighting? He was weak, small, and puny compared to the others in the party who towered over him. Dag was easily the tallest, a hairsbreadth shorter than Magnus.
That seemed suspicious to him. Why, if there were otter clans closer to Redwall, were they currently en route to it now? The whole thing didn't sit well with him. Was this what Herryk meant when he said he had a good head on his shoulders? Or that he was realistic?
Frey scoffed silently. Realistic indeed…he was just being paranoid.
At the front of the column, Magnus called a halt. They hid themselves in the foliage at Herryk's direct orders. The otter chieftain and his compatriot exchanged observations at something beyond Frey's sight, followed by a short yet heated argument, Herryk winning out over the younger otter. The elder turned his attention back to the troupe and nodded his head in the direction of the abbey.
"Let's move in."
Michael stood on the wall tops standing next to Brother Augustus, as was now their custom. Both mice were looking out over the western battlements at two warrior bands making their way up the path. Michael narrowed his eyes against the bright noonday sun.
"Otters? What are they doin' here?"
Augustus shrugged his thin shoulders. "Possibly here to enjoy the festivities with us," he figured. "The Skippers have never been known to miss good old Redwall fare."
"Then why do they come with weapons?"
Augustus' brows furrowed. "What?"
Michael pointed. "There! Ye can see the sun glinting off th' spears."
Augustus didn't like this at all. "Go get the Abbess."
Once they were let into the Abbey, Skipper Herryk met Skipper Gris in a good old-fashioned brotherly hug. Gris was a tall brawny otter with a grey-brown pelt that he had sported since he was a kit. Most of the Greybacks had grayish fur, hence their namesake. They were on the small side for otters, but they were well renowned for their skills in espionage and guerilla tactics.
"Herryk, yew ole streamdog!" Gris grinned and laughed heartily. He and Herryk almost managed to crush each other in the tight hug; this competition was normal for them, and had been for many seasons.
Herryk ruffled his friend's fur and held him at arm's length. "Yew streamwalloper! Look et ye! Packin' on the pounds there, mate!" he said jokingly. Frey thought he must have lost his mind: Gris was the perfect definition of fitness.
"Not pounds, matey," Gris said, flexing his arms. "Muscles!"
"Don't yew ever grow old?"
" 'Course I do! Growin' old is mandatory…"
"Growin' up is voluntary!" they chorused, then laughed at their own joke. They were silenced by a glare from Carys Seren, as she stepped outside the gatehouse, paws on her hips.
"So…I suppose you think you can just show up out of the blue and expect us to feed you, eh?"
The otter chieftains shared a look then both nodded. "Yep."
Carys chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah me…I can never stay mad at you two! You make it so hard to dislike you!"
Frey stood back and almost bumped into Kelsig who was standing behind him. The other young otter stood transfixed as well. This was the first badger they had ever seen.
Carys turned her attention to Herryk's team; she nodded curtly at Magnus. "I see you're back. How was the battle with those searats along the coast?" Carys braced herself; Magnus was a well-known boaster. Calling him a liar would have not been proper hosting…even if that was what he was.
Magnus puffed out his barrel of a chest and said proudly, "No problems at all, marm! Those corsairs ne'er knew wot 'it 'em!"
Carys wasn't impressed, even a blind beast could have seen that. Frey liked her already. Then something small plowed into him, knocking him down. The otter lay there, humiliated, as Magnus started laughing. Ari chuckled, but it was Dag who helped him up. Frey felt another paw grasping him firmly, and he got a good look at his "attacker".
"Sorry about that, mate," Michael said. "Heh…erm, I tripped."
"Indeed, Master Michael," Carys said harshly. "And what, pray, were you doing up on the wall tops this time?"
Michael's own face flushed just as Augustus stumbled down the stairs. "Easy, Carys, he was assisting me…I was curious about our otter friends here…"
"As am I."
All eyes turned to the Abbey door as Charity glided outside into the sunlight. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she grinned. "Herryk, Gris, I thought that was you!"
