Chapter 28
The Wanderer's Minuet
Turbulent times bring about unpredictable changes
The arrow on the bowstring has to be let fly
Brave and wise men tear all under heaven into pieces
Would these souls ask the weight of the world?
-lyrics to Give Me Back A World At Peace, by Zhao Jiping
It is perhaps a good thing to remember this is a story that not only pertains towards our main characters, the beasts who shall, in a few weeks or months, conceive to set story after story in motion, as if they were trails of bricks that tumble one into the other. The world is a game with many pieces and just as many players, after all, and sometimes the boundary between these two categories does not exist…
The city of Floret was, as has been previously described, a wonder. Its inhabitants often called it the light in the north, the seed from which the tree of Southsward sprung. Each of the walls, of buildings, of castles, and even of the city itself enclosed wonders of their own, among which the Belltower, built on the orders of Gael and Joseph, was the most prominent. Perhaps this was why Lamont Streambattle was always reminded of his purpose while sitting beneath it.
The city of Floret was built long after the castle had been completed, but for the likes of Lamont Streambattle it was positively ancient. After all, for longer than anybeast could remember, beasts had lived here, starting from a mere family of squirrels and their castle staff.
The weather was not the best, although the Steward had seen harsher winters in Floret. Clouds swamped the sky, and only the faintest hints of sunlight pierced through the shielded heavens. The stones that covered the paths looked greyer than usual in the drizzle, and there was nobeast to be seen on the waterlogged benches that surrounded the plaza, save a singlehooded beast. An otter as well, thought Lamont, seeing a thick rudder as well.
"I cannot believe you brought a disguise along too," said Erlend, Lord of Kaldos. "I am quite certain that I started dressing up as a commoner first."
"Well, it's not the first time I've outdone you." The older Streambattle brother laughed under his own hood. "Besides, the rain would ruin better clothes. And if we are to go up and down the Belltower steps anything too ceremonial will be a hindrance."
Erlend grunted in agreement, but said nothing.
"You've always been a bit too proud to admit that your older brother might have some good ideas from time to time. Truly the truest of all true Travrikans, eh?"
"I would appreciate it if you quit your mockery for an hour or so, if it pleases you."
Lamont chuckled and stood up, wiping rainwater off his trousers. "Very well."
Erlend followed suit as they proceeded to the tower. The elder of the two brothers showed the guard the permission papers, written by the Steward himself (Lamont was sure that the sour-faced mousewife knew who he actually was, but it was simpler to just play along). Before she could get the keys from her belt, the door unlocked on its own, and a pudgy squirrel sprinted out, head shrouded by a hood to ward off the rain, and holding a few tin buckets tucked over his arm. Apparently little Walram was off carrying water up again. After all, without trips to the well at least once per day, being trapped atop the Belltower would be as lethal as it was boring.
"It's just our resident bellringer," said Lamont, waving Erlend's curious expression away. "They're paid well, I assure you."
"Just take me down to see Father."
"You're not interested in the other tombs? Our other ancestors, squirrelkings, even Joseph the Bellmaker? There's only one of him."
"That's the truest thing you have said since you fled from me in Marratz."
"Speak clearly," said Lamont, grabbing the lit lamp the guard held for him.
"There's only one Joseph the Bellmaker, brother." Erlend flashed a weird smile, the lamplight flickering around his muzzle. "You'll never be him no matter how hard you try."
To the west of the known world, another otter, another Streambattle, watches her family move across the mountains, carrying what they could as Marratz slowly enters into view. It is starting to get cold, and the young ottermaid suppresses a shiver. If only they actually had the blood of wolves, she thinks, as she wraps her coat tighter around herself. Maybe they would be a bit fluffier.
She hears her mother call out to her - even the middle daughter is remembered in that family - and asks her not to stray too far from the road. Even as she is being scolded she cannot hide the excitement within her heart. Her brother has returned from faraway Mossflower, and he is to be a lord once the dust at Gystra is settled. That entails celebration, she thinks, and what otter could turn down a feast?
If we move just a bit towards the south we enter Branaber, a small city compared to the likes of Floret. Here the Kings of Tarelis rule, consumed by stress as the twin nooses wrap around them. The first is the Assemblies they are forced to call forth, the second their slaves, those they call vermin, who may yet rise up should the right beacons be lit across the sea.
A few miles off the city lays Pendrit, winter residence of the line of Tieslin. As Gudmund their king sets off for a reckoning in Gystra, his son, honoured and yet unloved, must undergo the first duties of his reign, albeit only in name. But we must not get bogged down gazing from afar - instead, we shall see these events when and where they occur.
