A/N: Another chapter finished!
Responses here!
Grey 35: A gradual de-escalation, hm? That's what you believe... I'm quite satisfied with the Lorelei, Valdemar and Niels scene. That was the first time that a Skyward and a Crestworth had made peace in about thirty seasons, though like you said, a promise of more to come has been made. Becker's scene wasn't as polished as Valdemar's - there's always a bad segment in every chapter. As was Corrado's dinner with Arn, I think.
The resurrections are another story. I had fun writing all five of the Warders - Emetselk, Emmeroloth, Fandaniel, Halmarut and 'the other one'. They fit into each other's niches like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and them being sort-of-antagonists make everything really interesting. So Fandaniel's gunning for Arbert, hm? Loamhedge? Now would be a good time to look back to the Salamandastron prophecies...
Keva 35: Thanks for reading and reviewing, Keva! I'm not too proud of Lorcan's letter, but thanks for liking it. But where exactly is Young Thordan? Oh, and a revived beast only remembers bits and pieces at first, before they remember everything from their past life - just like with amnesia in real life.
Sebias 35 (ADDED): Lorelei may have gained more power, but at what cost? And how does she manage power? The letter. Ah, the letter - I may not have liked it, but I'm glad all of you did. The possibility of the three realms being peaceful seems closer than ever... until one thinks of Garrion's side of things. Thordan getting released? Heh... Arn is a truly wild card in this game. There's the thing with mercenary companies - one could afford to hire them, but cannot afford being betrayed by them. Flames, cackling and looming faces! Mystery! And Iggy's here, ladies and gentlemen! That shall allow a bit of clarity to leak into the Source. (I'm looking at you, Abe!)
Faith in Our Fury
TARALIS, BALSAMU
In the first season of the reign of King Niels of Parma, called 635 by the learned, and called 'this season' by the less learned, a wind rose from the Parman Sea.
The wind blew mast merchants selling their assorted wares, from gold and silver to apples and oranges. The wind blew past innkeepers and bartenders trying to keep their places open in the greatest war which had came to Balsamu in a hundred seasons. The wind blew past beasts who considered themselves normal, who were thankful for this breeze as the hot summer came like a creeping vine.
Another may have commented on where the wind blew - beasts who worked in the old King Thordan's observatories, fisherbeasts who was anxious about where their prey went, and the odd writer who decided that this was the best way to open a first chapter.
But this wind was more important than all others, for it did not just carry the chill air from the North. Flying with the current was a bird - a raven from Raevsvakt to be exact.
The raven flew past everything of less importance and landed on the aviary of Castle Taralis. By landed he did not mean 'crashed' - he was too well trained to repeat this mistake a fourth time - and he squawked for the holder of the castle.
The otter came about six minutes later, his eyes still weary from being roused from his afternoon nap. "Who sent you, bird?"
The raven croaked. "Egil! Egil!"
"Egil?" Corrado tapped his head. A Dravanian name… where had he heard of it? "Where did you come from? Who is the letter from? Who is it sent to?"
"Slowly, slowly!" The bird chirped. Corrado sighed inwardly - his childhood guardian had told him of the small brains of birds - which was coincidentally his grandfather's nickname for Lord Canute Crestworth. The deceased lord wasn't stupid, he merely has want of foresight.
"Alright, bird. Where do you come from?"
"Kaldos! Kaaaaaaldos!" The bird screeched so loud that a punch to its head seemed all too tempting for Corrado.
"Can you just give me the letter and let me read it?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" The raven threatened to wake up the whole castle. My children would have killed him and sold its carcass if they were within fifty miles of here.
"And why is that?"
"For Arn! Arn!" How could this bird shout louder and louder?
"Arn's not here, bird! He's left! Scram!"
"To where? Where?"
"To Vargo, that's where? Now go before I get the cooks and you are filleted!" With that, the black-feathered flew away, against the wind that had carried him here.
Corrado was about to leave when another bird arrived in the aviary. Like the last avian messenger, this one flew from the east, alongside the all-reaching spring winds.
Unlike the one before, this one had two letters attached to it, one on each footpaw.
Corrado grabbed them from the black bird. The one on the left was affixed with the Garlean and Vargon arms, quartered with each other. Lorelei. Figures.
Before Corrado could even think of ignoring her, the seal on the second letter changed his mind. Three red leaves of the water lily, enclosed in a white field and a blue border, inscribed within the raven of Parma.