Both chieftains rushed over and swept her up in a tight hug.
"Charity, you just grow more lovely with age!" Gris proclaimed.
" 'Ow 'ave yew been, ole friend?" Herryk asked as they set her safely on the ground again. She rubbed her wrists. "My bones are starting to show their age, but besides that, I have been the same as always. But look at you two! All dressed up for war, when there is no war about!"
Herryk and Gris exchanged a nervous look. Charity caught on immediately. "Friends, what is wrong?"
Herryk said, "I think we should wait until my cousin gets 'ere. Then we'll explain everything."
The third Skipper, called Finn, the Leader of the Otter Nation of Mossflower, arrived shortly before supper that night. He and his crew of fifty quietly entered the grounds and deposited their weapons at the door as Gris and Herryk had also ordered their crews to do.
Inside, the visitors were met with the most rewarding and wonderful smells, courtesy of the Abbey kitchens. Large pans of bread were carried past them, the bread still steaming from the oven. Traditional food of the moles and shrews also festooned the tables with ripe fruit and fresh strawberries, bright red and bursting with juices. Vegetable pasties vied for attention amongst the soups and stews of various woodlanders visiting for the Nameday celebrations.
Michael had been instantly fascinated with the otters, and begged permission to sit amongst them at the table. The otters from the Wide River tribe welcomed him heartily, feasting on Hotroot soup, rye bread, fresh watershrimp, and a fine trout. Michael wasn't accostumed to eating fish, but found he liked it as much as the otters did. He found himself sitting next to a smallish otter, one that the others called Frey. For a reason he couldn't quite place, Michael was drawn to this otter, who kept sending him odd looks out of the corner of his eye.
After spending an hour in silence, and catching Michael's numerous interested glances, Frey finally sighed, put down his utensils and said, "Look, matey, could ye stop doin' that? Yore makin' me uneasy…"
Michael stared at him, scrutinizing his features. "Sorry."
"No yore not."
"Alright, I'm not."
The two of them stared at each other, unblinking, until simultaneously, they sputtered, then burst into laughter. Frey's cheeks hurt him suddenly and as he raised his paw to nurse his aching cheeks, a thought crossed his mind…wait…was he actually smiling? He was…he couldn't remember the last time he had smiled.
The mouse was the first to extend his hand. "I'm Michael, I've lived 'ere me whole life."
"Frey," the otter answered, shaking the mouse's paw. "This is me first time being 'ere. Is it always this lively?"
Michael groaned and rolled his eyes. "I wish! Its so boring, I wish I was a warrior like you."
"Oh, um…" Frey stuttered. "I'm…I'm not really a…"
"But ye carry weapons," Michael insisted. "That must mean ye know how t' fight, right?"
"Well, sort of…"
"Ye mean ye can't?"
Frey said nothing and just returned to eating. Michael nudged him. "Sorry, I didn't mean t' hurt ye feelings, but seriously, can ye fight?"
Frey was suddenly losing his patience very quickly with this mouse. "Do yew want me to show yew wot I can do?"
Michael only nodded, a smile growing on his face. Frey looked across the table at Dag and Kelsig, sending them a look that begged for a rescue. The two otters pretended they hadn't caught it. Resigned to this, Frey sighed and said to Michael, "Grab s'more food…an' I'll show ye wot I know…"
"You call that a parry?" Michael joked. "That was pathetic!"
Frey kicked his foot out and tripped Michael, laughing as the mouse hit the ground. "Diversionary tactic, matey. My friend Erek taught me that move."
"Not bad," a voice said behind him. Frey turned round and saw himself looking up into the face of one of the Skippers. The otter was about a head taller than himself, Frey reckoned, sleek brown fur from head to toe. Frey nervously smoothed out some of his own fur; he had always been pretty scruffy, and hated it.
Finn walked up to him. "Ye ever used a sword before?"
Frey stammered. "Er, um…no sir."
Finn beckoned both of them over. "Yew want to learn?"