Pendrit was perhaps one of Falwyn's least favourite places in the entire world. The castle was warm, he thought, but it was full of mice, and the smell got to the fox's nose rather quickly.
"Fals?"
The slave's whiskers twitched as one of these mice returned to the training field, carrying two flasks of water. After all, no fox could simply walk up to the well and drink from its bucket directly - to the Tarelians, this was perversity incarnate.
He took a longer look at the mouse who sat to his side. Little Bohemund was lean and short as mice tended to be, but the first signs of muscles were starting to show through his training clothes. It was not normal for mice to help foxes in the Kingdom of Tarelis, but to Falwyn all sense of normalcy had been broken long before the murine prince was even the slightest glint in his father's eye.
The fox snatched the full flask and drank greedily as he watched the mouse take small sips out of his own vessel before aiming his sight towards the training field. Everywhere in the known world, this was the aim of nobility - to be able to fend off what inconvenienced them through carefully moderated shedding of blood. There were raiders to crush, schemers to punish, and armies to rout at every turn. Falwyn had faced all three more than once and lived.
Perhaps this was why Gudmund trusted him, a wispy and unknown presence in the slave pens of Branaber: to ensure that his whelps could hold a sword and swing it. Perhaps it was because every woodlander had some agenda behind their back, waiting to see their vision become reality once they held the heirs to the throne behind their claws. Falwyn could not say.
"Thank you for all this," muttered Bohemund between sips. When the sessions started Bohemund could have gotten away with not thanking his teacher, but such flippance had faded away once the little mouse realised he should be polite to the beast given orders to beat the royal stuffing out of him.
"Welcome."
"You know," said the mouse. "You haven't told me where you're from yet."
"It's a private topic."
"And I expect you to give me a private answer!" Bohemund chuckled. "I promise not to tell anyone else."
For a few moments Falwyn thought furiously about what to say, before he found his solution. "Another two laps around the field."
"But-"
"Now." The fox put a paw on his hip, where his wooden training sword hung. He smiled as the prince's playful expression faded as he dropped the half-full flask and sprinted off into the distance, ready for another round of sparring.
It was these moments that reminded Falwyn of the joys of being alone, but he was quick to remind himself that he was never truly so.
We now turn east as our story crosses the sea. There dwells this otterking, one of many in the Southern lands, raging at himself for not catching one of his enemies when she arrived at his island, only for her to slip through his claws. If we continue further east we can see his sister, busying herself with her four pups, her brother having been the last thing on her mind for a decade or more.
North, then, we move, and then east, first past the bickering cities of the Ilsadian League, and then across the Imperial Spine to Wossaham, where Kiordan, the Child of Miracles, the Short, Old Blackfur, the Wonder of the World, of the Many Cognomens and Sobriquets - very well, I shall stop there - holds court now that he has recovered his inheritance. You, dearest guest of mine, already know where he is (not in Wossaham). It is his grandson Corrado who is there, managing affairs of state and diplomacy, trying to keep an over-extended realm together with pen and paper alone.
However, you have seen enough otters, and so I shall grant you the mercy of omitting the happenings inside the city. Instead, further north we shall move, past the Helsker Strait and its duelling cities, whose bells attempt to drown the other out, and past the ship that carried a calm and collected emissary, a loving couple, as well as a great nuisance to father and son alike. Oh yes, and who could forget her pet wolf?
Rather than heading to Kaldos, which you have just left behind, it is to the west that our eyes should focus, to the thriving city of Gystra, the golden apple of Lamont's eye. The bridge of stone had been built and the guests would soon arrive for a glorious attempt to tiptoe into a just peace.
But you have had your fill of high politics, and so I shall not bother you with more of it. In its stead we shall pay a visit to a newcomer.
The streets of Gystra were alight with celebration. It was true that their beloved Lamont was away, and were all three of his pups, but soon he would return, together with his family and representatives from every nation around the Ring Sea. The festivities would make anybeast forget that they lived in a world full of suffering and sorrow, and choose to focus on life's joys and pleasures, for they too fill the world.
The Winged Helm was one of the most famous taverns in the entire city, and it made Sarno feel accommodated, despite the fact that he did not drink.
"Is it true that every now and then all beasts celebrate like this?" he asked, earning a chuckle from the beast who sat next to him, a plump squirrel.
"Not really, dear wolf!" cheered Troupemaster Kolwin. "We're celebrating because of some celebration that will happen in a few weeks."
The otter next to Kolwin spoke up next as he lifted up his cup. "And we're also celebrating because you're here with us!"
Sarno grinned back at Samund. Ever since he had departed from Valence, finding a steady source of travel income had not been simple. During all his travels he had rowed barges and pulled wagons and offered to have images of himself painted, but now, in Gystra across the wide sea, he was able to find a steady source of income.
