Book One: The Warbeast of the North
48 Seasons Before, in the Summer of the Shining Water
Chapter One: Zounzdican
Night had fallen over the village of Noonvale. Somewhere in the murky blackness, an owl hooted thrice, adding to the sense of foreboding and danger. On this night, precisely eight seasons ago, Badrang the Tyrant had slain Laterose of Noonvale. Unaware of the night's significance, two rats were bumbling blindly around in the woods.
The older of the two was a bulky rat appropriately named Fatgutt. He leaned on a halberd, and a rusty iron helm graced his head. His companion was not very old- only aged about 12 seasons, but his face was scarred with traces of past battles, most notably the slash across his left eye. His name was Ripred, and his preferred weapon was a sabre.
"Admit it, we're lost." Ripred said, more than slightly annoyed, "This is the second time we've passed that tree in an hour!"
"Come on, there's only one way left!" Ripred rolled his eyes but followed the older rat.
"What're we looking for, anyways?"
"Didn't ye listen? Her Ladyship gave precious orders-"
"Precise!" muttered Ripred.
Fatgutt dealt the young rat a blow. "Shud up, numbbrain! Anyways, she told us to scout out these woods and report anything of interest, like villages or fortresses."
The two vermin continued on their way, arguing. Silence descended once more on the woods- but not for long. A compact figure slid down the trunk of a nearby tree. Another popped out from behind a bush. The two converged in the center of the clearing. "Come on, Brome, let's follow 'em!" the second figure whispered. The first nodded and they followed the pair.
In the eight seasons since Badrang's defeat, Brome of Noonvale had grown much. He was now a very skilled healer, though still small for his age. His companion towered over him- though this was to be expected. Being the oldest otter at Noonvale, Keyla was taller than most of the populace, except Rowanoak and Ballaw DeQuincewold. The pair crouched behind a rocky outcropping and peered over it. "By the fire, would you look at that!"
It was a massive army. Ferrets, foxes, weasels, stoats, and rats, a mass of unruly vermin- all led by a single pine marten. Her name was Zounzdican the Evil. Unlike most females, she scorned dresses, preferring instead the rough tunic and spiked armor of a warlord. In her paw rested a barbaric sword- longer and wider than your average claymore. It boasted barbs running up and down the blade, a pair of which stood at the tip of the sword, larger and even more fiercer than the rest. It looked rather heavy, but she easily wielded it with one paw. Her eyes were like two chips of stone, and just as cold. This was Zounzdican the Evil, Warbeast of the North.
"An army of vermin!" gasped Brome.
"That big 'un's about to speak," Keyla shushed. His eyes locked on her. Somewhere, in his mind's eye . . .
The gale bristled with thunder and flashed with lightning. He felt the hot passion of hate washing over him as he stared at the prostrate body of his father, blood pouring down his head.
Something poked him and the memory vanished. Brome looked at his otter friend worriedly. "You alright?" Keyla shook his head to clear his thoughts. Whatever that was, it was gone now.
"Tell ye later," he muttered, eager to get off the topic, "Now shush."
"We are starting a new life here." Her voice rang and echoed off the rocks, intensifying her eloquent tone. "Here in the Northlands, we can regroup. Grow strong once more. And when we are, we will take vengeance."
Deafening cheers rang from the shore. Keyla and Brome had to cover their ears until it died down. "If you remember, we were bested once by a tribe of mice from Mossflower. Pah!" She spit on the ground in disgust. As well as dressing like one, she had the atrocious manners of a searat captain. "We shall conquer what ever pitiful tribes are left here. And then on to Mossflower, to exact our revenge! What is our goal?" her voice was screeching now, so high with rage you could hardly hear it.
All the vermin cried as one, "Revenge! Revenge!"
"And who will lead you to victory?"
"You, O Evil One!" Several rocks shattered under the intense sound waves.
"I think we've seen enough," Brome muttered. Keyla tore his eyes away from the strangely familiar pine marten and nodded.
"You're right, mate. Let's get out o' 'ere while we can." They slipped off into the blackness.
On this night, precisely eight seasons ago, Badrang the Tyrant had slain Laterose of Noonvale.