The eyes of both mouse and otter lit up, although Finn swore he saw a sort of nervousness in the young otter's eyes. "What's yore name, matey?"
"Erm, Frey, sir. It's Frey."
"An' I'm Michael," the mouse introduced himself once Finn's gaze shifted to him. "I know who you are," the mouse said admiringly. "Yore Finn, the one they call the Slayer."
Frey looked back up at him, suddenly star-struck. He had heard many stories from Herryk of the otter warrior he had known since youth called Finn the Vermin Slayer. This otter standing before him had proved time and time again how worthy he was, how strong he was, how righteous…Frey almost grinned wickedly at the thought of him and Magnus going up against each other in a sparring match. That would have been very enjoyable to watch.
Finn picked up a long stave and snapped it in half over his knee. He handed both of them one half each. "Show me wot you know, an' we'll work from there."
Michael grinned and so did Frey…albeit nervously. The mouse and otter took to their fighting stances, and Finn stopped them immediately. "Frey lad, shift yore weight so that it's distributed evenly…that's it. Michael, 'old the stave like a sword, both paws on the hilt. There we go. Nice firm grip. Now…go!"
The two sparred off, the clapping sound of wooden stave on wooden stave echoing off the abbey walls. Frey found himself defending more than fighting back, but when he looked out the corner of his eye, he saw Finn watching him closely, the older otter stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.
Frey wasn't about to make a fool of himself in front of this mighty warrior—heaven knows he did that enough back home—so he started paying more attention. Michael's movements were fast…but clumsy. He had his guard down, not protecting his middle.
That was when Frey took his stave and swung an arch to the side, tapping Michael's left side.
"Hold!" Finn called. Frey and Michael stopped immediately, the mouse gaping at the stave that had struck him on his side. Finn calmly walked over to them, clapping his paws and smiling. "Well done, lad! Ye did th' smart thing," he said to Frey.
Frey blinked. "I…I did?"
"Aye, ye did," Finn pointed at Michael, and the mouse watched and listened carefully. "Ye see wot 'e did, mouse?"
"Aye I did…ye wore me out, mate," Michael gazed at Frey in awe.
"Exactly," Finn said. "Yew wore 'im out, a good thing fer a beginner t' do, cuz once yore opponent gits tuckered out, 'e makes mistakes, an' plenty o' 'em t' boot."
Frey was looking at the older otter with awe. The first thing he noticed now was that Finn was…shorter, than he had thought. And by most creatures' accounts, Finn would also be considered…dare he say it? Puny for an otter… At least compared to giants like Skipper Gris and Magnus, who were almost as tall as badgers, it had been said… But Frey was taken aback by the almost depressed look in the leader's eyes as he looked down at him. Frey took a cautionary step back which Finn noticed.
"Relax, lad, I don't bite…"
"Finn!" someone called him. The elder otter turned round and saw Carys Seren motioning him to come to the gatehouse. He sighed. Delivering this news wasn't going to be easy. But he looked back down at Frey, this young and skinny otter lad, who didn't appear to have more than sixteen seasons on him. Finn placed a firm paw on the smaller otter's shoulder.
"Keep practicin'. Soon, you'll be a great warrior." With that, he turned and walked towards the Gatehouse, leaving Frey staring at his retreating back, eyes narrowed…like he was trying to remember something long forgotten…
"A WHAT?" Charity nearly exploded. She, Carys and the three otter chieftains were gathered in the gatehouse for a private meeting. Finn coughed into his paw and cleared his throat.
"Aye, we spotted 'em when we was passing the ford," he explained. "A horde o' vermin, mostly rats, led by a couple foxes."
"An odd combination," Carys mused.
"Though not impossible; remember the Marlfoxes?" Charity asked her friend. Carys nodded slowly. "Vaguely…I remember being told about them when I was a maid here at the abbey school. But we're veering away from the point. Finn, are they coming any closer to here?"
"I 'opes not, but by my scouts' guesses, they were headed west, towards the coast."
