Chapter VIII
Imaldu had been at sea for quite a time now. It was really only a fortnight, but to a former land creature like him, it felt like forever. He had only seen land when the crew had picked up the lone bank vole on a marooner's island. Who knew how he actually got there, let alone survived.
"I haven't been this long at sea in quite a while, to tell you the truth," Krewdy spoke up. He had undoubtedly seen the huge badger at the railing, hoping to glimpse even the tiniest land formation.
Imaldu's brows shot up with surprise. "Are you sure, Krewdy? I mean, you've been doing all this sailing for at least two seasons, haven't you?"
"Of course. But... I miss land. It feels as though I've never been on land before, I've been in this ole tub so long. The Goufs usually have stops on friendly isles."
"Then maybe you'll feel better knowing that land awaits you," Tyreck answered softly.
The two friends looked behind to see the aging mouse standing there, a smile playing on the corners of his lips. His paw was outstretched, pointing to where they had stopped looking. Both peered along it, and saw, with utter shock, the thinnest stretch of grey cliffs. Krewdy took a deep breath, he was so overcome by the sight. Imaldu could not think of anything else except that land was close, and his uncle was even closer.
"Y-you mean... we're finally... coming to the northen cliffs?" the shrew finally stuttered, ending the long silence.
The great badger was speechless. Although small, the cliffs beckoned like a light, urging him ever onward, closer to his new life. "Well, what are we waiting for?" he suddenly yelled. "Can't this old boat go any faster?"
"Of course, young 'un! Fish Shack may be old, but 'er sails can still catch the wind!" Tyreck smiled. Apparently, Imaldu's mood was contagious. Soon, even the stolid Krewdy joined in. Laughing and jumping about; calling for full sail.
Soon, the entire crew aboard the merchant vessel grew giddy, cheering as each mile to the coast disappeared, until their delight could be felt in the waves and wind, which seemed to speed them onward, pushing them to land.
Imaldu looked to the approaching sands, and he sent a silent message. "I'm coming to find you, Uncle Boar."
oooooooooooooooo
"Hiikol! What in the name of the seasons are you doing?" Frieda, the Abbey Warrior called. Hiikol was her apprentice, though it was rare that there ever was an apprentice for any position. Usually, they didn't have a choice. But, the young squirrel was an acception. Or, rather, acceptional.
He had all the characteristics of a born warrior. Knowledge of weaponry, compassion, understanding, skill, and, the hardest thing that any creature could ever grasp, humility. He would never pass up a chance to play with the Dibbuns, even if he pretended the job was worse than ever, and he could never be heard to complain after washing the pots and pans. In fact, humility was the first lesson that Frieda had "bestowed" upon the training warrior.
"Just getting in some more sword practice, ma'am!" he called back, swinging the blade without missing a beat.
"By chopping firewood?" she asked, bemused.
"Of course. Somebody needs to keep the Abbey warm!" he answered over his shoulder.
"In the summer?"
"Some of the elders catch a chill pretty easy!"
He also had humour. Another unforgettable characteristic he possessed. He could turn the worst situation into little more than a few tears, or turn a mourning soul to the better of the world. It seemed that there was nothing the young creature could not do. But, there was one thing.
He could not bring himself to fight. At any time, even against a creature with more skill and weaponry than he. Perhaps his Redwall life had made him soft, like all the other creatures here who had not seen or experienced battle.
Frieda strolled away from the young squirrel. Perhaps someday, if a battle came to Redwall, Hiikol could be proven for everything he had trained for. The battle would probably be hard, and the effects would be long-lasting on his life, but it would show that he was able to defend his Abbey. Take care of the old and young unable to fight.
'Maybe someday he'll learn,' the battle-scarred mouse said to herself, though she really didn't think it would ever happen. Even the wisest and most worldly creature could never truly know the thoughts of another.
Hiikol brought the sword the late warrior Martin down, splintering the wood and snapping it clean through. Using the sword blade, he flipped the wood over, to see what damage he had reeked internally. Almost nothing was out of place. It was a clear cut, shavings still clinging to his sword edge.
