FOREWORD
This chapter is a foreword and is not part of the story – if you want to continue straight to Chapter 1, please scroll down.
Ten years ago, during a period of unemployment, I started writing a story called The Intrepid Artefacts on . It was relatively well received, with a number of people commenting on it, reviewing it, and following it… alas, I only made it 10 chapters before ultimately the pressures of newfound work life caught up with me and I was forced to abandon the project.
It was an attempt to write a sincere, far-flung sequel to the Redwall Chronicles by Brian Jacques. Set a few hundred years after the events of his last novel, The Rogue Crew, this story is not intended to trample, amend, or subvert the legacy of Jacques – quite the contrary, The Intrepid Artefacts is something of a love letter to Mossflower Country and its surrounding lands, made particularly obvious by my attempts to correlate all of the prior novels geographically into one single map. It is still being worked on, so I will update this foreword once it is ready to be shared.
I wrote the previous iteration of The Intrepid Artefacts as I went, with the story slowly shaping in my mind as I wrote each chapter – but as any good author will tell you, you need a plan first. I spent some time a couple years ago coming up with a more robust story to tell, and with more of Jacques' signature narrative structure taken into consideration, and now I feel comfortable in starting again.
Unfortunately it has meant deleting the previous version of this story, which has led to the loss of the very affirming reviews I received! If you were one of those people and have continued to frequent this corner of the internet for the past 10 years, then thank you. However, I want to start again, and this time do my story a little better justice.
I have also divided up the story into 3 books, and I will publish each one as a separate story on the website as I write them. I have a plan, but just have not finished writing the full story yet. The 3 books are called:
1. A Welcoming Peace
2. Wanderers and Warmongers
3. New Foes and Old Friends
Thank you for reading my short foreword, and I hope you enjoy reading The Intrepid Artefacts!
CHAPTER 1
They returned home on a brilliantly starry night.
On the sandy rocks and strewn beaches of the eastern shore, twenty hares adorning blue uniform tunics and cradling sabres in belt scabbards pounded the ground in a beaten rhythm.
This wild coastline boasted a stillness which belied the activity which lay within. As the hares marched north, they could look to their right and see the stolid faces of high mountain peaks which stretched skyward and northward. Despite their great, unmoving nature, these were the stately homes of bat nobility.
To their left, the waves of the Great Western Sea crashed against the rugged shards of rock which grew like claws from the ground. This was no friendly environment, and the hares, marching in single file, carefully navigated their way through a maze shaped and shorn by erosion.
Several miles of little value, and yet was the dominion of a lonely mount which teetered at the edge of the landscape, its solitary shape coning upwards towards the black sky, letting loose from its summit a slow, casual plume of smoke. Were a stranger to pass through these parts, they would see an unforgiving landscape framed by an empty beach, and an active volcano, eager to erupt.
The hares, natives of this place, knew better. The volcano was long extinct, and the plume of smoke was not heat rising off the surface of a pool of lava. Instead, it was the smoke of a forge which had been burning, never-ending, for centuries.
This was Salamandastron.
Emblazoned against an unusually large full moon, the plume which towered above it was a beacon home for the 7th Shore Patrol. Commanded by Lieutenant Brasson Fernwood, the unit was making the last of its week-long patrols for the winter season, and upon the morn of the following day, they would be relieved by the Stalwart and Sound Regiment, who would pick up the more intense rota of patrolling the southern shoreline at the most probable time of year for invasion.
Lieutenant Fernwood and his troops would be glad of the relief, and a good long rest for the half season. The time would be spent in training drills and catching up with their loved ones, but perhaps more importantly, feasting. After weeks of rations – with rare opportunities to have a proper meal – they would be glad to finally sit down in a mess hall and eat as much of the beautifully prepared home cooking as they were able.
As the officer looked around his score strong force, he could tell he wasn't the only one thinking of food.
