Beneath Bloodied Banners
BLESWYN, KINGDOM OF SOUTHSWARD
My dear cuckoo, thou have so pied feathers,
Oh thou fly dear cuckoo to my father and my mother,
Thou fly dear cuckoo to my father and my mother,
And do not tell dear cuckoo, I was killed here,
Do not tell dear cuckoo, I was killed here,
Oh tell, dear cuckoo, I was made to marry here,
Tell, dear cuckoo, I was made to marry here,
Oh I was made to marry here by a thin spear in the paw.
The troops continued to sing their melancholy war song while Altayras marched in front of them.
Music and song were always a big part of Boreller culture, and they quickly blended into war like wine in water. As a nation with a warrior culture, many songs have been composed to be used by troops on the march. However, there are some scholars who argue that the character of these songs was not march-like, but more lyric or epic. In time many wartime historical songs became war ballads, a unique genre all its own, and one that was alive and thriving to this day.
Burelas was subsumed into Triel only partly, as it was simply too well-defended by both natural and beast-made reasons. On one paw, the region was surrounded by the Greatrange on the North, and the Greymarsh on the other. Few lands can be fortified by invaders, whether Southard or Trielian, and what few forts they have build were quickly abandoned - no supplies could reach them safely.
On the other paw, invaders do not simply drive themselves away. Whether it was Rikard Swalestrom, Skipper of Floret and King of Parma, Ronnel of Gridain, whose army was great enough to rival kings, or Niall Deilart, whose house has had an intense rivalry with Altayras', they all tried and they all failed. One fell into a swamp and met his end at a speartip, another lost his entire baggage train (and thus the loyalty of his mercenaries), while the third managed to escape nearly naked through the swamps.
The cause was the ability of the Borellers to fight anywhere and everywhere. Armed with the lightest of armour and the wieldiest of weapons, they could appear in one battle, and vanish until the end of the season. These 'dances' took long enough, but war has ever been a game that can only be won with patience - which Altayras lacked.
He knew his faults, of course. His father made it all too clear to him. Calming a wrathful head was hard enough when Altayras was at rest, but everything seemed harder on the march. How could Denebas even manage?
His younger brother, of course was roped into the singing. More Trielian than proper Boreller, he always did his best to force himself into being a warrior. Try as he might, Denebas was more poet, bard, or something else. He could do everything that does not involve steel better than Altayras, but he had failed to wield a spear like his brother - after much struggling with everything else. Killing Lord Canute Crestworth did not help matters. At least he's a better leader of beasts than I am. A level head does help matters.
Snapping back to reality, Altayras raced to his brother.
"Denebas! Can you please tell your troops to sing something else? Mourning songs really aren't for marching."
"You want something more lively? How about The Golden Throne?"
"Turning yourself into a tree to avoid being a soldier does not help with morale. How about something else?"
"Consider it done." As the youngest of three siblings, Denebas was quickly accustomed to submitting to the wishes of others - even more than Young Thordan Swalestrom. Although this reverence may have brought Altayras many advantages, he secretly wished that his brother will grow a spine.
After much gesturing, the troops quickly sung a much more cheerful melody.
He trumpeted the first trumpet as he was riding off from the inner yard
As he was riding off from the inner yard...
He trumpeted the second trumpet as he was riding off from the outer yard
As he was riding off from the outer yard...
He trumpeted the third trumpet as he was joining the troops
As he was joining the troops...
I shouted loud and all the troops looked at me
All the troops looked at me...
And all the army had turned to me
The army had turned to me...
And a troop of Southards has come, a troop of brave ones
A troop of brave Southards...
When we've stood in the field, we've knocked all the Southards out
We've knocked all the Southards out..
Us Borellers are still strong, we were kings and we still are!
We were kings and we still are!
Of course, only one Boreller had taken up the kingly mantle before - and he only had a knife in the chest to show for it. Submitting to Triel might had been a humbling moment for the entire duchy, but this had allowed them a break in an age of constant warfare. Towns were rebuilt and developed, and trading relations started to normalise.
Even Deilart had to concede a few contested territories. With Burelas and Deilart guarding the Western and Eastern passes of the Greatrange, the Trielians had to notice that a peace had to be made and kept for more than a few seasons.
A marriage contract was quickly signed by Altayras' father and Duke Somerled three seasons prior, and the young Boreller was all set to marry Lady Morag, only child of the Deilarn noble. She was perhaps too talkative for any lady, but Altayras knew beasts who were much, much, worse. He'll handle the marriage well enough - if he survives this whole cesspool of a war.
Altayras decided not to sing alongside the troops. His brother would not like that.
EASTERN PARMAN SEA
Erlend was clearly not expecting his son.
Now, in the middle of nowhere, his youngest child suddenly intercepted his ship towards Triel.
A raucous awakening in the dark of night would not be odd in any way for a parent, but his son was nearing his seventeenth season - already of age. Thordan is no squalling babe having trouble sleeping at night any more.