Niels would deserve his attention.
BERSTRAAT, KINGDOM OF DRAVANIA
"How was your day?" Bodvar Waycaster's smile peeked up from the door, causing his prisoner to gasp. King Thordan was never sound of body after he fell down the stairs, his jaw broken in two. Bodvar, having never been trained in the ways of healing, had only seen to it that his captive would never look handsome in the eyes of any ottermaid. To put it simply, the poor thing's jaw was snapped like a branch. The bandages had been removed hours ago, thought the beast who they were applied to has still not spoken yet.
"Bodvar, he's basically a mute!" The captain's brother elbowed him in the ribs as he laughed. Birger was a beast of cheer as well, which made them more than brothers. "He hasn't talked for half a month!"
"Well, we did gag him for twenty days." Pickner returned to the rest of the party, with a tray carrying three extra large meads, and a little cup of very diluted wine for the child. "That probably explains the silence."
Thordan had been under the name of 'Baglarr Waycaster' - an imaginary brother of Bodvar and Birger's. Nobeast questioned further - as doing so would be quite the insult to his family - and a good reason to not keep the kid under restraints and guards all the time.
"Well, feeling well, kiddo?" Bodvar looked at the otter. He was clothed in one of Birger's spare uniforms (the alternative is to be naked the whole journey), and his fur was matted and unkempt - hardly the image a king should bear. Thordan's jaw seemed like just another disguise than a permanent disfigurement - though the otterking wasn't fooled.
The King's mind was in a state of confusion, which the wine and his good treatment addled further. Were three good meals every day able to make him start enjoying life again? What had happened that turned his treatment from hellish to - normal, perhaps? Lord Becker being beaten back? Dagbert dead? Peace? Peace could only be had by the return of the status quo, but that would mean that Thordan would never be king in the first place. But even if the Dravain folk rose up and declared themselves a kingdom again, Thordan would not be their king - never. Because if he was king, he would start making error after error, and he would have no choice but to push away his friends if he wanted or not. Gates, he missed them so. He would surrender with the speed of a hare. A quiet place was all he wanted - to be able to walk in a pleasant garden, and being served the food that he liked. After all, what is life without good food and sleep?
What is life without Redwall Abbey?
No, no. The improvement of his life was something else - Bodvar and his companions' eyes had their spirit returned to them. What Dagbert had done to them had been undone after the mole's sudden disappearance.
Thordan nodded sullenly as his head began to hurt again.
Throw wide the Gates…
No! It cannot be!
LOAMWAKE, KINGDOM OF SOUTHSWARD
Sleeping soundly had almost been a faraway memory for Arbert, but the one time he actually does so, he paid.
He awoke to a knifepoint, and a leering face of a vole. Should've Veiled myself...
"Well, it isn't everyday that we have some random mole lying here with a pouch full of gold, isn't it?" Clearly a brigand, the vole gestured at his followers who emerged from the trees. Holding bows slings and a few daggers and dirks in their paws, they seemed more awkward than anything. If Ralos and his Swordbeasts were not distracted by the war at paw, they would have been slaughtered to a beast - which is still a possibility after the war - or perhaps during it.
"Well, I could always give everything to you very willingly, but where is the fun in that?" Arbert giggled. Better make them underestimate the true power of a conjurer.
"Keeping your life is quite fun, mole." Arbert was quite aware of the bows trained on him. "Tell me who you are."
Arbert stepped back and performed a mocking bow. "You can call me Isangrim." It was not a lie - they can call the mole by the name of his enemy, though the black fox would moan and mope about it all day long.
"Well, Isangrim, would you like to live poor, or die rich?" The vole grinned.
"One can say that it depends on what's in the wallet." Arbert took another step back as he reached for his purse in one paw, and his grimoire in the other. He cannot gut me here. "Just let me check, and-" Coins, gold, silver, copper; all of them were thrown high up into the air with a single motion of the paw.
Before the brigand leader could ask any questions, Conjuration was embraced, and a coin whizzed through his makeshift helmet, fur, bone, sinew and brains, and came out of his skull, only to travel into the chest of a bandit mouse.