'By jove, I can't wait to get me paws on Rubella's apple and blueberry pie,' Corporal Corsan remarked, his eyes glazing over, his feet only subconsciously submitting to the steady pace that Fernwood was keeping.
'Hmm,' sighed Patroller Apax, 'but not before her jam and honey scones. Then the pie, with custard and cream, washed down with a cool flagon of damson cordial.'
'Cordial?' Fernwood suddenly piped up. 'With spring coming around, I'm going to finish off the dregs from the Redwall brewery. Bardon's Cider, here I come, wot?'
'I've got a good mind to join you, sah,' Sergeant Lepus Holm nodded in agreement, 'make it a night to sample what otters do best! Applecrumb bake and cider!'
The patrol was already salivating as they neared the foot of the mountain.
To maintain the pretence of an active volcano, the architects had been clever enough to tunnel out a winding path between the fingers of rock which rooted the mountain in the rock, and therefore conceal the otherwise obvious sight of two massive oak doors. Down here in this passageway, the only light came from the torch held aloft by Lieutenant Fernwood, who held it high in his paw to reveal the barred double doors.
This was the only official entrance to Salamandastron and was designed to be as secure as possible. If an enemy force ever discovered this entry point, then they still had no means of opening the gates as there were no latches, handles or knobs for them to grab. If they pushed against the door and were able to overcome the immense weight, then the frame, a long bar, and the outward-swinging hinges would all prevent such an effort.
Then, if they were to get a battering ram, Salamandastron had another trick up its sleeve: directly above the doors, cut into the ceiling of the passageway, were hatches which could be opened and a few different countermeasures dropped onto an unsuspecting foe… arrows for the soldiers, or tar and torches for the wooden siege equipment.
Fernwood stopped at the gates, and the patrol halted dutifully in front of the doors. Standing to attention, the lieutenant raised his long javelin high into the air and called out the password to a tempo set by the stamping paws of his hares.
'The nights are long and the wind is tough,
We're coming home and we've had enough.
Brace for the sound of our gnashing jaws,
Enough of your dawdling and open these doors!'
The beat stopped, and then there was silence.
For a few seconds, only the sound of the wind was heard, whistling down the passageway. After what seemed an age, a muffled but welcoming sound of a metal bar being removed met the long ears of the returning troops. Through the thick oak doors came the thud of that same bar being placed on the ground, and with an almighty creak, the huge entrance swung open, revealing six guards and a large, cavernous hallway leading to stone steps. From here the steps led upwards into the mountain.
'Welcome home, lieutenant!' said one of the hares holding the doorway open.
'It's good to be home, Willup!' said Fernwood with a broad smile, before sensing the anticipation of those he led, and ordered a forward march into the mountain.
'Hares of the 7th Shore; officers of the Long Patrol; into Salamandastron… quick march!'
At double time, the hares strode nobly into the fortress, and were called to halt once more at the bottom of the stone steps, under an archway opening that framed the most perfect sight for a Salamandastron hare: the mess hall.
Lieutenant Fernwood, whimpering at the sight of the hanging chandeliers in the hall and the warmth that he could feel from the furnaces burning beneath the floor of the extinct volcano, spun around to face his resolute soldiers. 'Troop, right turn... dismissed!'
At those words, chaos reigned. The twenty warrior hares of one of the most prestigious and highly decorated units in the Long Patrol broke out into a hungry rabble, dashing off within seconds up the stone steps into the mess hall. Slightly disorientated by the tornado that had just rushed past him, Lieutenant Fernwood took some time readjusting himself before he too sprinted desperately up into the atrium-like dining room.
Once their platters had been filled from the numerous trays that stood by the serving hatch, the unit settled down at the tables to converse with their fellows from other platoons in the Long Patrol.
This was a historic place, and a legendary army. For centuries it had dedicated itself to the protection of the western shores and the safety and harmony of the country beyond. From Luke's Beach and the southern strata of the Strigidan Mountains in the north to the Great Stream to the south; and from the lapping waves that licked the beaches over which Salamandastron observed to the Eastern Sea… all this was under the sworn protection of the military headquartered at this mountain.
