Chapter 2: Beast of the Day

Some ways north of Redwall, along the western beach near the inlet of the River Moss, a ship had docked. The Sunder, as it was called, was a slaver's galleon of the finest searat construction, hailing from across the western sea. After some manner of altercation, the Sunder found itself unwelcome in Sampetra, and fled east to escape Gelida's wrath.

Now, as the sun began to rise, and mist set over the coastline, the self-appointed Rat Admiral Ripfang sat beside a fire, warming his bones. A vermin of minor renown, he had taken the name of a famous pirate captain from ancient stories; one who, as the story went, had tricked death and escaped his old age, such that he saw two badgers rule Salamandastron their entire lifespans. The Rat Admiral then tacked on said title to that name, because it sounded intimidating. Unlike the Ripfang of legend, this Ripfang did not bear the eponymous ripping fang (not that it was missed; the fang would have curled into his skull and killed him if it were not kept properly trimmed). He was, however, quite strong for a rat, able to lift a creature roughly his size with minor effort.

Several tents were scattered in the area, for the most part gathered around other campfires. All manner of vermin rested on the beach, sitting on the sand or pieces of driftwood, or lying close to fires. Not a one was unarmed.

At the south end of the camp, close to the forest edge, stood the oarslaves' tent. The makeshift structure was noticeably much lower quality than the other tents in the area; the vermin cared little for what amounted to cargo for them. No campfire had been lit to warm them either. Inside, nearly two dozen creatures huddled together for warmth. Though the tent was at least sturdy enough to protect against the wind, it did little to block out the dense morning mist, leaving the poor beasts inside soaked to the bone.

Outside the tent, Welking the stoat stood guard. After an argument with Ripfang, he had found himself demoted and stuck with the undesirable task of making sure the prisoners didn't escape.

As Welking watched, a shadowy knight emerged from the forest and marched to the tent. A cloth strap crossed his chest, securing a box on his back. Welking raised his spear at the unidentifiable creature and growled, "Who goes there?"

"Irrelevant," the knight replied. "What beasts does this tent hold?"

"Slaves," Welking muttered, "not that it matters to-hey!"

The knight had stepped closer to the tent and grabbed the tarp with both paws. With one massive yank, he tossed the tent aside entirely, revealing the startled prisoners underneath. Welking growled, stepping forward and jabbing the knight with his spear-

-and found himself flying across the camp, propelled by a tremendous backpaw blow from his adversary. His last scream alerted the camp to the danger at paw, before contact with the ground left him, shall we say, somewhat beyond the reach of medicine.

Ripfang snarled. Who would dare attack him, especially so early in the morning? He squinted down the beach, and spotted the knight. A badger? Yes, probably a badger. Badgers were common in this part of the country, or so he had been told. He picked up his sword and yowled, "Rip that beast apart!"

The knight turned his back to the prisoners, surveying the situation. With an air of finality, he reached for his sword and drew it. Then, he put the sword to his chest and sliced the cloth strap in half. The box fell to the ground and broke open, spilling all manner of weapons to the ground.

A muscular otter, Ranga by name, was the first to react. Picking up a claymore from the pile, he rallied the rest of the slaves. "Get to the forest; we'll hold them off!" Five more followed his example, grabbing weapons and forming a defensive line between the slaves and the vermin crew. "Eulalia!" Ranga shouted, evoking the time-honored battle cry of Salamandastron. As he finished the cry, the vermin met the defensive line, and the battle started in earnest.

Immediately, the dark knight set to it, swinging the flat of his blade at the first line of vermin, and for a moment several vermin found themselves actually outpacing the slaves. Granted, they weren't touching the ground, and the sudden deceleration at the end of their short flights killed them, but hey, it's the thought that counts. One of the defenders, a bankvole, ducked and stabbed upward, catching a ferret between the ribs. Ranga stepped forward, slicing down, and severed a rat into two-figure percentages of himself. As the first woodlanders reached the forest edge, the defensive line slowly shifted position, blocking the vermin from getting around them and into the woods.

The knight checked behind him, in the form of a clockwise full-circle swing, and found that most of the prisoners had now escaped. "Slaves clear; fall back," he commanded. Reluctantly, the defensive line broke, and followed the last of the prisoners into the forest. With one last swing to clear those vermin in front of him, the knight sheathed his sword. He bent down and grabbed a pawful of weapons, "Adios," he said, then he turned and sprinted away after the retreat.

Ripfang yelled in rage. How dare that knight steal his property? It was unacceptable!

"Should we follow them?" asked a fox with a rather ugly gash on his muzzle.

