Chapter One
The Recollection
A young hare, by the name of Scuttler, yawned widely and commented, "This scoff wos mighty tasty, wot?"
His mother reprimanded him sharply. "Call t'Lord by 'is name, Scut!"
"Sorry, Mater. Sorry, sir."
The gigantic Badger Lord grinned. "No problem, young Scuttler. You don't have to have him call me 'sir,' Swiftear." He sighed. "That's right, no 'Lord Ashmark', no, no sirree." He smiled at the young hare, as he glanced at his wife, Lyarloe, grinning back at him.
Scuttler jerked, as if suddenly remembering something important. "'Ey, your Lord Ashmark, can I be among the bally hares t'help you in your forge today, wot wot?"
The great badger, marked from birth with an ash-colored stripe instead of the normal white one, ruffled Scuttler's ears fondly. "Sure, Scut, anytime you ask."
The young hare leapt from his bench at the table and whooped his way up the stairs to the dormitories.
A bell rang, signaling the end of the meal. Ashmark lifted himself wearily from the table, and walked up flights of stairs to his forge room. He sat down on a rock slab that was covered in bulrushes and cotton, improvising for a chair. He looked around, at all the weapons and the room itself. There were at least hundreds of weapons on the wall of the great room, one of three rooms on the top level. Also, a ladder hung from the crater rim and fell neatly beside the chair. It could be pulled down in times of war, but somebeast had to climb back up the mountain to replace it.
Ashmark sighed again. They had gotten word of a veritable searat horde swarming the Mossflower countryside, a few days march to the east. If the Redwallers could manage to divert the horde to the west, the Salamandastron hares and Ashmark could easily take care of them. He heard a knock on the great oak door.
"Come in, Scuttler," he called. The door opened. Lyarloe walked in, flanked by their small twin male badgers, Charcoal and Ralstip. Charcoal yawned. Lyarloe swooped him up and plopped him in his father's lap. Charcoal, born all-black, playfully tugged his father's ear. Ashmark grinned at Lyarloe. She smiled softly, and picked up Ralstip at the knock on the door.
"That'd be your forge helper," she said as she collected Charcoal. She smiled once more at her husband, and left as Scuttler and his two friends, Spar and Pike, the terrible boy and girl twin hares, walked in, dressed in old gray tunics.
Ashmark smiled, and handed them small mallets. "Let's get to work, mates!"
"Aye, buckos, git yore dozy paws up and 'elp his Lord!" Pike rapped. Spar nodded sagely as Ashmark held his laughter and handed the young leverets slabs of metal to beat into weapons.
"Right, young 'uns, put those mallets down, we're not ready yet. First, you decide what weapon you're going to make. I'm going to make myself a new set of spurdisks. Now, tell me what you're making, Scuttler."
"I'm going to make myself a bally sword t'use in battle, wot," Scuttler replied.
Ashmark relaxed. This was his area of expertise. "Now, you'll need to specify the kind of sword. Is it a straight sword, a scimitar, a saber, a fencing blade, a dirk, a rapier, a throwing sword, or what?"
Scuttler thought for a minute. "I'd like to do a scimitar," he announced.
Ashmark nodded, and motioned him over to a large set of shelves. On these shelves were wooden crates, labeled in the ancient badger script. "A scimitar, you say?" He selected a crate, and pulled it off the shelf.
While Ashmark was prying the lid off, Scuttler asked, "Wot's in here, Lord?"
With one final heave, the lid popped off the crate. Inside were hilts, carved and used by various Badger Lords. There were many kinds; basketed, pommel-less, crosstree-less, decoration, ceremonial, and purely pleasure hilts. Scuttler gaped as Ashmark selected three.
He laid them out. One was basketed with a small crosstree and a ball pommel, with a cushioned hilt. Yet another was leather-bound with a emerald set in the pommel, and a small, circular crosstree. The last hilt had no cushion for the hilt, but it was cleverly shaped to fit a hare's paw. Otherwise, it was like the first one. This is the one that Scuttler selected.
"Excellent choice, Scut."
The badger led him back over to the forge, and built up the fire. He quickly showed Spar and Pike how to do the same, and how to make their weapon of choice.
Now, to his spurdisks. Spurdisks were circular and slightly upraised discs, with spikes sticking out of the perimeter. Ashmark had used his good set a few seasons ago, when vermin had attacked the mountain.
Recalling the sad events, blood rose in Ashmark's eyes. His smile disappeared, and his hammer rammed upon the metal beyond the desired thickness. He lost sense of what was going on around him, as he recalled the sight that had hit him the hardest.
His oldest son, Coalstripe, lying on the ground, dead. A vermin, a tall rat, stood over him, with a dagger, dripping with blood. In agony, Ashmark collapsed where he stood as the rat escaped.
Trembling with anger and grief, Ashmark fell to the ground, and all around him went black.
