A few clarifications about my vision of the Redwall world:
1) A season in this story is just that – a season in a year. When comparing characters' ages with human lifespan, equate two seasons to one year. So, most beasts do not live very long. On the brighter side, seeing as a number of characters in Redwall canon were able to walk and talk at the age of one season and reached the equivalent of teenage years by as early as eight or even five seasons, they grow and mature fast.
2) On average, Redwall beasts are about one-third the human size, with those standing two feet high considered fairly tall. Mice, moles and voles are smaller than average, while shrews are considerably smaller. Foxes, pine martens, sables, otters and hares are bigger than average. Wildcats, badgers, wolverines, monitor lizards, and greatrats are considerably bigger and tougher. Fish, plants, insects and large birds have their real-life sizes. Small birds (sparrows and the like), are significantly larger, than they are in the real life.
Author's notes:
Besides all the violence, death, mutilation and cruelty to talking animals, you can rightfully expect from a Redwall story, this fic might contain a bit more bad language, and suggestive elements, than the original books. While I'll try not to go overboard with them, consider yourself warned.
I'm not a native English speaker. So, while I hope that I can at least write without egregious errors, I usually prefer to abstain from using stereotypical Redwall accents for major characters, or to make accents milder.
This story takes place many seasons after the events of the chronologically last Redwall book (The Rogue Crew), and starts on the same season my previous story, Weaves of Destiny, ends. I'll be trying my best to make the story comprehensible to those who did not read Weaves of Destiny, but a sequel is a sequel and you won't be able to fully appreciate it without reading the first part.
Redwall is © Brian Jacques, I do not own any of the characters from his books, etc...
Advance of Destiny
Prologue: Born To Rule All Under the Sky
Thirty one season ago
Harsh and gloomy were these winter days, even in lands far to the south from the Mossflower country where stark, windswept mountains stood high over the southeastern edge of the great sandy plateau. Storm after storm came from the ocean, bringing lashing winds, furious blizzards of wet snow, and heavy, low clouds, so that in highlands beasts and birds could not tell where mists ended and clouds began. Sun seemed to disappear, night turning to gray twilight, and twilight to another night. While some places, like the country of Southsward, were spared the worst, for most of the land this was a second harsh winter in a row, even harsher than the previous one. Between terrible weather, and poorly prepared vermin tribes spurred to attack by merciless hunger, a lot of beasts were not going to see the spring. Only bold, desperate, or insane creatures dared to brave the worst of this season by climbing high mountainsides, where weather grew harsher and forest grew sparser, in places disappearing altogether.
The troop of woodlanders which now broke their camp on the lower slope of the Two-Headed Mountain was of the "bold" variety. They also would have impressed most beasts – assuming seeing them in better weather, when fog and flying snow did not obscure everything beyond ten paces – as unusual. Almost fourscore in numbers, they were mostly a mix of squirrels, otters and hares, with a few smaller beasts mixed in. Some dressed in flashy garments of blue, yellow and green, now worn-out and stained, others in drab clothes more suitable for long travel, if only because having them ruined was not such a big loss, but every single one was well-armed and tough-looking. Even a fool could tell at once, that they were not a wandering tribe, but a warband. Indeed, what other group of woodlanders could have traveled these lands? To the north and west from the Two-Headed Mountain rose the plateau, inhabited by predatory raptor birds, deadly serpents, a few savage weasel and fox tribes, and some stranger, lesser-known beasts, none too welcoming to strangers. To the north and east, between the mountains and the sea, sprawled hills and scrublands, with occasional forest groves, the land contested by petty vermin warlords and vicious crow flocks since the times of myth. To the south were great forests, where Juska vermin tribes prowled. No group of goodbeasts could survive a trek to this place without being able to put up a good fight and strike fear at the heart of any potential robber or slaver.