Its might had prospered and waned over the centuries as different events and new enemies sought to both help and hinder the growth of the Long Patrol. At the beginning of its long history, it had been little more than a few dozen hares, who donned no uniform except that of the name. Over time, it grew, and it was in the era of Lord Orlando the Axe that they began to wear their famous blue tunics, and shortly thereafter, experienced a blossoming of their population, reaching their peak in the Second Age during the time of Lord Russano the Wise, who commanded a thousand hares.
But the Second Age of Mossflower was a bloody one.
The First Age ended with the death of Lord Stonepaw at the hands of the Blue Horde of Ungatt Trunn. Yet, it was not long after this that Lord Brocktree retook the mountain of Salamandastron with his own army of hares, giving it the name it so proudly used to this day.
His grandson, Boar the Fighter, cost many lives in his wars against the pirate Ripfang, including his own. When his own grandson, Lord Sunstripe, arrived at the mountain years later, his course of agricultural growth led to hares returning to the mountain in great number, and their might lasted through the reign of Lord Russano, after which they slowly diminished with subsequent conflicts.
The badger rulers also suffered, and the Second Age ended in the winter of the twentieth year since the death of their last badger ruler, Lord Paltus Urthlow. On that sad day, a single hare – one of only two dozen still resident at the mountain – planted a pole into the sand outside, bearing a small blue flag emblazoned with the Long Patrol's emblem.
Then came Lord Haster Ringmight, and the start of the Third Age.
Ringmight landed on the western shore with two ships laden with loyal hares and returned the mountain to its former glory. News of its rebirth reached another badger family in the north, and when they arrived in Mossflower Country, searched for the location of their former ancestral home. The Brock Family had returned, and patiently waited for Ringmight and his descendants to offer them a chance to become Salamandastron's rulers once again.
Four badger families ultimately made the country their home. The scholarly Brocks of Brockhall were the oldest and wisest, nestled deep in Mossflower Woods. The humble Ringmights built a house on Ranguvar Island to the northwest and became fishermen. The jovial Wyteswords, a family from the south, established the farm of Wytefield on the plains north of Salamandastron and across the River Moss.
The final family did not establish their own badger hall. Instead, they decided that when they were in control of the mountain, then that would be their home. If, however, their next son or daughter was not selected to be the new Ruler of Salamandastron, then they would live in Redwall Abbey.
The current ruler happened to be a member of that family. Lord Meledan Saxonos was young, and still trying to understand his place, but whenever he was uncertain could rely on the wisdom and counsel of the last ruler, who happened to be his mother, Lady Vera Saxonos – though, she was better known as Mother Vera these days. Once the fiery and uncompromising commander of the Long Patrol where she earned the nickname "Ironpaw"… she now opted to contend with Redwall Abbey's unruly young.
Today, the Long Patrol had never been stronger, and its ability had also never been more diverse. The Ringmights had managed to raise the garrison to over four thousand hares, who were divided into a headquarters regiment; three standard regiments; one specialist regiment; an engineering brigade; two patrol groups; and one defending garrison. This was not even counting the Long Fleet – a small contingent of three vessels sometimes used to patrol the coastline.
Covering such a large area of land was difficult, and Salamandastron was hardly big enough to fit four thousand hares, so it had been the idea of the late Lord Longsight Brockhall to build Camp Collam, overlooking the water of the Eastern Sea.
The three standard regiments took turns occupying Camp Collam. The Fur and Freedom Regiment had just relieved the Stalwart and Sound Regiment, who had returned to the mountain in the last week whilst the 7th Shore Patrol had been away. Their soldiers undoubtedly produced numerous stories and remarkable adventures, which all of the hares were happy to share with their friends.