To Arbert's left and right, beasts were dying as the precious metals they had craved so much flew in and out of their bodies. Into skulls, into lungs, into hearts… The shield of Wind around Arbert stopped the few projectiles that were let loose at him, and the few beasts that took the hint tried to run as fast as they could. But the coins were faster, and soon Arbert was surrounded by corpses, some of them gripping their weapons in their final moments, others empty pawed.
Arbert was in no mood to smile as the full effects of Conjuration overtook him in the form of fatigue, which quickly reminded him of being roused from sleep. It shall seem that I would have to sleep elsewhere… preferably with a Veil over me.
STATION OF CALLING, THE RIFT
Dagbert sighed as the familiar form of Thordan Swalestrom entered the Station. He had much to do, and winning him over would be downright impossible after he was bested at Viksten.
To be fair, Dagbert had overplayed his paw. The embarrassment of losing a duel with a barely trained lordling served as his punishment.
"You!" Thordan snarled. This was the first time Dagbert had seen him angry- and so did everyone else. The torture was a bad idea.
"I understand that you are angry, but-" Dagbert sensed the clamp around him, Conjuration being cut off completely, if temporarily. It was the Rift, a world of dreams, and no Amplifier was necessary to access Thaumaturgy or Conjuration, though it would certainly help.
"Well, you got that part right." Invisible ropes were curled around the mole with astonishing speed, earning a choked cry as a response. "You have no idea what you did to me, mole. You have no idea about what it feels to be trapped in a box with no hope in sight! You have no idea about what it feels to be bound and gagged and starved in a barrel, then tickled until you piss yourself! You have no idea - where's your paw gone?"
"Well, ask your grandfather, little king." Dagbert would have savoured the look of surprise on Thordan's face, it looking so much like his namesake's own.
"Well, he's dead, and I am not!" Thordan shouted.
"There is much that you do not understand, young Thordan. You may stop me from telling you, but showing you is another matter altogether." Dagbert's eyes scarcely moved as the entire station was surrounded in slick darkness. "May your heart and mind guide you forth."
Then the mole woke.
SOMEWHERE
Thordan was hurtling from the sky.
One moment Thordan was standing on that blasted platform, having everything under control, then a wave a darkness struck, and now he was here.
In front of him was a glowing sphere, faces emerging from it. And they screamed. Thordan covered his ears, but the noises, produced in bursts of agony, still wormed their way in. Then the figures revealed themselves. One by one, their screams ceased as they shot out from the sphere with the speed of a lightning bolt.
A stoat, dressed in naught but rags, carrying a flaming sword in her twin paws. A wildcat with a nasty scar on one side of his face. A fox with a resigned look, weary of everything that has befallen him. Isangrim, perhaps? After all, their fur were of the same colour.
Tens, no. Not tens. Hundreds of beasts, moments ago screaming in agony, were quickly expelled from their hold, while they did nothing to stop it - as if they were dead.
Before he could take a closer look at one beast who looked like another wildcat, he landed with a thud.
Thordan stood up. Green grass surrounded him. A pond lay nearby, with its waters tranquil. Walls surrounded the otter and the ground on which he stood. But what was most recognisable to Thordan was a red sandstone structure, towers jutting out of its base.
Redwall Abbey.
Without a second to clear his mind of the whirl of chaos surrounding him, Thordan opened the gates which were open to all.
BERSTRAAT, KINGDOM OF DRAVANIA
"He can't hold that bit of liquor?" Birger gasped as Thordan Swalestrom's unconscious form flopped on the table.
"Well, he must never had gotten drunk before." Bodvar gestured for the bartender, a squirrel with grey fur. He seemed old enough to bear this colour, and nobeast young could have his grey fur naturally. Not here, anyways.
"Bartender, we've had our fill of beer. How about some mead?"
"Certainly, good misters!" The barbeast was more polite than any in his profession Bodvar had ever met - almost as if he wanted something from him.
Three large tankards were filled to the brim, and soon found their way towards their table. The squirrel spared not a look at the incapacitated Thordan and laid them out for the three able members of their party - a sure sign of professionalism.
Birger tasted the mead, followed by his brother. It had it's usual sweetness to it, but there was something sour within the taste.
"This town seems nice." Pickner absentmindedly said, taking a big gulp from his container. "Shame about the Trielians and their raids."
"Rebuilding was fast though." Birger piped. "I wonder which lord provided the funds."
"Well, lords are all the same. They never care about their folk until the last moment." Bodvar scoffed, downing his whole tankard in one go.