To be sure, some creatures among this small host were imposing enough to make smaller vermin bands rethink their plans for the day just by themselves. One of these creatures now sat at the edge of the camp, trying his best to keep a small fire going in an imperfect shelter, where the slope formed a small hollow between the roots of an old tree. Odo the squirrel was big and stocky for his normally lithe species. Though his fur was a brighter shade of red, normally considered a sign of beauty by squirrels, no one called Odo handsome after a spiked vermin mace struck his face, leaving its left side disfigured, with the patch of cloth covering the place where his eye once was. The fact that Odo still lived and his foe did not attested to Odo's stubborn determination as much as to robustness of his skull. And just to survive climbing these mountains in winter a beast had to be determined. The day was freezing cold, colder than what the band experienced during its travel through the forests they now left behind and below. So he did not have to struggle with everything being wet, at least, but frozen deadwood still did not burn well. Thick snowfall meant that keeping fires of the camp hidden was not a concern, and also that snow was getting everywhere, even beneath the collar of his cloak, irritating him further. But there were deeper reasons for his atypically sullen mood than mere discomfort.
"Plague and pestilence!" Odo grumbled, as a whiff of smoke got into his eyes. "Sure this whole foray is ill-fated."
"You're saying?" Odo's failure to hear when his old companion, Amais, appeared out of the curtain of falling snow, was a testament to his bad mood.
"Nothing!" Odo turned towards her. Amais' own looks were completely average for a female otter, but her garb was anything but average – she wore a whole bunch of bracers and necklaces of silver, bronze and bone, every one taken from a vermin slain in battle. Now she smiled slightly at Odo, as she wiped snow from her face, while Odo frowned. "I'm most certainly not complaining. Perish the thought. Lord Gillem must know what he's doing, making us chase Juska up these mountains in winter."
"Okay, okay," Amais demonstrated a pot full of icy water to him. "Can we hope for something hot today?"
"Mint tea?"
Amais made a face. "Once we're back to Newtown, I'm going to chug hot wine until I can't get another cup to my lips. But tea will do for now."
Half an hour later, when fire warmed the two friends a bit, and heated up their mint tea, so they warmed themselves further, washing dried fish and dried fruit down with it, Odo's mood returned to more or less normal. "Do you think the winter will run out of snow to dump on us before the dark?"
It was just Odo's luck today to have his words heard by creatures to whom they were not intended. Before Amais could voice her guess, an enormous figure stepped onto the edge of their small shelter, almost completely covering it from wind and flying snowflakes.
Gillem, the commander of the Vigilants – for that's how their band was called – was an exemplary badger. Not that Odo and Amais saw many other badgers, particularly up close, but Gillem was a perfect fit for all the descriptions from tales and legends. Huge and stout, even for his species, with paws as thick as Amais' waist, but not even a little bit slow or clumsy, despite his great bulk. He looked youthful for a creature for his size – he indeed was young, in badger terms, which meant that he was still older than Odo. The fur of his badger mask was pristine white and glossy black, and just as black were his eyes. One could easily call Gillem's face "handsome" or perhaps even "cute", at least if one never saw him cracking a ferret's skull like a chestnut in his jaws during battle. And though his voice was deep, well-suited to shouting orders, in normal circumstances he tended to speak softly.
"I overheard your question, Odo. And as it happens, I must answer it. The weather is changing, this much I can tell. The sky will clear soon. When that happens, I want you two to scout upslope, and get to those cliffs above the creek. You're among the best climbers among us, see if the view on the valley between peaks from there is as good as I think."
"Do you think the vermin really need something on this mountain, Commander? That Juska bunch would be long gone otherwise, they had maybe two days on us," Odo asked, even despite knowing that his question would be useless. He did not want to leave his shelter, however poor it was, almost as much as he did not want to admit not wanting to leave.
Gillem fiddled for a little bit, clearing snow from his headfur, before looking straight at Odo and replying. "I do think that the Juskalin vermin are nearby. And you do have your orders."
Neither Odo, nor Amais were completely sure Gillem knew what he was doing this particular time. Sure, he was smart, brilliant even, and he had uncommon personal friends, like big predatory birds, who informed him about many things common woodlander warriors could not know, but his judgment was not perfect. It failed him when he decided that attempting to catch nomadic Juska in their stationary winter camp was a great idea, only to find the tribe moving around, and it could fail him again.
But the fact that their commander could not be right every single time, or his fondness for the sort of daring and unconventional plans that stood just one or two wrong decisions from disaster changed nothing right now. Amais nodded, and Odo said: "Aye, Commander."
