Arc One: Memories
Chapter Five: Journeys
The Lands of Ice and Snow, Maodhin decided, were absolutly horrible. It was cold, as It was Late Autumn It was wet and freezing and perhaps more importantly the natives of the Lands of Ice and Snow-especially as they went further north-were rather viscious for the most part.
The Woodlanders who said that their kind never robbed or pillages anything were complete liars, Maodhin wanted those beasts to travel to the far north. Just the other day they'd come across a small band of mice that had attempted to rob the two otters. They hadn't succeeded of course, Maodhin had bitten his arm to draw and blood and whispered an incantation while Tarmikal had distracted them. They'd left the mice catatonic on the side of the path as they continued on.
The further north into the lands of Ice and Snow they went the more hostile the Woodlanders and Vermin were becoming and the more Maodhin found himself using sorcery. After a week, Maodhin had used so much sorcery his nephew had to carry him for a day, while he spent that time light headed.
There was power in blood, power that could be used by Sorcery. A sorcerer could overexert themself if they drew too much blood, but that was only if they drew blood from themself. Once again his gaze turned to Tarmikal, who walked alongside him whistling cheerfully, one paw on his sword and despite his seeming nonchalance, his eyes swept across the land around them.
Back in their village, Tarmikal had been one of their village's better swordbeasts. He could deal with most opposition they came across, especially with the maille he wore beneath his thick woolen clothes.
Most Inhabitents of this far northern land didn't have armour or much weapon training, the land itself didn't allow It. It was a harsh and short life this far north.
Tarmikal, giving one last look around, tilted his head in Maodhin's direction and said. "How much farthur do we have to go Uncle?"
"Not much," He rasped, "A day at most, half a day hopefully."
His nephew looked surprised, "Oh, we're already that close to our destination?"
"Yes," Maodhin responded and pointed ahead. "See the land before us?"
"I do," Tarmikal said, eyeing the snow covered hills before them. A bit further into the hills was one with a great Oak tre sitting upon it, the snow on Its branches glittering in the early morning sun.
"That hill, with the Great Oak, that Is where we are going."
Tarmikal hummed, "Aye, that Is rather close. Should we expect any trouble?"
"We shouldn't," Maodhin said, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. "We're so far north into the Lands of Ice and Snow that no beast could live here, nothing grows and the snow never leaves."
Tarmikal stepped close and slung Maodhin's arm over his shoulder, "Come along Uncle, we're almost there let's not stop now."
"Thank you Tarmikal, you're a good lad." The words tasted like ash.
Alexander de Mélladrao breathed deeply of the salty morning air, the wind ruffled through his black hair softly as he stood upon the prow of the Great Frigate Martillo de la Gente, Hammer of the Folk.
Really, the Colonel mused, things weren't as bad as he'd thought they'd be. His force was also larger then he'd been expecting, the Tercio de Mélladrao had been reinforced by a couple companies of cats, most were composed of a hundred and fifty longbows with a hundred bills-the cats formed their companies differently to the Folk-compared to the average Folk company of a hundred and fifty pikes with a hundred crossbows and fifty swordsfolk.
His fleet-and It was his, He'd been given overall command as a Royal Colonel-was composed of a dozen Great frigates and numerous smaller ships, all carrying soldiers, supplies, weapons and more.
His hand traced the complex guard of the broadsword he wore at his hip, the Suprema Steel was a comforting weight. His broadsword had brought him through more then one battle, though those battles had of course been against fellow Folk, who had formed similar military forces to the Empire's Tercios, on the Eastern Continent he shouldn't need It for primitives. He hoped.
The distant clack of a door opening and closing brought his attention around to Captain Ezradí, commanding officer of the Martillo de la Gente.
"A good morning to you, Captain." Alexander called.
"And a good morning to you, Colonel." Ezradí replied, coming to stand beside him. "What has brought you out here so early?"
"It is far too fine a day to remain cooped up within my cabin."
Ezradí hummed thoughtfully and said. "I see, well, I have duties to attend to, If you'll excuse me Colonel."
"Just a moment, Captain." Alexander said, "I have a question for you."
"What would that be?"
"The forward scouts our Monarch sent out, how long do you believe they will take to rendevouz with us?"
Frowning, the captain scratched her chin and mused. "Truthfully Colonel, I haven't the slightest clue. We don't know how far away the Eastern Continent Is, they could take months to return, or we could stumble upon them tomorrow, I haven't the slightest." She paused, "Well, maybe not tomorrow, that would imply the distance to the Eastern Continent is rather short, If that were the case we'd have stumbled across It long before."
Grimacing, the Colonel said. "Yes, I'd been hoping It wouldn't be something like that."
"Why?"
"Say we arrive at the Eastern Continent, Captain, and those who live there are hostile. We will then have to carve out our own territory, what If during that campaign my forces take too many causalties, or perhaps the winter there is harsher then our home and we start running out of supplies."
The Captain nodded, "If the distance is between the continents is too far, the resupply from the Empire would take quite a while to arrive."
"Yes, It may even arrive too late."
Eyeing him, Ezradí said. "That Is rather pessimistic of you Colonel, our orders aren't to carve out a colony, just an outpost. We shouldn't need to fight anything, your army is just In case the native Woodlanders, Vermin or Folk are violent."