"Why are you here?"
"Father, I…" Thordan stumbled on his words, like the boy was prone to do. "I have come to see you off."
Truth be told, Erlend was not quite a speaker as good as his brother. Thordan managed to share this trait with his father.
"Why so? Who told you I'm here?" Erlend said as he slightly raised his voice.
"It… it doesn't matter." Thordan said softly, averting eye contact. His son was never the bravest of beasts, but tonight he seemed even more unsure of himself. "I er… chanced upon your vessel, and decided to drop by."
Surprisingly, he rushed forward and hugged him, the first drops of tears already dropping from his eyes. "I… I fear that we won't meet again! Ever!"
Thordan has already lost a close relative barely two months before, and losing another would seem preposterous for Erlend. Parting his son on the head, he provided wisdom a father could provide. He may have been cold towards his wife, but she was now the only surviving mother of his children. Thordan was his son whether he wanted it or not.
On the day when Thordan left for Redwall, father and son had a small conversation. Erlend (rather tactlessly) asked Thordan if he wanted a replacement for a father. A flood of guilt washed over his face as Erlend realised that he cared more about Heavensward than Lorelei.
But Thordan was always able to provide an answer pleasing to anyone, despite being oblivious to the normally impassive Erlend's flash of sudden emotion. "I have only one father," he said, " and I do not need another."
"Father?"
Erlend snapped back into reality.
"Um… you spaced out for a moment - like I am prone to do too often." Thordan continued to avoid his father's gaze while the words leaked out of his mouth.
"I'm fine, son. Don't worry about me. I can handle myself well enough. Look after your tail… and Egil's too. Skuli's going to kill us all if his son dies on your - our watch. Honestly, why fret so much? You suddenly bring seven ships, fail to attack Doma, and just oh-so-conveniently chance upon me? You're going to get gobbled up by the Southards in a week, so shape up and fight!"
Thordan's ears sprung up. "The Southards are here?"
"Yes. They're just across the Sound. Lorcan and Alfyn Stalwart are dealing with them right now. Grueling sea battle. Must be bloody. The waters painted crimson, and other things poets and skalds would say. How about you go help them? We don't know how strong they are. A bit of extra beasts and steel can help much more than mental support from the safety of your own ship."
"Thank you for the advice, Father. May your heart and mind guide you forth. And may we meet and speak again." Thordan said as he wiped his tears off his muzzle.
"Fine, fine. I already told you that there's no need for worry. Now go! Your old friends await you!"
THE SOUND
Erlend was usually right in his little predictions, and this was no exception.
Alfyn barrelled into an otter, and his shield quickly delivered a heavy blow to his lutrine muzzle, after which his sword was thrust all too quickly into the Otterguard's shoulder. The mouse quickly collapsed mid-scream, before falling into a pool of his own blood.
Lorcan had warned him about the dangers of naval combat. He knew all too well that ships are no simple battlefield terrain, and a simply slip may lead to death by stabbing, crushing, drowning, impaling or simply heatstroke.
Alfyn thought Raevsvakt was an affair bloody enough, but this was his first experience in open war. He'd fought off bandits, vermin, and even the occasional guard, but this was all too different compared to his experience in rescuing Thordan.
Beasts huddled in heaps, living or dead notwithstanding, while the metallic stench of blood surrounding the air. Not helping was the already strong smell of seawater, which assaulted Alfyn's nose with all the intensity of a sudden explosion.
To Alfyn's shock (and Lorcan's horror), the Southard navy had grappling hooks - a piece of technology the Trielians did not have. With both sides being evenly matched in number, the initiative had to be given up.
The wind was blowing in a good direction for the Trielians, but they were not able to take advantage of it due to the agility and maneuverability of the Southard ships. Adding the hooks to the equation meant that the chances of a Trielian victory were slowly slipping away.
Lorcan led from the back, as was customary. Too important to get himself killed. Alfyn's brother often told him that fighting alongside his soldiers can provide a boon in morale, but Skipper Lorcan paid him no heed.
It would actually make sense that Lorcan would shy away from the front. Although he was much better at the intricacies of leading beasts to war (and back), he was not accustomed to violence. Lorcan had a disposition all too gentle. He liked to think things over slowly and never liked to be careless. When around other beasts, he moved carefully, afraid that he might accidentally break something or hurt someone, unlike Alfyn who uses his size to his advantage. Now is a bloody good time to break something or hurt someone, Lorcan!
Alfyn would have no choice but to forge onward. The hooks brought the Trielian ships nearer to the Southards, but this worked both ways as well. With so much ships stuck together, this clash has become no different from a battle fought on terra firma.
The tactics of both sides were similar, as Lorcan had told him mere hours ago. Pepper the other side with crossbows, longbows and slings, and rush there with heavily armoured knights. This strategy was risky, but so far no other way has been invented. Both Becker and Lorcan would have to rely on more conventional methods of warfare.