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Borroc Lin was a stoat, not especially big for his species, but strong, quick and wiry, with a ruddy hue in his brown fur. He was not a beast short of nerve – battle scars covering his muscular body and ritual scars carved into his face attested to that. But tonight he was nervous and tense, more tense than he ever had been in his whole life. And Borroc's life was eventful and full of danger, as befitted a Juska chieftain.
Juska vermin were mostly nomadic, living in small tribes by hunting, scavenging, stealing and raiding. Borroc Lin, the chieftain of the Juskalin tribe, inherited from his father a tribe of middling size, and made it one of the greatest, no, the greatest Juska tribe in numbers, might and infamy – other Juska who prowled the southern forests now went out of their way to avoid or placate Juskalin. Yet Borroc Lin, ambitious and full of restless energy as he was, wished for more, he wished for submission of other tribes and true conquest, so he resented deeply the old Juska ways of fractiousness and independence, of kneeling to no warlord other than their tribal chieftains, and accepting no king. He realized that now one wrong move would be enough to unite other Juska tribes against him, instead of around him, and that frustrated Borroc Lin. At least until the old legend started to become reality.
Even to these days, Juska told the tales of Taggerungs, mighty warriors of old, beasts chosen for supremacy in battle by fate itself, born to achieve great things. Once upon a time, the dreadful doom befell Juska, when the last Taggerung sullied the name, proving himself an unworthy coward, and since then no new Taggerungs have been born, yet the legend remained. It even grew as Juska fortunes declined, and tribes were forced east and south, to mountains and unhospitable, barren highlands. It kept growing as Juska, pushed to the brink of destruction, rediscovered their fighting spirit, and became powerful again, spreading across much of the lush south, ravaging and pillaging everywhere their nomadic wanderings took them, increasing in numbers as they defeated and absorbed less warlike vermin tribes. At their campfires and gatherings, Juska of all tribes told each other that one day a new Taggerung will be born, the Taggerung to surpass all Taggerungs of old, just like Juska of today surpassed their ancestors. Not just the peerless fighter, but the chieftain of chieftains, the beast to conquer all between the seas, the beast to rule all under the eternal sky!
Imagine Borroc Lin's excitement when talks of great omens emerged from Seers' tents and spread among the Juska vermin: talks of the omens that predicted birth of that fated beast, the Taggerung among Taggerungs! No Seer could tell clearly from what tribe or species the new Taggerung will come, but all agreed that he will be born on the slopes of the great Two-Headed Mountain, in winter, on the longest night of the year. And just as Borroc Lin thought of siring a child who would be born roughly at the appropriate time – "appropriate" only with regards to the prophecy of course – he learned that his wife, Zayrha, is expecting. As the darkest time of winter drew near, the Juskalin tribe traveled towards the mountain. Borroc did not think that any other Juska tribe may move to stop him. No other tribe was strong enough, with bold enough chieftain to risk a battle on their own, several tribes hardly could unite to stop him for only one could benefit from having a future Taggerung among them yet Juska were not the sort to spill sweat and blood for somebeast else's prize – and trying to prevent the prophesy from coming to pass entirely was simply unthinkable.
Borroc Lin still neglected no precaution. He led his tribe through the perilous mountain trails, until he found a gorge which was definitely a part of the Two-Headed Mountain, hid the whole tribe's tents and bonfires from long-distance observers and was easy to defend. It even had a source of water, a quick stream flowing through it – Borroc did not fear a siege, but that still was a welcome convenience. To guard against any surprise attack, in case he was wrong, and there was an enterprising Juska chieftain trying to seize a chance for supremacy, he placed sentries and sent out scouts. On the previous day the scouts reported that they saw a large group of armed beasts leaving the forest below and moving up the slope. Those who spotted them were not good at counting, but swore, that in numbers these newcomers about matched the Juskalin. By the time they returned with their report, it was already almost completely dark, and there was no beast with enough knowledge of the mountains to go out on a cloudy night and be reasonably sure to return under Borroc's command. This was still supposedly the Juska land, but the Juskaribs tribe, which prowled these mountain slopes, poor in forage, prey and plunder, evaporated like smoke on the wind – no doubt they had no desire to fight against foes several times their number, and perhaps their chieftain could not expect any heirs by the prophesized time. He would have done better by offering his help, and Borroc hoped to give the Juskaribs a stern reminder of that one day, but for now there was no time to think about "woulds".