Part of him still didn't understand why these beasts, these 'Southswarders' loved these shiny pieces of metal even more so than the warring lords of the mountains, but after he had spent what he had earned that night on trinkets and keepsakes he started to understand that things were very different from his home.
"Did you really need me for the plays?" asked the wolf, eyes trained back at the squirrel. "When I came to you I could have sworn your eyes got set on fire."
"We needed somebeast to play Urgan Nagru - Lord Lamont will appreciate a real wolf instead of the disappointment known as last season's performance!" Kolwin chuckled nervously, no doubt remembering a scolding.
"Who's this Nagru?" asked Sarno, ears standing up straight with curiosity.
"A Southswarder usurper," replied Samund, downing his drink.
"What's an usurper?" the wolf continued to ask, tilting his head towards the squirrel.
"Wow, you're really not from these parts, are you?" said Kolwin, scratching the wolf behind the ears. "He tried to become King of Southsward together with his mate Silvamord, but Joseph the Bellmaker and his daughter put an end to their ambitions, while Rab Streambattle and Finnbarr Galdeep put an end to their lives."
"Otters?" The wolf's whiskers twitched. Valence was home to many of their kind, and Sarno was taught that all of them had the same family name conventions.
"Yes!" said Samund, the beast who Kolwin allowed to play that Galedeep beast. "One of them got drowned - you can't fight an otter underwater, you see - while the other got his head impaled."
"That's horrible! But by your description he deserved it…"
"They called him the Foxwolf, a fox dressed in a wolf's pelt, and he didn't remove those fangs." Kolwin pointed into Sarno's maw. "Huge teeth, as you know, and sharp. When Galedeep slammed Nagru into a tree-"
"I can guess what happened next," said the traveller somberly. Once he returned home, the pups would not learn about this story - not from him. "How did he manage to kill one of our kind?"
"He didn't - he was a thief who stole from a dead body - a pathetic fool if there ever was one!"
"Isn't that all that Southsward's enemies are?" spat the squirrel. "Nobeast of talent could truly shake the realm! This is why the line of Gael Squirrelking will last forever, as Kings of Southsward without end!" Kolwin lifted his goblet of wine and cheered, and the rest of the troupe followed.
"And for the Streambattles to loyally assist them!" Samund did the same with his cup, raising it into the air to an even louder reception.
Sarno stared into his cup of apple juice before he too raised it high. "And for our performance to make everybeast here happy and sated!"
The resulting cheer was loud enough to make him almost spill his drink, and he grinned.
Ah Gystra! Home to cockles and mussels and plays and masques! Furthest bastion of the Empire of old! Alas, we must soon depart this wonderful city, almost the equal of Kalopolis far to the south, and move on to less welcoming locations.
On the road to Fangscairn trod a group of beasts, their pawsteps unfaltering in the inclement weather. There was a marteness you know much about among them, I reckon, and it is the dream of a better life with the otter she loves that spurs her onwards. The beasts with her are a colourful bunch, I must say, each driven by different motives. Hope for all vermin inside Southswarder lands, a sense of justice, the promise of a warm meal once they returned… is it not wondrous that life can bring beasts of many species and different beliefs together? Then again, perhaps it would be more appropriate to thank the Southswarder army and their ruthless recruiting regimen…
Hm, that is some wonderful alliteration. I wonder what the old rat would think about it.
Should you choose to witness the journey of another marten on another well-maintained Southswarder road, you need not look far. This time the beasts involved are much fewer in number - a party of three, time after time in the stories.
Let's take a closer look, shall we?
"What do you think about the rain, princess?" asked Arni, lifting his footpaw out of the mud with some difficulty. The roads should not be this flooded in the winter, thought the ferret, though an initial burst of rain about the last week of Waterrise was nothing new to him.
"Dreadful," spat Jacoba. From the first hour she set off on their journey, Arni had seen nothing but grimaces and frowns. To her credit she had not audibly complained without prompting, but the ferret thought it would be better for her to express her anger at regular intervals instead of holding all that vitriol inside her heart until it exploded.
"You probably shouldn't be a soldier then," mused Dennol, lowering the squirrel's belongings down onto the wet stones. "Rains like this are all too common in the Northern Marches, to say nothing of our Mossflower expedition. You pressed for it, did you not?"
The princess's ears drooped. "I did," she said, not seeing the point in being coy.
"And now you get to experience what it is like." The marten snarled as he fumbled around his pack. He turned to Arni. "Was Ilsadia that bad? You were there - that's where you got your armour from."