Brasson Fernwood and Lepus Holm grabbed a helping of applecrumb bake and a jug of Bardon's Cider and went to sit at a table often reserved for officers, where General Bannox Granden, the General-in-Chief of the Long Patrol, also sat, reading a despatches report through a pair of spectacles, and – unusually for his species – sipping daintily at a bowl of tomato, basil and leek soup.
'Evening, sah!' Fernwood remarked happily, setting himself down on one side of the general, whilst Holm took a seat opposite. 'Anything interesting happening abroad in Mossflower Country?'
General Granden, unmoved by the breakdown of protocol used when addressing a superior officer, did not look up from the report, and took another spoonful of soup before replying.
'This report isn't from the Honour and Hunt,' he said coolly, referring to the third and final regular regiment of the Long Patrol.
When they were not stationed either at Salamandastron or Camp Collam, the regular regiments were often sent on marches during the spring, summer and autumn seasons, and this year it was the turn of the Honour and Hunt Regiment. They ventured from Salamandastron and followed the coastline around to Luke's Beach, which occupied a headland jutting out into the Western Sea. Along with being a historic location – hosting a memorial to the mouse it was named after, the father of one of Redwall Abbey's founders – it was also a foraging spot for the Hogward, a hedgehog tribe who lived in the area and occasionally lent a paw on Wytefield Farm.
After spending some time with the hedgehogs, they would venture west for one of their less agreeable visits. This was to the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower, or Guosim for short, who would at this time of year be heading to a popular foraging spot on the Northfork Stream. The hares, who were generally quite amenable creatures, clashed somewhat with the argumentative nature of the shrews and their leader Log-a-Log Henny, despite being good and long-standing friends.
Then east, and for quite a trek too, until they reached Parley. It was the collective home of the otter clans, existing at the divergence of one river into two. Here, the River Dace came to an end and turned into the River Lonna and the River Moss. Whilst the Lonna wound its way up to the Northeastern Sea, the Moss ventured southwest, past Gingivere Farm, through a long meander, west to its convergence with the Northfork Stream, and finally spilling into the Western Sea.
After visiting the otters, the regiment would follow the flow of the River Moss down to Gingivere Farm. Once owned by a family of wildcats until they died out and left the farmhouse in ruin, it had been revitalised by the work of a family of field mice a few generations ago.
They would then cut through Mossflower Woods to visit the ancestral home of one of the badger families, Brockhall. It was not just to show reverence for the most historic of the families, but also to gain an education. Along with being the home of Dellius Brock and his family, it was also a museum. Paintings hung on the wall of some of the family's most famous sons and daughters, and relics of times past rested on stands or were displayed in cases.
When in Brockhall, the moles would sometimes visit. They were not reliable enough on timekeeping to be considered a definite part of the schedule, but the moles were a curious bunch who usually provided a good laugh – when they could be understood. Venturing out from their home in Moledeep, a large underground commune unlocatable by anybeast but moles, they spoke with a gruff, mostly undiscernible dialect.
After their visit to Brockhall, they would travel west to Redwall Abbey.
A grand building defended by thick, high red sandstone walls, the abbey had been a tower of hope for goodbeasts since its construction in the early years of the Second Age of Mossflower. Founded by the combined leadership efforts of Abbess Germaine and Martin the Warrior, it was a place of sanctuary for those wishing to escape the potential dangers of the open countryside. Although a peaceful place, like Salamandastron, it too had encountered its fair share of violence and war. From the Fending of Swartt's Horde to the Battle of Greenshroud, the abbey had managed to stand strong against numerous attempts of conquest.
After filling up on Redwall grub, the hares would march east towards the coast of the Eastern Sea and put up their tents near Camp Collam, refreshing their supplies and meeting with friends. Once they had relaxed enough, they would take control of the camp, and the previous incumbent regiment would pick up the trail, this time to the town of Elmlow, which sat on the edge of Lake Marl.