Ripfang ground his teeth and stomped the ground, incoherent with rage. After some time, he calmed enough to talk. "No," he growled. "Right now, we need to know how many we lost. We'll spend tonight, maybe tomorrow, to patch up, then we'll give 'em hell."

"Redwallers. It's those damn- it has to be those blasted Redwallers," Ripfang muttered, stomping around within his rather spacious command tent. You see, while he was fairly good at tactics, Ripfang was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Despite the fact that this shore was within Salamandastron's protection, and despite the fact that Ranga actually uttered Salamandastron's famous battle cry during the battle, it had not occurred to Ripfang that Salamandastron may have been involved.

No, it had to be Redwall, the infamous home of the goodbeasts. Though, as we will soon find out, Redwall was not actually responsible, nor was Salamandastron.

A short fox with a fading black eye opened the flap of the tent and peered inside. "Sir," he said, "we have a body count. We lost eighteen beasts this morning, and we only found one slave casualty."

"Eighteen!?" Ripfang roared. "Those thrice-damned-Grraaaagh!" He swiped a paw across the chart table, knocking several items to the floor, including a lit lantern. Ignoring the fire it started, and the fact that his tent was caught aflame, he marched outside, shoving the fox aside as he did so. The poor vermin fell into the fire, singing his fur badly. With a scream he leapt up and dashed to the ocean to try to put it out.

"Bastards." Ripfang clenched his paw into a fist, tightening so much that he drew blood. "You'll pay for this."

Friar Raspal laughed. What a beautiful pie he had created! Carefully, he removed the spiced apple masterpiece from the oven, examining the pristine crust as he did so. Yes, this would make a fine pie for Nameday.

Spring was nearing its end, and Abbess Peony had set the date for a Nameday that day. Already, the Abbey was in full swing, preparing for the great feast. Tables were set up in the orchard, sheltered under the boughs of the great apple tree that dominated the area. Beasts ran to and fro, pushing out great trolleys of food, carrying baskets of dinnerware or linen tablecloths, and fetching bouquets of beautiful flowers for decoration.

Abbess Peony walked along the length of the table, adjusting forks and knives and repositioning plates. Uniformity in decoration was somewhat of a hobby of hers, and one the rest of the abbey was glad to allow her. It certainly didn't interfere with day-to-day life to be neat, after all.

A hare appeared at her side. "Ah, hello, Tyrel," she said.

Tyrel simply noded and smiled. He had been rendered mute some time before, following a small skirmish with vermin. Back in those days, he was a member of the Long Patrol, the group of perilous hares that patrolled the area and defended innocent beasts from the likes of murdering vermin and scheming corsairs. After his injury, he retired from the service, and settled down in Redwall to live out his remaining days. He was still quite young, about thirty seasons or so, but his injury had given him much time to think, and graced him with wisdom beyond his years. It also graced him with a nasty scar on his neck, but let's not bother with details like that.

Abbess Peony sighed. "Isn't it wonderful? Summer is almost here, can't you just feel it in the air?"

Tyrel nodded, then made a few signs with his paws: "You-pick-name-season?"

"No, not yet. This spring has been quite uneventful. I suppose I shall just have to call it the Spring of Very Little Happenings, eh?" She laughed melodiously, a beautiful sound to hear. Tyrel laughed too, but without the aid of his vocal chords, it sounded more like several rapid exhalations.

As usual, far more place settings had been prepared than were strictly necessary. This was fortunate, as at that moment a great knocking sounded at the gate. Brother Fordel, the gatekeeper, came running over from the gatehouse. "Abbess," he panted, "there are several woodlanders at the gate, seeking entrance. They look like they haven't eaten well in quite some time."

"Well, let them in," Peony replied. "There are plenty of seats for them at the feast."

Fordel nodded and ran back to the gatehouse. Abbess Peony followed, taking her time. Presently, the gate began to swing open, and Peony found herself facing a sorry-looking group of beasts.

Physically, their injuries were fairly minor; they were malnourished and somewhat bruised from their treatment, but they looked like they would recover. Their postures, though, spoke of a different sort of harm; though their eyes shone with relief to have reached Redwall without incident, as a whole they appeared weary and disheartened. Behind them, like some sort of sentinel, a black-armored knight stood at attention. She could not work out what species he was, though his height seemed roughly equal to that of a badger. In one gauntlet, he held a bundle of various bladed weapons; as if noticing Peony's concern, he quickly tossed these aside. "Greetings, milady," he said. His voice resonated through his armor, echoing slightly. "We've traveled for some ways, fleeing a group of pirates. We seek shelter and food."