"Give the order to advance!" shouted Alfyn. "Show those Southards what we can do!" His soldiers shouted their own battle cries after Alfyn's energetic response.
"Rend! Kill! The white raven flies!" The white raven, being a central figure in the founding myth of Triel, was known to every single inhabitant of Triel (the only exception being the vermin slaves). The royal banner was the image of a soaring raven, and the soldiers took delight in it.
Things died down for a moment, then a piercing roar arose from the Southard ships.
"The Bell has rung! The Bell yet rings! Free Southsward!" The Floret Bell was a design of Joseph the Bellmaker - the 'Second Founder' of the Kingdom of Southsward. Like the white and black ravens of Triel and Parma, the golden bell is the symbol of Southsward, and it is said that it will ring when Southsward is in grave danger. In danger from Southard idiocy, that is.
"I want those ships gone!" yelled Alfyn. Lorcan may have been passive this whole time, content to shower the Southards with arrows, while staying back from melee combat, but Alfyn was, in fact, not Lorcan.
The grappling hook hit the railing of the Trielian galley, and both ships braced for impact. Soldiers rushed to reinforce the port sides of their respective vessels, and with a mighty crash they made contact.
The whole situation quickly descended into chaos. With scarcely enough time to form up, beasts simply barreled into each other, drawing blood with every motion of their paws. Maces collided into muzzles, and arrows were loose at breakneck speed.
Plunging his sword into a hare, Alfyn spun around, knocking down an Otterguard in the process. All around him, chaos reigned supreme. He blocked an arrow shot from the other side from the ship, and had to sidestep a bolt from a certain crossbow-wielding hare. Seeing an axe cleave that offending beast's head apart, he turned back and leapt into the fray, crushing another member of the 'sacrosanct' Otterguard
Twenty minutes and around a hundred corpses later, Alfyn could finally take a short break. His beasts were exhausted as well. Weighed down by their arms and wounds, the otterlord thought that they deserved a rest as well.
But now was no time for rest. There is a significant chance that he might never see his brother or daughter again - anything could happen in a war. But Lord Alfyn Stalwart had been taught to gamble wisely and take his chances.
"You!" Alfyn shouted as he pointed at a mouse - a soldier of Triel.
'My lord, do you need me?"
Moving his paw a bit to the left, and thus pointing at a Southard vessel, Alfyn asked as softly as he could, "Do you see that ship over there?"
"Y-yes." The mouse said as he panted.
"I don't want you to." Alfyn breathed as he seethed with rage.
MACOLT, KINGDOM OF SOUTHSWARD
King Somerled was never an observant beast, but even he was intrigued by the state the Southards were in.
Garrion Swalestrom not being dead was no surprise. King Garmund had warned him about the tenacity of his family, whether on his side or not. The fact that an arm and a leg of his were crushed and broken clearly did not matter to him, but it mattered very much to the squirrel.
After parleying once with the young Lord Swalestrom (and failing), almost taking and actually burning a part of Floret, destroying the supply lines of the Southards, and almost squishing Garrion Swalestrom into tiny little bits, it was very kind of the otterlord to invite him to parley. Again.
The Southards were beginning to gain the upper paw on his own forces - survivors of the Battle of Vernoll are quickly crowding towards the otter lordling and his crew, though none have actually made it to him. Somerled had little time here.
"What terms are you willing to make?" the squirrelking asked.
"We ardently desire your withdrawal from this land, and for you to resign your title that was given to you by legitimate, though misplaced authority."
"These are high-pawed terms indeed." Somerled said as he stared at the otterlord's bodyguards. Apparently a new face have decided to stand next to Garrion, The figure belonged to a muscular otter, and his grey eyes revealed a determination that his master's hazel pair was never able to possess. "I fear I am able only to achieve the former. I don't think the latter can be done without King Garmund's approval - these are but talks for a truce, not a full treaty."
"Hmm…" the otter mulled on his words for a few seconds. "I don't think we can simply let you leave. You have done enough damage here already. Villages and settlements burnt to the ground, mothers killed alongside their children… Will your greed ever end?"
Somerled tossed out his reply nonchalantly. "That depends on the magnitude of your rebellion."
"Then we have no choice but to resume our battle," said Garrion. "If any mother loses her son, if any wife loses her husband, if any daughter loses her father, there is no one but you that they can blame."
"Oh, could there be indeed?" The squirrelking stood up. "Your father just waltzed into King Garmund's throne room, disrespected everyone, and walked out like nothing ever happened. Could he be held accountable?"
Before he exited the parley tent, he made sure to twist the knife unknowingly embedded within the heart of the otterlord.
"Oh. Your brother's dead."
A/N: Another chapter ended. The next three chapters will signify the end of Book I, and please keep your eyes peeled for unusual developments!
Chapter 15 (Frontiers Within) will be up on 7/8 July! Yes, I know it's not a Thursday. Deal with it.