The Recollection
A young hare, by the name of Scuttler, yawned widely and commented, "This scoff wos mighty tasty, wot?"
His mother reprimanded him sharply. "Call t'Lord by 'is name, Scut!"
"Sorry, Mater. Sorry, sir."
The gigantic Badger Lord grinned. "No problem, young Scuttler. You don't have to have him call me 'sir,' Swiftear." He sighed. "That's right, no 'Lord Ashmark', no, no sirree." He smiled at the young hare, as he glanced at his wife, Lyarloe, grinning back at him.
Scuttler jerked, as if suddenly remembering something important. "'Ey, your Lord Ashmark, can I be among the bally hares t'help you in your forge today, wot wot?"
The great badger, marked from birth with an ash-colored stripe instead of the normal white one, ruffled Scuttler's ears fondly. "Sure, Scut, anytime you ask."
The young hare leapt from his bench at the table and whooped his way up the stairs to the dormitories.
A bell rang, signaling the end of the meal. Ashmark lifted himself wearily from the table, and walked up flights of stairs to his forge room. He sat down on a rock slab that was covered in bulrushes and cotton, improvising for a chair. He looked around, at all the weapons and the room itself. There were at least hundreds of weapons on the wall of the great room, one of three rooms on the top level. Also, a ladder hung from the crater rim and fell neatly beside the chair. It could be pulled down in times of war, but somebeast had to climb back up the mountain to replace it.
Ashmark sighed again. They had gotten word of a veritable searat horde swarming the Mossflower countryside, a few days march to the east. If the Redwallers could manage to divert the horde to the west, the Salamandastron hares and Ashmark could easily take care of them. He heard a knock on the great oak door.
"Come in, Scuttler," he called. The door opened. Lyarloe walked in, flanked by their small twin male badgers, Charcoal and Ralstip. Charcoal yawned. Lyarloe swooped him up and plopped him in his father's lap. Charcoal, born all-black, playfully tugged his father's ear. Ashmark grinned at Lyarloe. She smiled softly, and picked up Ralstip at the knock on the door.
"That'd be your forge helper," she said as she collected Charcoal. She smiled once more at her husband, and left as Scuttler and his two friends, Spar and Pike, the terrible boy and girl twin hares, walked in, dressed in old gray tunics.
Ashmark smiled, and handed them small mallets. "Let's get to work, mates!"
"Aye, buckos, git yore dozy paws up and 'elp his Lord!" Pike rapped. Spar nodded sagely as Ashmark held his laughter and handed the young leverets slabs of metal to beat into weapons.
"Right, young 'uns, put those mallets down, we're not ready yet. First, you decide what weapon you're going to make. I'm going to make myself a new set of spurdisks. Now, tell me what you're making, Scuttler."
"I'm going to make myself a bally sword t'use in battle, wot," Scuttler replied.
Ashmark relaxed. This was his area of expertise. "Now, you'll need to specify the kind of sword. Is it a straight sword, a scimitar, a saber, a fencing blade, a dirk, a rapier, a throwing sword, or what?"
Scuttler thought for a minute. "I'd like to do a scimitar," he announced.
Ashmark nodded, and motioned him over to a large set of shelves. On these shelves were wooden crates, labeled in the ancient badger script. "A scimitar, you say?" He selected a crate, and pulled it off the shelf.
While Ashmark was prying the lid off, Scuttler asked, "Wot's in here, Lord?"
With one final heave, the lid popped off the crate. Inside were hilts, carved and used by various Badger Lords. There were many kinds; basketed, pommel-less, crosstree-less, decoration, ceremonial, and purely pleasure hilts. Scuttler gaped as Ashmark selected three.
He laid them out. One was basketed with a small crosstree and a ball pommel, with a cushioned hilt. Yet another was leather-bound with a emerald set in the pommel, and a small, circular crosstree. The last hilt had no cushion for the hilt, but it was cleverly shaped to fit a hare's paw. Otherwise, it was like the first one. This is the one that Scuttler selected.
"Excellent choice, Scut."
The badger led him back over to the forge, and built up the fire. He quickly showed Spar and Pike how to do the same, and how to make their weapon of choice.
Now, to his spurdisks. Spurdisks were circular and slightly upraised discs, with spikes sticking out of the perimeter. Ashmark had used his good set a few seasons ago, when vermin had attacked the mountain.
Recalling the sad events, blood rose in Ashmark's eyes. His smile disappeared, and his hammer rammed upon the metal beyond the desired thickness. He lost sense of what was going on around him, as he recalled the sight that had hit him the hardest.
His oldest son, Coalstripe, lying on the ground, dead. A vermin, a tall rat, stood over him, with a dagger, dripping with blood. In agony, Ashmark collapsed where he stood as the rat escaped.
Trembling with anger and grief, Ashmark fell to the ground, and all around him went black.