61. My Sword.
The idea of building a fortified siege camp for the vermin army was good, unlike its execution. In the battle and the following swift drive to Castle Floret, the vermin took few prisoners. Bands that now dispersed to hunt for slaves needed time to return. And vermin themselves loathed digging earth and cutting wood. A strong warlord acknowledged by all, like Kunas in his better days, was needed to make them work truly hard. Ubel, who oversaw the construction, was unable to force more than a half-hearted effort out of soldiers and corsairs, even with his dark reputation and Rugger's intimidating presence behind his shoulder.
So the ditch around the camp was still shallow and the palisade only half-done by the time Melayna Firebright and Belk the Warrior decided that sitting on their tails behind the walls of the Castle Floret would accomplish nothing besides allowing the enemy to entrench and raze more of the countryside. Freeing the relatively few captives that the vermin army had gathered so far and hopefully thinning the enemy numbers with a swift night raid seemed a worthy endeavor to Belk, and Melayna agreed. From among jerbilrats and woodlanders in the castle they picked threescore of real warriors – or at least beasts that could pass for real warriors if your definition was not too strict – for this raid. Belk would have preferred Melayna to stay in the castle, but she was insistent on striking a blow against the vermin personally.
"And if you ask me, you'd do more good by going outside and rallying your countrybeasts than by risking your life in this attack, that is what I'd say," he told her.
"That I intend to do," she answered, "but not before proving myself in battle, so that beasts would actually rally to me."
Belk could not argue with that, but he could not let Melayna command such a dangerous sally alone either. Besides, jerbilrats were, to put it mildly, disinclined to follow anybeast but him.
Leaving Castle Floret through the same tunnel Melayna used to enter was not difficult. There were few clouds, but moon has waned to very thin crescent, shedding little light. Good enough for a night raid. Jerbilrats, although still not familiar with the forest, were natural night fighters. Belk combed through the castle in search of weapons, even requisitioning old historical relics, against seneschal Walmond impassioned protests, and made the old castle smith work overtime, forging spearheads, axe blades, and daggers. So now all jerbilrats carried real iron weapons, the fact which filled them with childish joy and kept their spirits soaring even in the face of enemies outnumbering them ten to one. In fact, despite being besieged by a vermin horde, most jerbilrats believed themselves to be in paradise. They now lived in dry, spacious, and well-ventilated beast-made caves – seneschal Walmond was also grumbling about the havoc these little desert barbarians wreaked on the castle rooms selected as their quarters – had plenty of water for everybeast, and tastier foods that they could imagine in their arid homeland. Belk hoped they would fight as well as they were eating.
Shortly before the moment when Ubel and Sheska heard the first battle cries, Belk was observing the vermin camp from tall grass. A few fires burned there, the biggest islands of light in the surrounding darkness, and only because of them the camp was anything more than a darker blot on the dark background. Belk could see at least one rat sentry who was clearly not sleeping, pacing back and forthm, his silhouette clearly visible against the backdrop of a bonfire. Certainly there were more, concealed by darkness. Maybe a couple of very sneaky beasts could get all the way into the camp without raising a ruckus, but not a threescore, and given his own experience, Belk did not believe a few jerbilrats, even properly armed, would be able to dispatch all the sentries quietly.
Melayna joined him, moving on all fours.
"I hoped they all would be sleeping like old moles in their burrows," she whispered.
Belk wondered if she was having second thoughts this close to the enemy. Then again, so was he. Belk presented himself as a veteran, and in a sense he was, but until this summer he never commanded more fighters at any given time than he could count on his claws. He told himself to act instead of thinking. All the thinking they could do was done already, now it was just fear trying to nip at his resolve.
"Seasoned fighters don't sleep on watch. Or not as much as most, that I can tell you. But they can panic like anybeast. Now let's go and give them a reason to panic."
He spoke the last words loud enough to be heard by jerbilrats around, as he rose and started walking forward, drawing the Sword of Martin.
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The first moments after Seien's awakening resembled a hectic dream. How he got out of his tent or when he managed to grab a sword he did not know. The first thing he remembered clearly was Ulakhai – wearing nothing but his fur, just like Seien himself, bristling, wild-eyed – grabbing him by the shoulder and shouting over the cacophony of battlecries and screams that spread through the vermin camp: "Get away from the fight! There! There! Zerwick, you guard him! Drag him away if you need!"
Seien did not need to be dragged away. Still half-dazed, he ran in the direction Ulakhai shoved him, Zerwik the stoat following right after.