"I doubt they wouldn't be, at least to some degree. Bandits and pirates infest the Western Continent, why would the Eastern one not be the same?"
"Again Colonel, that is rather Pessimistic of you."
"I am just trying to be realistic, Captain, I see many events that could cause our expedition to fail, I am merely bringing them up so they can be planned for. Nothing more."
Ezradí snorted, "Still, Colonel, It seems almost as If you're planning to start trouble."
"No Captain, I am not intending to cause any problems, Just preparing for any that may arise."
Ser Sleekcreek, a river otter knight of the Redguard, eyed the remains of what was, or had been, a walled habitat.
Whoever had lived In it had packed things up rather quickly from what he could see, only a few things remains. The walls themselves, made of great trees pointed at the top and a pair of pine gates. But within the walls everything was empty.
He looked at the Rangers in his party, who were all crouched around the mass of pawsteps leading out of the gate, they were attempting to match the pawprints to a type of beast, but there were apparently so many crowded together they made things difficult to see.
He sighed, lifted his poleaxe and ambled over to the Rangers.
The rest of his force-fifteen other knights and couple hundred Redguard Fighters-followed, but stopped ten pawsteps away.
"So," Sleekcreek drawled, "What's the prediction?"
Marchus, the squirrel veteran ranger who led the fifty rangers of Sleekcreek's force, rose gracefully from his crouch beside the gate and reported. "Whoever lived here was a large force, I'd estimate more then five hundred, we're also fairly sure they were vermin."
His interest was peaked instantly, "Oh, how are you so sure. You said earlier that the prints were too blurred together to be sure."
"I did," Marchus admitted, "But, we found a relatively intact print. Come."
The Veteran Ranger, to his surpise, did not lead him into the compound, but instead away from It. The squirrel led him to a small patch of mud and crouched beside It.
Grunting as he knelt-Sleekcreek wasn't as young as he used to be-Marchus pointed to a print that even Sleekcreek could see. it was fairly obvious and right in the center of the mud.
"That, Ser, Is a fox print. And It is leading into the walled compound."
Grinning, Sleekcreek rose and barked. "Marchus, I want you to send a runner to Redwall, I want every Redguard Ranger and Knight, I also want half of the Redguard Fighters that are there. We're going to hunt some Vermin."
The Great South Stream was a day and a half behind them when they noticed the Hares.
Whiteheart was marching alongside Chilldeath, along with a number of other Claws, in full armour when a runner came barreling forward. His expression was seemingly carved from Ice.
His dreams had been disturbing as of late, strange dreams of Snow covered Oaks bathed In blood, of otherwordly chanting in some unknown tongue and more importantly flashes of a battle between Chilldeath and a Great Badger, with the wolverine fall with his head crushed by a flail. He'd tried to shake the dreams off, but they would just not leave his mind. Every night he'd glimpsed this battle, sometimes he'd have flashes of other fights, himself against an armoured hare, Buckfang leading a group of fighters against a troop of hare halberds, Marshhunter and Mooncaller and others still embroiled in their own battles, His most recent Vision was of himself battling the same badger that had slain Chilldeath.
He had had little sleep with those dreams keeping him up, It was safe to say he was rather Irratible at the moment, as some members of the horde had learned.
The first sign something was wrong were the beasts behind them yelling, he caught the phrase: 'Watch where you're going' more then once.
The second sign was the rat brusting from the crowd of Claw surrounding the Horde Leader and shouting. "Lord Chilldeath, We are being pursued."
"We are, are we." Chilldeath rumbled, "Who is following us Raket?"
Even before the Rat's muzzle formed the words, It felt like Whiteheart's heart dropped into his stomach.
"Hares, my lord."
The grimace on Chilldeath's muzzle was mirrored by the Claw.
No beast wanted to fight the Long Patrol, they were elites, among the best of the best fighters in all of Mossflower, the Northlands or the Southlands. They did have one advantage though, as they hadn't been near Salamandastron, It was likely they were being followed by one of the Long Patrol's actual patrols and while they could get big enough to threaten the Horde, they were often lightly armoured.
Not even a Hare would want to patrol all up and down the west coast in full plate, so the likely hood of there being any Hareguard among them was rather low, It was likely the Badger Lord him or herself wouldn't be there either.
"Where are they coming from?" Whiteheart found himself asking.
"North-west Master Claw, It seems they were hugging the coast."
Mooncaller spoke next, "Have they seen us?"
"Yes sir, they are directly pursuing us."
Chilldeath grunted and gazed around, his keen military mind assessing the land around them.
There wasn't much, they had reached the Toad Hills, but the hills in this area were rather low compared to how they would be further south or north.
Grunting, Chilldeath raised his bardiche and roared. Instantly, the entire Horde was silent and staring right at him.
"We're going to try and put some distance between us and the Hares, hopefully they'll give up pursuit, If not, we'll have a battle on our paws. If It comes to that, we'll set up on a hill and let them smash themselves to pieces against our armour, just like The Red Rats did." Chilldeath pointed forward and barked, "Now move."
Even as they started moving, Whiteheart knew for a fact they wouldn't get away.