Charity pursed her lips in thought. "This doesn't sound right," she said. "Why would a horde simply bypass us? History has shown that a horde of vermin is more than likely to attack once they lay eyes on us. The whole 'Redwall treasure', the 'mystic magic sword', and other such nonsense is what brings them..."
"But e'erybeast knows 'bout Redwall," Gris interjected. "An' vermin ain't as stupid as they used t' be…well, not entirely," he added at the cynical look from Carys. "They still believe that this is a place of great magic, but the other side o' th' leaf is that they also think this place is cursed."
Carys made a disgusted noise and shook her head. "Vermin…"
"But Finn," Charity implored, "Do you think they present a threat to us?"
"Abbess, marm," he began. "If I thought those rats and foxes were relatively 'armless, I woulda stayed where I was. Any sightin' of a horde—e'en a small band—of vermin, is usually a bad sign of things to come."
Charity took in this news gravely. "And us without a Warrior…"
Herryk spoke up, "Charity, we've all been through this before, all five o' us. I a'member when we was as young as those buckos back inside," he pointed his thumb over his shoulder back at the abbey, indicating Frey and Michael, who had stopped to play with some Dibbuns, the Abbeybabes. "We went a-questin' o'er hill an' dale, thick'n'thin…shore, it was dangerous, but did we let that bother us?"
"Ye fergit, cuz," Gris pointed out. "Back then, we only 'ad ourselves t' worry about. Now we've got our kits under our command, as well as an abbey full o' beasts."
"He's right," Finn said. "We can't take chances."
"But Redwall is a peaceful place," Carys said. "We are not trained in the ways of warfare…even though someone should have changed that when she became abbess…" she glared at Charity.
Charity rolled her eyes. "Fine! I get it! Hindsight is the clearest sight of all!"
Herryk chuckled. "Jus' like ole times…"
"Too much like ole times," Finn said. "It's a good thing, then, that we arrived when we did. It's too bad that we don't 'ave any hares 'ere t' fight with us."
"Well if that horde is heading west," Charity said, "Then it is likely those hares will have their paws full to begin with. I feel so sorry for the badger lord there…"
"I don't," Carys said with a snort. "Even for a male badger, Osono Caden is so full of himself."
"Osono is th' badger lord now?" Gris asked. Herryk nodded, "An' 'e 'as been for a good number o' seasons. I 'ear 'e's got two children, a son an' daughter, named Brynmor and Anwen, respectively."
Gris folded his arms over his chest and grinned, reminiscing. "I a'member when we was still young'uns…"
"He was still stubborn even then," Carys said bitterly. Charity interrupted her, "Be that as it may, we still owe a lot to him, because without him, goodness knows we'd have been overrun a long time ago."
"If'n ye ask me, though," Finn said. "Osono's been gettin' on in seasons. I think 'is son will take over soon enough."
"And what is this Brynmor Caden like?" Charity questioned.
"Stubborn, like 'is father…"
"Of course," Carys muttered.
"…an' I'm 'opin' that Osono will see sense an' make 'is daughter the new leader of the mountain fortress an' its hares. Anwen's gots a good 'ead on 'er shoulders, that lass does."
"So I'm guessin' we'll be 'ere awhile?" Gris asked.
Herryk sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Looks like it, matey. I knows wot you all are thinkin', we've been on the trail before…I know we don't want t' stay away from 'ome too long…"
"That reminds me, Herryk," Finn started. "I haven't seen Erek here yet…"
Herryk looked a little sheepish, "I left 'im at 'ome, where he'll be safe."
Finn gave him a hard look. "I see…yew truly 'aven't changed at all, Herryk. Still so selfish that ye won't e'en risk yore one an' only son to grow into a warrior…"
"At least I accept him as my son!" Herryk bit his tongue. Finn looked stricken, ashen, and he took a shaky breath. Herryk struggled to ease the tension. "Finn…"
"No, yore right," Finn said quietly. Charity and Carys exchanged looks; they both knew that the subject had come up again, that one forbidden thing they were never to speak of in front of Finn. The abbess looked at Finn sorrowfully; that poor otter, she thought.