The two vermin didn't get far before battle was upon them. How foes penetrated so deeply into the camp Seien also did not know. All he saw was a big tent to the right of them suddenly collapsing, and then he and Zerwik were in the middle of a fight, beasts running, screaming, swinging, falling around them. A panic-striken creature knocked Seien over, sending him rolling on the ground. A beast, maybe the same who just slammed into him screamed and fell, a few warm blood drops splashing on Seien's muzzle. The young pine marten frantically rolled and crawled, trying to get out of danger's way. He never killed anybeast in a fight before, never was in a fight to death at all. He had a fear of quailing at the moment when he'd be finally forced to face an armed and ready foe face to face, but now everything was happening so swiftly and suddenly, that Seien did not have time to be scared. A wildly screeching beast, barely recognizable as some sort of rodent in the darkness, was upon him before he managed to rise fully, and Seien swung his sword by reflex rather than by thought, knocking the smaller creature aside. More blood sprayed him – the rodent must have been mangled horribly by the blow– but Seien failed to notice that. His instincts screamed about a danger behind him.
As Seien started turning to meet that danger, with his peripheral vision he saw a tall dark shade lunging with a weapon raised high to strike him down. The young King slashed. The shade stumbled at the last moment, crashing into Seien and falling with him – something the pine marten did not feel, because a blow to his head made him incapable of feeling any lesser shocks for a few seconds.
By the moment Seien recovered his wits, the battle moved past the place where he and his almost-killer were lying. The familiar "Kill 'em! Kill, kill!" yells were drowning other sounds and Seien decided that the now-awakened army must be pushing the attackers back. He sat. The right part of his head still throbbed in pain but his skull seemed intact enough – by a miraculous stroke of luck the blow clearly aimed to smash it was only a graze. The pine marten looked at the dying beast next to him – and that beast was Zerwik.
Seien just kept looking dumbly, as if his brain suddenly turned off. His sword got stuck very deep in Zerwik's chest, but the stoat was still alive, if barely. Zerwik noticed Seien and looked at him, trying to say something. But red foam was already bubbling on his lips, and before Seien overcame shock and fear sufficiently to lean closer, the stoat gurgled something unintelligible for the last time and expired.
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Thankfully the vermin kept most of their captives in a pen near the edge of their camp, and thankfully the captives needed no special urging to flee, those who could run carrying those few that couldn't.
"That direction! There, run there!" shouted Belk, pointed bloodied Sword of Martin towards where his party came from. He had little hope of the secret tunnel remaining secret after this night anyway and within Castle Floret was probably the only place where the captives were not likely to become captives again before the next sunset.
A large halberd-wielding rat distracted Belk before he could make sure if anybeast heard him. Nearly taking off Belk's head with a mighty blow that the squirrel barely noticed in time certainly was a serious distraction. The night was not completely dark, opponents could see each other at this distance, discern general details of each other's movement. The rat attacked, Belk dodged and backed away, until the rat swung his weapon too wildly – then he lunged. The Sword of Martin easily sliced through fur, meat and bone, and before the mortally wounded rat could strike him with one last effort, Belk already jumped aside.
No more enemies within sword reach, Belk looked around. There were no friends nearby either, somehow the attacking party has managed to scatter completely. Large fires have started in several places throughout the camp, but judging by vermin yells and warcries, far too many foes managed to get from under their blankets alive. It was clearly the time to retreat – if not past it. Belk took a copper bugle from his belt and blew the signal, once, twice, thrice, the sharp noise – hopefully – strong enough to cut through the cacophony of battle.
"Retreat! Retreat!" Belk shouted, as if the shout could reach those the signal didn't. Then clang and screech of metal very nearby drew his attention. A small group of woodlanders was intercepted by well awake and armed vermin on the edge of the camp. Belk saw a hulking beast, looking vaguely rat-like in the dark, but much larger than any rat had the right to be, wiping out a squirrel with a single swipe of his curved sword. As Belk ran towards them, he saw another squirrel, clearly Melayna, recognizable in her bright chainmail, challenging the big brute. The monster rodent slashed again, Melayna parried, but her own blade was driven right into her head by the strength of the blow and with a lound bang she fell.
"Redwaaaaalll!" Belk's warcry drew the rat's – for it was a rat after all, albeit really big – attention before he could finish Melayna off. He whirled to face the new enemy and struck with horrifying strength, meeting Belk's attack. Blades clashed – and in a blast of sparks the Sword of Martin sliced through the steel, shearing upper half of the enemy's sword right off. Shock and pain shot through Belk's right paw all the way to the shoulder – if not for his wondrous weapon he might have fared little better than Melayna – so his follow-up strike was clumsy. Still, the big rat staggered back hissing in pain. Another, much smaller, rodent struck at Belk from the side, spearhead grazing the squirrel's neck. A second later one of the jerbilrats stabbed Belk's near-slayer in the back transfixing him, but the brief distraction was enough for the big rat to get away. All other vermin near were dead or dying. Melayna was already struggling to her paws, dazed but unhurt otherwise – the steel helmet saved her from death or disfiguring injury.