"I have never seen a true battle, I must admit," replied the ferret. "But I have fought in skirmishes, between Ilsadian cities and Valencian lordships."
"You sound like a proper mountain warrior, ferret. Have you ever killed before?"
Arni bit back a scoff. "You speak as if the act was not my entire occupation."
"Neither is sending innocent young squirrelmaids into the middle of nowhere, and yet here we are, wading across puddles of muck as we meander endlessly! If I die I'd like everybeast to know, at least."
The ferret's head spun towards Jacoba. "I already told you I'm not intending to stab you in the back. Or the front. Or the sides - a warrior's honour prevents it."
"But not a soldier's," chuckled Dennol.
"If you were ordered to, you'd have done the deed by now," said Jacoba, unfazed.
"But I wasn't." The marten rolled his head around his neck. "Still, that doesn't mean I was ordered not to… so don't be tempted to treat us too poorly, got it?"
In a flash Arni was between his two companions. "Don't threaten the princess's life, Dennol."
The marten stared into the ferret's eyes as Arni's gaze fell upon Dennol's mudstained uniform. His coat of mail had not yet started to rust and he managed to polish his sword every time they found shade, but it was the soldier's mind Arni was worried about.
Dennol circled back towards the road. "Of course, mighty warrior! Now let us continue on our magnificent quest, and quote old books I have never read. That's what you do, no?"
The ferret shook his head. "Let's just go."
I apologise - I should not keep you waiting in the cold rain and the mud up north. After all, you have seen what you needed to see now.
Or have you? I have yet to take you up the road towards Redwall, nor have we braved the waves towards Salamandastron. Taking you with me to Kalopolis would prove to be entertaining, but I'm afraid you'd lose yourself in that particular nest of vipers.
No, the best thing I can do is to end this journey where we started. Well, a few feet under.
It was Lamont's second journey into the Crypts since the beginning of winter, but he still had to walk as slowly as the first. After all, Erlend needed time to see everybeast.
Most visitors would be impressed by all the gisants, of kings, stewards and the many lords and warriors who ended their lives in service to the Southswarder crown, but then, most visitors were Southswarders, some of them artists looking for inspiration in the past, some of them nobles who were dragged into the deep by their parents, and some of them travellers who thought that this pilgrimage into the underground was a memorable experience.
Noticing that his brother's pawsteps had paused, Lamont turned around to join him, standing over a recumbent otter, the tomb hewn into the side of the crypt.
"Could you not have put our father's grave somewhere better?" asked Erlend, whiskers bristling in the low temperature.
"I had nothing to do with it. He wasn't a Steward, and our uncle was kind enough to reserve a place for him after he died, fighting like a proper Travrikan lord. Southswarders and Travrikans fighting together for a greater purpose… we have cause to look upon those days fondly."
"Even if that cause was to put Kiordan on the Imperial Throne?" asked Erlend. "You've been avoiding him as long as he's been in Floret."
"You know what Anezka thinks of him," replied Erlend, shaking his head. "And I have celebrations to plan in Gystra. Apparently there's a wolf - a living, breathing, speaking one!"
"I don't believe you," scoffed Erlend. "And besides, I have little reason to cooperate with you, no matter the number of tombs you drag me to see."
"Well, I might just keep Hildrinn for myself if you don't want it."
The younger otter's eyes widened. "You're not giving it to your pups?"
"Partible inheritance is a Travrikan custom, and I don't have to be bound by it. Rab should be Steward, Blerun has Gystra, while Finnbarr… we're thinking of something."
"And you're planning to hand me a participation prize?" asked Erlend.
"It's better than nothing!" chuckled Lamont as he patted his brother's shoulder. "It's where old Travrikan kings used to be elected, and I thought you'd appreciate the sentimental value."
Erlend leaned on the wall as he rubbed his head. "I suppose I will."
"There's the matter of royal assent, but I can get King Willem to agree to most things, and Princess Jacoba isn't exactly here at the moment."
"You're doing all that for me?"
"I'm doing all that for Southsward," said Lamont, "and Travrik too. But you are welcome to think that your older brother cares about you once in a while."
Erlend crossed his arms. "Be honest. Do you?"
Lamont winked. "Like I said, once in a while."
A/N: And with this oddly narrated chapter ends the first third of Through Fire and Sword, on my birthday besides! I wish you some good reading for the new year, and hope I get to do more with my ever-enlarging list of characters! As everybeast converges on Gystra (minus Margane) we could start seeing bonds form and sparks fly... but first, gotta write things! I'm glad you're following the story well - if you don't, please inform me, and I'll try to sort things out!
Also, not a character note this time. I suppose this PoV's too arrogant to interact with you guys for too long.