"Maybe someday I will live up to the standard chosen for me. Maybe someday I will prove that I can defend my friends and elders of this Abbey. Maybe someday I'll..." he let the thought trail off. He would just disappoint himself in the end if he let the sentence run on any further.
The black squirrel knew that Frieda was expecting more from him, pushing him to fight, become what the Abbey so desperately needed. Maybe not now, but someday they would need a fresh warrior to keep the Abbey safe. Hiikol just didn't know if he was that creature.
ooooooooooooooooo
Zrunduul marched his entire horde hard that day, none were allowed to stop. The lucky ones were near the back, or around the middle, the easiest places not to be noticed. None of the guards were back there, all were at the front, so any creature could slow down and be at the end easily. Forest marching also made it easier for the back. While the front runners were struggling through brambles or cutting around thorns, the others could easily tramp over the strangled remains of plantation. Most were stopping for short rests or picking the few berries and roots they could find within a short radius.
Two such stragglers were lazing against a tree trunk, watching the horde plough onward through a pool of sucking mud. The mud was so powerful, that if a paw stepped in the wrong way, it was almost impossible to get back out again.
"Huh, glad we don't have to go through that lot, eh, Hidefowl?" a mangy weasel named Scratchpaw whispered to his companion.
"By the time they get through that mud we cud be sproutin' wings. Any other way around d'you think?" Hidefowl -another weasel- replied, his eyes never straying from the struggling and yelling beasts ahead of him.
"Hmm... we could just as easily circle around them and come back near the end in a short while, hopefully we won't be the first ahead, or Zrunduul'll be gittin' suspicious."
Hidefowl slowly nodded his approval, and the two set off into the forest, away from the scene of mud and flying turf. Hopefully they would not be the first out, it would spell death for the both of them.
ooooooooooooooooo
Hidefowl and Scratchpaw slunk through the dense forest of northen Mossflower. The dead leaves of last autumn rustled and cracked underpaw, and the wind sighed through the leaves and limbs of the trees. The sounds of their pawsteps was swallowed by the abundance of trees, giving the forest a feeling of eerie desertion.
"How far d'you think we 'ave to go to git to the others?" Scratchpaw asked, glancing nervously at the the trees and bushes, as though phantoms would leap out and devour him. The weasel was against travelling in small numbers, he always found that separation was easier that way.
When no reply came, Scratchpaw turned to look at his fellow weasel, but he was nowhere in sight. In a tiny, fear-laden voice, he called out in the woods, "'Ey, Hidefowl, where are you? Don't go trying to scare me by disappearing, will ye?"
A snap of twigs, almost like a signal sounded close by, and Scratchpaw took off like an arrow from a bow, caring neither for his lost companion or when he stumbled, just as long as he could keep running.
The sound of footfalls could be heard, chasing him through the trees, though unseen was the creature who made them.
Running for dear life, clinging to his last shreds of sanity and strength, the weasel bolted onward, until the trees began to thin and he could see the shapes of his troop walking onward. Unable to stop, he collapsed in a heap in front of Zrunduul sobbing uncontrollably and shaking like a leaf.
"What happened?" Zrunduul demanded. "How did you get here?"
"Me 'n' Hidefowl... we... took off to p-pass by... the mud... Hidefowl got lost and somethin'... somethin' was followin' me! I d-didn't st... op because I didn't... want to... DIE!" Scratchpaw babbled, breaking down in raucous sobs when he shouted the last word.
"Pick him and up and heft him along!" Zrunduul called to his guards, who had carried the seer not long back. The weasel was crying and dribbling as the horde passed, glad tears that he was not lost in the forest streaming down his face.
When the last clump of vermin passed, the unearthly silence descended upon the forest once again.
To be continued...
I haven't worked on this story for quite some time, and I'm still apprehensive about it. I may delete it soon, I don't know. I'll just have to see...
Hopefully I can salvage the ashes of this story and bring it to life again.
Zealak Silverdirk