As the vermin camp was left behind, Belk sounded the signal of retreat again. Hopefully most jerbilrats and woodlanders remembered to retreat towards the signal, if that was at all possible, as Belk instructed them this evening…
Despite his fears, they did. By the time Belk reached the edge of the forest, most of the raiding force rejoined him – there was no time to count, but at a glance there were at least four dozens. The squirrel warrior stopped to look back at the vermin camp. As far as fires allowed to see, there was all the organization and sense of purpose of a smashed anthill. As far as sounds reaching across the vally allowed to judge, a few of the vermin might have even been fighting each other.
"We got 'em well and proper, didn't we?" Melayna managed to recover already.
"That we did." Belk briefly wondered if they were wrong to retreat, if it was possible to overrun the vermin camp entirely. But what was done was done. It was equally possible that they just barely avoided annihilation, just like he barely avoided dying. Belk touched the wound on his neck, as he turned and started into the forest. Fur around it was slick with blood, but only around it. Enemy's spear just nicked the skin. Both he and his small force got off quite lightly. At least so far – safety was still a long way ahead.
Belk saw that their escape wasn't a given yet as soon as he and his fighters caught up with the escaping prisoners, or at least those of them who retained enough wits to stay together. A few beasts were in sorry state, wounded or beaten, others probably never seriously tried running before, much less running for their lives through a dark and thick night forest.
"Move, move your paws! Move, if you want to see another season!" Belk urged them on. An old, exhausted squirrel stumbled right in front of him, nearly falling before being caught by Belk's strong paw. Belk had to almost drag the older male for a couple dozen of steps before handing him over to one of jerbilrats. At least the rest of the freed beasts could move without help. Not that it would have allowed them to outrun a real pursuit. But the vermin clearly were too slow in mounting it. As the eastern sky brightened, so did Belk's mood. He already could see entry in the ravine, where the secret tunnel's entrance was hidden. Belk with Melayna already made preparations to collapse the tunnel if need be, placing hay, and wood, and oil to burn through its support timbers, so vermin were welcome to try entering the castle through it. Loss of the most convenient secret way out of the castle would not be a price too high to pay for saved woodlanders and slain vermin. Belk's first big battle was no doubt a victory.
Despite safety being so close and the feeling of triumph swelling in his chest, the squirrel warrior kept watching the surrounding forest – a reflex that this time saved not only his life, but many others. He was the only one to spot strange shadows in undergrowth to the right of their small column. Were they moving? A few heads turned towards Belk, as he veered away in that direction, light on his paws as ever.
"Keep going! I'll check…"
Before finishing the phrase he saw what exactly what those shadows were.
"Ambush!" Belk shouted. And then what seemed like a whole crew of vermin corsairs charged.
The warning came too late. Woodlanders and jerbilrats were caught by surprise, and as thrown spears and javelins tore through the crowd, felling half a dozen of beasts, others were overwhelmed by suddenness of danger. Blind panic was about to spread among them like wildfire in dry brush, and few would have escaped that corner of the forest alive – if not for Belk, again. The squirrel warrior was the only beast whose courage did not falter in the face of unexpected danger. And, alone against dozens, he met the vermin's charge with his own.
"Redwall!" Belk shouted as he smote the fastest and boldest corsair weasel with the Sword of Martin. "Redwall!" In the morning light, the bloodied sword seemed to shine as if it possessed a light of its own. The next swing cleaved through a ferret's shield and neck, blood spraying the vermin behind the slain one.
Contrary to what exceedingly skeptical creatures say, legends of fierce warriors who broke and scattered whole crowds of foes by themselves, or cut their way through armies to slay a warlord, are often true. It is possible for one to prevail against many, at least if he is brave enough to strike left and right with no consideration for defense. Beasts who hadn't yet cast away all thoughts of survival rarely are in haste to get within reach of a beast who clearly had. At least if they lack confidence in their own personal strength and skill. And now too, despite their numbers the vermin faltered, some halting, stumbling and crashing into each other, some veering away from the apparently mad squirrel with the fearsome weapon. Another weasel tried to get behind him, but barely managed to jump away with her life, as Belk swiped in her direction. Then there were jerbilrats all around, emboldened by the example of their idol, screeching their fury. Metal clanged and beasts fell, as the two bands crashed into each other, and the vermin, the momentum of their ambush lost, were driven back.