"Yore right…an' its time I accepted it. I made a mistake…no, that ain't the right word. I…"
"Acted on an impulse," Abbess Charity offered.
"Aye, that's it…an' I shoulda accepted th' consequence instead o' runnin' from it. I ain't proud of wot I did, an' I ne'er will be. Is that what yew wanted t' 'ear?" he added to Herryk. The smaller otter averted his gaze.
Finn felt Charity's comforting paw on his shoulder. "We don't blame you for anything, Finn—I never have, at least. For whatever its worth, you have been forgiven."
"No I 'aven't. This is somethin' I can never be forgiven for," he said sadly. "I messed up once, an' I refuse t' do it again." He stood up out of his seat and grabbed his weapons, belting on the daggers as he said, "As long as I still draw breath, I ain't lettin' anythin' 'appen to this abbey or its creatures!"
Frey's paw hovered just over the ancient tapestry hanging in the Great Hall, afraid to touch it, so fragile it looked. His wondering eyes gazed up at the heroic figure of the armored mouse, grinning roguishly and triumphantly as vermin great and small ran from him in terror, their faded forms leaping across the woven threads, forming an interesting paradox of the strong and youthful figure on the fragile and decrepit cloth. But mysteriously, the figure of Martin the Warrior seemed to be as vibrantly colored and clear as if it had been woven merely a day ago…
Michael stood beside him and sighed through his nose, gazing up in reverence as well, his shoulders rising and falling with the moan. "I remember first comin' t' this abbey," he began, his voice low and quiet. "When I saw this tapestry, I dinnae think o' it as the other creatures 'ere do. They only see it as just that: a tapestry."
"Ain' that wot it is?" Frey wondered.
Michael shook his head and continued to stare at Martin's figure, leaning against the spectacular sword, armor glistening. "Not t' me 'tisn't. T' me, that mouse…I wanted to be just like him, I did. Martin gives me hope, 'e gives all the Redwallers hope."
"So doesn't that make ye a Redwaller?"
Michael paused a moment, pondering his question. Finally, the little brown mouse answered, "No, it doesn't. I'm an outsider 'ere."
Frey smiled wryly. "I c'n relate…"
"Mebbe that's why we get along so well," Michael said, finally looking up at the otter. "We understand each other."
Frey shrugged and stepped away from the tapestry. Once he was able to look at the big picture, he was struck speechless with wonder. "Its amazin'…"
"Aye," the mouse nodded. "But what bothers me about it…its so old, but the picture of Martin…it never fades. It never 'as, and I don't think it ever will. 'Tis strange, methinks, that nobeast but me notices it."
Frey half-joked, "Mebbe Martin's tryin' t' tell ye somethin'."
Michael didn't answer him, but his eyes wandered up the magnificent sword that still gleamed, hung on pegs over the tapestry. "Frey, don't ye ever wonder if ye were meant for somethin' more than wot ye were given in life?"
The otter hung his head. "Don't matter. I'd probably screw that up too."
"Do ye always think o' yourself that way?"
"Michael," frey said bitterly. "Me whole life 'as been that way. I was never good fer anythin'. I dunno why Herryk thinks I might be a good warrior. Look at me!" He spread his arms open wide as if offering himself as a sacrifice. "I'm small, scrawny, and weak! Wot good can I do?"
This made Michael angry, and he pointed directly at the tapestry. "Look at Martin! He had t' be e'en smaller than you! An' he fought off rats, foxes an' a wildcat. A WILDCAT! 'Tis not th' size o' th' warrior, 'tis the size o' 'is heart! An' believe me, friend, if ye are able t' argue with me this far, then ye got the heart t' be a warrior."
"But don't believe that!"
"What will it take for ye t' believe?" Michael countered. Frey turned his head away from him and glared back up at the tapestry, at the figure of Martin, as if expecting the image to come to life and start talking to him.
"A miracle…I'd need a miracle."
There we go. Please read and review!