Or so Borroc believed, but by the morning the snowstorm began, leaving him with little to do but thinking. On the other paw, whomever was pursuing them, surely got pinned in place by weather as well. Another beast in his place might have been even relieved, but Borroc always hated inaction. Zayrha could go into labor any moment by now, too. Borroc still had no cubs because his older wife died in childbirth. An unusual occurrence, to be sure, but what if it was to repeat? What if there was some curse or ill fortune on him? The tribe's young Seer, Olkuna, made a shelter for Zayrha at the far end of the gorge, and shooed Borroc away from it. Borroc let her do so.
Then the snowfall started thinning, looking as if it was soon to cease entirely. Any other time that would be a relief for Borroc, but now? According to the prophecy – if Olkuna interpreted everything correctly and made no mistake in counting of days – Zayrha was going to give birth this night. Even without prophecy, Borroc would have hesitated to force her into another difficult march by mountain trails.
No wonder the chieftain of Juskalin was on the edge. Beasts of the Juskalin felt it as he paced through the camp. Most tried to get out of his way and remain unnoticeable. Most but not all. A stoat rose from his place at a flickering bonfire and moved towards him – Bolai Lin, his younger brother. Borroc knew that there were Juska chieftains who marked the start of their rule by killing all of their siblings, or at least all the male ones, but if there was something at all he could not imagine himself doing, it was following their example. Bolai, his usual dependable self, guessed that Borroc needs something from him with one glance.
"Get your bow," Borroc instructed him. "I need you to scout the camp of that crowd tailing us."
They both had the same idea as to where that camp could be, so Bolai simply nodded. Borroc looked around. Bolai was the best scout of Juskalin and a skilled archer, who held his own in many skirmishes and battles, despite his rather short stature, but sending just one beast for such an important task…
"You!" Borroc pointed at another beast who had a place near one of the few bonfires for which Juskalin still had fuel. "You, Irgen. Go with Bolai."
Irgen was a pine marten, big, despite his obvious youth, with lustrous dark brown fur. Now, though, he was huddling near the fire, wrapping himself in his long cloak as if cold was getting to him. Instead of jumping at the command, he turned his head to look at Borroc. "Dusk is near, Chief. Why…"
Before Irgen could say anything else, he found the tip of Borroc's spear tickling his neck. Borroc Lin certainly was quick. "Did I hear you say somethin', Irgen?"
Irgen swallowed, unsure how to answer. He looked here and there, his eyes widening. To think of it, Borroc never liked his eyes, black and dull, like two pieces of coal. He never liked this outlander at all.
"That must have been the wind, or fire cracklin', brother. Irgen's a good choice, not many Juska can keep up with me like him."
Bolai was right. Borroc, who already pulled the spear a bit back, stopped at the last moment before a deadly thrust. The pine marten was young, but he had a rare talent. "Must have been. Move your tail, Irgen, before I put fire to it. Or maybe your ears need clippin' to make you hear better?"
"Not at all, Chieftain!" This time Irgen quickly leapt to his paws.
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Both Gillem and Borrok would have been very surprised to learn that on this day there was a beast, who could look upon the Gillem's camp and the gorge where Juskalin hid, from a position above, on the opposing, western peak of the Two-Headed Mountain, which was supposed to be nigh-impossible to scale.
Ubel, who once liked to call himself Ubel Fireeyes, has changed so much that beasts, who saw him for the last time six seasons ago, on the island of Ergaph, probably would not have recognized him today, or at least not right away. Ubel was always thin and lean for a ferret, but this winter he became downright emaciated, little more than hide and bones. Much of his white fur was burned away on the fateful night of the battle beneath Castle Floret, when his old ambition got crushed once and for all, and though burns somehow failed to kill him, the fur did not regrow so far. Nowadays Ubel used rags and strips of cloth to bandage patches of bare skin, forming a hideous pattern over his head, neck, and upper body. He no longer cared about making an imposing appearance. His old cloak, made of a whole foxhide, that once signified his supremacy as a Seer and a sorcerer, was long gone, his new cloak and the rest of his remaining clothes looked dirty, worn out and unkempt after whole moons of exhausting travel, and he walked with a long stick, which he at first picked to keep pace with younger vermin during their hurried escape from Southsward, and now kept to save every bit of strength still left in his aching footpaws. And of course, his left eye was gone. Ubel heard that the beasts now called him Ubel One-Eye behind his back – those few beasts that still followed him.