"Fight, ye pale-bellied maggots!" Belk could see a tall silvery-grey vixen who was apparently the captain of this vermin crew, and could hear as she urged her beasts onwards in a shrill voice. "They're few, they're small! We can crush 'em! Take down that swordsquirrel bastard! Shoot him with arrows, take him down with spears and pikes, fight!" More corsairs were pouring out of the bushes – the vixen was right, there must have been at least two of them for every fighter on Belk's side, and who could know how many more were still coming. Add to that size and strength of the enemies – however jerbilrats liked to name themselves, they were smaller and weaker than actual rats. Add to that exhaustion from half the night of fighting and trotting through the forest. Shock of the unexpected counterattack and a mighty leader could only carry the fight so far against such odds.
Melayna appeared next to Belk as he was extracting the Sword of Martin from a ferret's helmet and skull. Her own sword was freshly bloodied, but her expression and smell betrayed fright. "We'd be surrounded! We have to retreat!"
Belk cast a look around. Stopping for that long nearly cost him his life, as a slingstone whooshed past his head, ruffling the fur on his scalp. "You lead the beasts underground! Go!" Then at the top of his lungs he shouted. "Retreat! All follow Melayna!"
"Wait!" That was all Melayna managed to cry out, as Belk did the exact opposite of his words – once again he charged, straight where the vixen captain was.
She did not overlook that, and did not relish the thought of facing Belk in battle. The fact that her right paw was bandaged and hanged limply at her side perhaps excused that lack of enthusiasm. "To me, bullies! Rally to yer cap'n! All to me!"
That was exactly the reaction Belk hoped for. A thrown spear or two whistled so close that he could feel the wind. Belk disemboweled one of the now-emptypawed spearbeasts without even stopping. Corsairs on the flanks pulled towards the vixen captain – and him – now, instead of pursuing others, but those before him turned tails or jumped aside as fast, as if they faced an enraged badger. There was just one small knot of beasts left between him and the vixen.
And all four vermin in that knot were drawing their bows. While legends of fierce warriors who broke and scattered whole crowds of foes by themselves, or cut their way through armies to slay a warlord, are often true, legends are legends because they describe truly extraordinary events. On reflex, Belk dodged sharply to the side, but not sharply enough to make more than two of the bowbeasts miss. He wore a chainmail, an old relic of a long-dead Squirrelking he appropriated from the castle armory. It was a beautiful and precious chainmail, decorated with finely engraved metal plaques, but not strong enough to stop two arrows shot from ten paces. Force of the double impact nearly knocked Belk off his paws.
"Kill!" the vixen howled. "Cut him to pieces, bring me his sword!"
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A stoat, quicker to act than his fellow corsairs and eager for cheaply earned glory, lunged at the squirrel's back, to strike off his head before he collapses on his own. Nobeast clearly saw what happened later. Somehow the squirrel who should have been mortally wounded sprung back to action. Somehow, with a strike that should have been blind, he cleanly severed both the stoat's wrist and neck. The archers who already had next arrows on their bowstrings froze as the beast they thought already dead stared at their direction, pupils so impossibly dilated that his eyes seemed black as night.
"My sword?" he said calmly, as if he wasn't surrounded by dozens of enemies and no shafts were sticking out of him. "You seascum won't be the one taking it from me!"
And then the squirrel moved again, hardly inconvenienced by two arrows in his chest. Not even the fastest of the creatures could have charged the archers without getting shot again – instead he jumped sideways, covering a nearly impossible distance in a single bound, and ending right in the thick of corsairs who were converging on him.
"Just try laying your paws on it!" he cried out as he cut through the crowd, slaying a couple of vermin as swiftly and surely as lightning.
"If you dare!" Another huge leap, and he was past the enemies, and then racing up a tree, disappearing in the branches nigh-instantly.
"After him!" By that moment captain Windflight forgot entirely about the rest of woodlanders and their exotic allies. Who cared if some mangy rodents ran away. She was terrified, so terrified that she clenched her healthy paw to keep it from shaking, but her ambition and greed outweighted her fear by far. She did not believe in magic swords before, but now she was seeing one with her own eyes, and damn everything to Hellgates, she was not about to let it slip away. She would have gladly given half, nay, two thirds of her remaining crew for a blade cutting iron like wood and flesh like fresh bread. "After him you lazy slugs! He's bleedin' out, he must be dyin', don't ye see?! Half of my plunder to the beast who kills this squirrel!"