"What about this king here?" Pickner yawned. "He seems nice enough."
"I dunno." The younger otter stretched his paws.
Bodvar tried to say something, but was too tired to do so. He could do nothing as his strength rapidly faded away, but see his friends drop off at the speed of Thordan.
"... what we should…"
"Grab 'em all…"
Bodvar's last thought was to wonder what was put in their drinks before he went under.
REDWALL ABBEY
Thordan couldn't believe his eyes! He was back at Redwall!
The Great Hall was devoid of beasts of all kinds, but the weak aroma of food still lingered in the air - just the way Thordan remembered it. The Tapestry of Martin the Warrior hung on to the wall, like an ancient giant hulking over a mouse.
Running, he progressed up the stairs. Doors leading to different rooms were sprinted across, until Thordan reached the library. The place was filled with books originally from the Abbot's quarters and the Gatehouse, though not everything had been moved here yet.
He reached for a random book, and gasped as he felt it. Everything here is a dream, of course, but all seemed so real…
What I wouldn't give to turn back time for real, to spend one more night beneath the stars at my second home… Thordan held back tears as he put the book on a nearby table, trembling all over. I'm doing it again...
"Thordan!" A familiar voice rang out from behind. The young otter's ears perked and he turned around to see an otter about the same age.
"Tarka!" Thordan almost squealed at the sight of his old friend. "It can't be! Why are you here? This is a dream! How did you find your way here? Are you a Conjurer?"
"A Conjurer? What's that? Don't tell me you've started believing in magic, Thordan. You're a beast of reason!" Tarka scratched his head. "Or you were one. What happened to your jaw?"
"Broke it falling down stairs. " Thordan rushed up to hug his old friend, who embraced him in turn. "How's everybeast doing?"
"All's well! Jolin's Abbess now, and we're celebrating soon!"
"Jolin? Abbess? There's not a lot of better choices. Great job choosing her."
Tarka giggled. "I'm going to have to record everything about her - including her infatuation with that Southard soldier."
"Things have changed so much, but you're the same beast, Tarka."
"Er… thanks." Tarka smiled. "But what about you? You've changed."
"Crowns do weird things to the heads under them." Thordan recited.
"Wait. What?" Tarka's eyes flared wide open. "You're a king now? I thought all Southard kings were squirrels!"
Thordan sighed. "I'm King of Dravania, and I have to fight against Southsward."
'Fighting against Southsward?" Tarka took a step back. "You can't possibly - I'm right. You've changed, and not for the better. Then he opened the door and ran.
'Tarka, wait!" Thordan meant to pursue, but a ghostly blade stopped him from chasing after his otter friend. Thordan looked towards this right and saw the distinct figure of a mouse.
Dressed in a simple green habit, the mouse presented a cold, unflinching glare. Thordan did not have to take a second guess before deducing that this mouse fought in battles before.
"Go not after your friend, Conjurer." Martin the Warrior sighed, almost as if he was resigned to giving this command. "Live, for with your death after death, all shall be rent apart, and but a pawful be spared."
Then with a simple gesture, Thordan was tossed out of the room. Wood and sandstone became nothing as he was hurtled out of the Abbey, as his head swam with pain.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the skies above, holding an aged staff. Redwall Abbey lay beneath him, its belltower tens of feet lower. He leaned on his staff, and stood. He felt old. Below him, scores of beasts battled, with swords in their paws and fire hurled around the Abbey grounds, plunging all into smoke. A ferret, with fur of flame, punched through reality itself, and entered the fray, with a sinister aura emanating from him. What could that be?
He turned, and saw another beast pointing a sword in front of him. An otter, about forty seasons or so. "How long have I waited for this moment," he whispered, as Thordan took a defensive stance with his staff.
He moved, but Thordan turned his staff in time, somehow blocking the blow. Spinning the staff around by pure instinct, he struck at nothing - his enemy had already leapt away, his sword trained on Thordan. "It shall be ended here. You shall be ended here." The otter snarled, slavering with rage.
Before Thordan could even react, he woke.
A/N: This chapter has three Thordan segments - the most for anybeast in one chapter. Just a random fact thrown here. Oh, and please do try to find the Wheel of Time reference!
The Redwall characters are Jade TeaLeaf's creations, and in my eyes the best of TCTBU. Tarka especially.
Chapter 37 (To the Fore) will be up on 4/5 December!