Their band numbered over a hundred vermin, when they started their long trek to escape the lost war, but by now vagaries of autumn and winter, encounters with hostile tribes, and exhaustion of travel through the barren wilderness, about which Ubel knew only the general details at best, and the former corsairs knew nothing at all, reduced their numbers to less than a score. Death and desertion would have whittled that number to nothing a moon ago, if not for three reasons.
First, even despite all the disasters, superstitious vermin still feared Ubel's alleged sorcerous power. He was not stabbed to death in his sleep mostly because of that. Corsairs not uncommonly believed that a real magic beast can and will curse and haunt his murderers from beyond the grave, and Ubel's magic seemed real enough to them.
The second reason was the creature whose very presence pushed Ubel's reputation as a sorcerer to new heights. Right now the ferret could not see him for Gale the raven had a knack for disappearing as if into thin air, but he was never far away. Gale had enough size and strength to scare away an average hawk or buzzard, and neither cold nor fatigue seemed to ever affect him. He spoke eloquently but rarely, only when gestures and short caws were clearly not enough to make a point. Ubel could never admit that, but Gale scared him much like Ubel himself scared common vermin, if not worse. Corsairs only believed in their superstitions. Ubel knew that the bird had some supernatural quality, as surely as he knew that the raven had two huge black wings. Ubel also knew that Gale had a goal and a plan, which required saving his, Ubel's, life, and helping his band of vermin survive. Gale told him as much, though without revealing everything. That was the whole reason they were on this fate-forsaken mountain now, the raven led the band here, showing Ubel paths over seemingly impassable slopes and through dark caves, about which no bird should have known anything. Ubel had severe doubts about the raven's intent, of course, but what could he do? Any other path in this wilderness was just as likely to be perilous, and without eyes in the air, warning of dangers, and spotting vermin who tried to desert and run, they stood little chance. The ferret was not willing to jeopardize his survival for the sake of getting out of the raven's claws. And moreover, Gale promised Ubel that Ubel's own dream may yet become reality. That promise Ubel did not believe for a second, though the raven's knowledge of his innermost wish scared him. But he pretended to believe. For now he had to obey and observe, looking for a weakness to manipulate, a role not unfamiliar to him.
Of course, for a time he had a creature to play against Gale, in case of the raven getting too demanding. Windflight the vixen, nominally the leader of their sorry company, was not the strongest fighter in Ubel's memory, not even near, but she was big and ferocious enough to at least match the bird in a straight fight. She had vicious temper befitting a warlord, too. Her brute strength, and fear of her were the third reason that kept the remaining vermin alive and together. But in her present condition…
Ubel cautiously looked down from the rocky ledge, on which he was standing, again. Yes, there certainly were some beasts camping down there, on the opposite slope. They could not possibly see him, he only noticed their camp because of smoke from their fires. A curious fact, but irrelevant to his current predicament. The creature Ubel wanted to see was Gale. The white ferret could already feel glares of ragged, starved, filthy vermin survivors, huddling back at the mouth of the cave which was their present shelter, on his back. Not one of them expected to see anything good from his leadership anymore. Nightmares that plagued them over the last few nights and weakness they felt during the days – even if those were just perfectly normal effects of high altitude and long exhaustion, or mostly so, at least – must have convinced them that they are being driven straight to the doorstep of Hellgates. Just the last day two of the survivors went insane, one jumping down from a cliff, the other trying to slaughter everybeast he could get his claws on. The raven had to return soon – the sheer terror that kept the rest obedient this far had to weaken only slightly for them to fall upon Ubel and Windflight and tear both to bloody pieces.