Abbess Peony smiled. "But of course. Come in, come in. You're just in time; we've prepared a feast to mark the end of the season."

The former slaves cheered, and rushed forward to join the festivities. The knight took his time to enter, though; he did not speak as he looked around at the abbey grounds. "Enjoying the view?" asked Peony.

The knight nodded. "A fine home, indeed."

"I must ask, where did all these beasts come from?" she inquired.

The knight delayed before responding. "A ways north, along the beach, there was a pirate encampment. These beasts were slaves to those creatures."

"I assume you were the one to save them?"

"Only my civic duty. Nobeast deserves to be a slave."

"Indeed." Abbess Peony smiled. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"Charlemagne, milady."

"Ladies and gentlebeasts," the Abbess began, "it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Feast of Nameday. After much deliberation, I have chosen to name this season the Spring of the Black Knight, after our season's hero Charlemagne!"

The table erupted with cheers. Charlemagne merely nodded by way of acknowledgment. "Would you like to say a few words?" the Abbess asked.

"No, madam."

Peony smiled. "Very well then. Let us say grace!" She bowed her head and spread her arms wide.

"Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,

All who enter by our door.

Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,

Berries, tubers, plants and roots,

Silver fish whose life we take

Only for a meal to make."

An "Amen" sounded across the orchard, and beasts began to serve themselves. Charlemagne had found himself seated between Ranga and Brenna, the Badger Mother of Redwall. After swallowing a bite of deeper'n'ever pie, Brenna asked, "So, what was the fight with the pirates like?"

Charlemagne stared at his untouched plate. He hadn't bothered to remove his armor, having explained that he felt more comfortable with it on. "Nothing worth mentioning, really."

Ranga guffawed. "No need to be modest, friend! I tell ya, this beast is amazing! Oh, he came marching inta the camp, and he pulled up our tent and smacked the guards away like it was nothing! He'd swing his sword right-"

"There was only one guard," Charlemagne interrupted.

"Shaddap, Charle; s'called artistic license. Anyway, he swings his sword right, an' there's vermin in the trees, and he swings his sword left, and there's vermin in the seas! I tell ya, he's a walking death sentence to vermin!"

Brenna nodded. "It must have been quite a sight to behold."

"Yeah, an' they had it comin' too," Ranga said enthusiastically. "Filthy pirates ran us ragged, makin' us row the ship, an' clean the sides, an' whatever else they didn' wanna do themselves. I jus' wish we'd've finished them off; coulda saved a whole bunch more goodbeasts from 'em."

Brenna raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You mean you didn't do away with them?"

"Nope. Charle called a retreat as soon as the pris'ners were clear. Dunno why, either; you know what they say, only good vermin's a dead vermin-"

"Life is precious in all its forms. They did not need to die for you to live."

"But think o' the future! Think o' how many innocent beasts y'coulda saved from a life of slavery!"

"And how many innocents would I have killed in their stead? The majority of pirate crews are little more than slaves themselves, forced to serve in the crew on penalty of death or severe disfigurement."

"So jus' kill the captain!"

"You are entirely too focused on killing."

"That's all those monsters deserve!"

Charlemagne stared silently at him for a few moments, then stood up abruptly, shaking the table as he did so. Several heads were already turned to the heated discussion, but now the noise of the feast died down as everybeast's attention shifted. "It seems I've overstayed my welcome," he announced, as he stepped away from the bench, his plate still empty and untouched. He turned and marched toward the gate.

Abbess Peony ran after him. "Wait!" she called. "Why are you leaving?"

Charlemagne stopped and turned to face her. "This community is toxic, and I cannot bring myself to willingly abide it any longer. If you have any further need of me, you will find me in my home at the base of the Southern Plateau. Otherwise, I bid you a fine feast, but I must take my leave." He turned once more and continued out the gate. The rest of the gathered beasts stared after him in shocked silence.

Abbess Peony returned to the table, disguising her shock under a straight face. "Well, you heard him," she said, somewhat reluctantly. "Charlemagne may not wish to be here, but let us not stop the feast on his account." She gestured with one paw to the tables, as if willing the feast to continue. Slowly, it did, but most beasts seemed distracted. Who was Charlemagne, really? What kind of beast would hide under all that armor? What did he even look like? The conversation, for a time, focused on questions like these, as the feast continued into the evening.

EDIT: Last description was a wreck; gone now. Added Charlemagne's argument with Ranga, so he didn't look strange for just standing up and leaving with barely any provocation. Changed several details for consistency with plot, which was mostly undeveloped in first version.