From Elmlow, the Great South Stream guided them toward the summer estate of the second shrew union in Mossflower: the Guerilla Union of South Stream Shrews of Mossflower, also known as the Guosssom. Just as argumentative as their compatriots who sailed the River Moss and its tributaries, the Guosssom leader, Log-a-Log Sturrock, was a much more placid character than Log-a-Log Henny and exercised much more control over the often very raucous shrews he led.
If the visit went well enough, then the shrews would agree to ferry the Long Patrol regiment as far as the Chirop Falls, a waterfall which crashed down from the Western Mountain Range into the Great South Stream, widening it considerably as it flowed towards the Western Sea. Here, the Guosssom would leave, and the hares would clamber up a narrow path to Bat Mountpit, the home of the bat aristocracy commanded by Lord Darkeye. This was a much more diplomatic endeavour with little frivolity and conducted with an air of pomp and circumstance. The bats demanded respect, and they got it.
And finally, home.
Which is where Brasson Fernwood and Lepus Holm were, sat in the mess hall, still waiting for an answer from General Bannox Granden.
'What're you looking at me like that for?' the general barked.
'Well, if it's not from the Honour and Hunt sah, who the blinkers is it from?' asked Fernwood.
'If you must know, lieutenant,' Granden was keen to impress on Fernwood the importance of addressing his superiors properly, 'the report is from the Salamander Guards.'
Fernwood and Holm looked quizzically at one another before the latter turned to Granden.
'The Guards are away from the mountain?'
'Yes.'
'What're they doing?'
'None of your business.'
The Salamander Guards were the permanent garrison of Salamandastron. Whilst Camp Collam always relied on a constantly changing sentry, the mountain was not just kept safe by whichever regiment happened to be stationed there at the time. Comprising of around one hundred hares, the Salamander Guards rarely left the mountain, as it was their job to keep the whole place completely defensible at all times.
'Come on sah, it can't be all that secretive, wot?' Sergeant Holm prodded him.
Once it was clear to General Granden that he would not be left alone until he had told the pair something, he decided to relay the story.
'Two days ago, the Honour and Hunt Regiment were making preparations to pack up their camp on Luke's Beach, having spent a couple of nights with the Hogward. As they were doing so, one of the local patrols encountered a small rowing boat with ten sea rats on board paddling furiously towards the beach. Naturally, they captured the blighters and found out that they had abandoned their vessel out to sea when they came under attack from what they referred to as a "fire ship".'
At this point, General Granden paused to check the dumb looks on their faces.
'Colonel Windscut sent a squad back to the mountain with the prisoners, and they are currently being detained in the holding cells. The squad then returned post haste to the regiment. Now, this morning the 2nd Shore Patrol spotted a small fire on the horizon, appearing to head towards Luke's Beach. After the report I had been given by Windscut's hares, I thought it prudent to investigate.'
'Why the Guards though sah?' Fernwood was still curious about the choice of unit to send.
'With all our other forces either on training exercises, abroad or off-duty, the Salamander Guards were the only option,' Granden explained as he removed the half-rim spectacles from his nose. It was clear he was never going to get any work done whilst he was in the mess hall, so he took one final longing look at his half-finished soup and rose from his seat to leave.
'Hold up, old chap!' Lieutenant Fernwood called out, causing Granden to pause and turn around. 'You can't just stop there!'
'I think I bally well can,' huffed Granden, feeling rather ruffled. 'Unless you have any other specific questions to ask me, then I think I have answered the ones you have posed thus far more than sufficiently!'
The pair struggled to think of any more specific questions without more information.
'Good!' Granden bounced slightly on his footpaws, and then swivelled around like a dismissed soldier and marched away.
Torn between their meal and their curiosity, Fernwood and Holm glanced down at their bowls and at the General several times before letting their stomachs dictate their actions.
'Probably nothing anyway, eh, old chap?'
'Hmmlph, indeed, probably just somebeast having a campfire, wot?'