User blog:Astar Goldenwing/A Slave's Revenge

'''This is a fan fiction story by Astar Goldenwing. It is not considered canon, nor is it a policy or guideline.'''

In essence, this is an independent Redwall story. However, I managed to draw connection to my fan fiction story ‘For Freedom’, making it a very loose side story/prequel. In fact, its connection with ‘For Freedom’ is just the relations of certain characters to each other, so it contains no spoilers and can be read independently.

This story was inspired by ‘The Legend of Luke’ and some ‘what if’ speculations on its part as well as certain events of Russian-Japanese war of 1905. Naming these events right now would be too much of a spoiler, but there are hints at them in the story.

Now that you know my inspiration sources, you probably won’t be expecting it to be all sunshine and butterflies, but I still feel a need to put some kind of content warning. Be warned, this is going to be pretty dark and grim story, darker than my other stories. There will be pain, and suffering, and no easy way out. I’m afraid that during the course of the story I’ll have to run and hide in Sayna's snow fort… that’s it, if she lets me in, what I kind of doubt. ;)

The story is dedicated to all who died fighting uneven battles.

The following events take place five seasons after the main storyline of ‘The Legend of Luke’.

In this story, one season equals one year.

Feel free to comment at the end and correct mistakes if you want.

Prologue
Who’s there? Ah, that’s just you two little mischiefs. Well, come close, don’t be afraid. I’m old and ugly, but whatever your parents say, I don’t bite paws off little babes. What do you say, little one? Why do I come here every evening and sit there all the night staring at the sea, among bare rocks, in the freezing wind, instead of coming to the main cave to sit by the warm fire and gossip with other elders? That’s a good question. Oh, little one, memory is the deadliest of traps, and once it catches you, it doesn’t let go… Uh? You want to know what memory keeps me there? I don’t think you’d want to know that, cubs. It’s not a sweet tale your mother lulls you to sleep with, but a dark and sinister story. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Ah, you insist? Then come sit with me, and listen to the old beast’s tale…

Chapter 1
Zekran’s look itself could inspire fear. The tall fox’s fur was black from ears to tailtip, but this black wasn’t the glossy iridescent black of a raven’s wing, nor was it the rich black of the oil soot. This black seemed to absorb all the light and suck the breath out of the living creature. His yellow eyes held no expression whatever, no matter what he did. He wore the cloak of red, so those seeing him often though him to be a creature of nightmares. Those who had never met Zekran said that his heart was as black as his fur. Those who had seen him face to face knew that to be an outrageous lie, for Zekran had no heart at all.

Zekran the Heartless was the Captain of the large ship, black from sails to hull, by the name Scorched Ground, for that was all what Zekran had been leaving after his raids. Zekran the Heartless was an apt pupil, and his teacher was none other than Vilu Daskar. In the days long gone, Zekran had sailed the Goreleech under the command of the infamous stoat, but the black fox was too ambitious to be satisfied with anything else but a Captain’s title. He had left to muster his own crew, and he was ruling the ocean ever since Daskar’s death.

There were other rumors concerning Zekran. They said that the black fox was once a lieutenant of the notorious Blue Hordes and learned from Ungatt Trunn’s effective brutality as much as from Vilu Daskar’s refined sadism. They said that after the fall of the Son of King Mortspear Zekran the Heartless escaped in the crew of Captain Ripfang, but refused to serve the searat. The Heartless had a reputation to uphold, for he was a brother to Groddil, the High Magician to Ungatt Trunn who could make stars fall and earth shake and to Ferran, a black beast of shadows who was such a supreme fighter that he was like a shadow himself. Zekran was the youngest of brothers, but he was one of the most dangerous, for no beast was equal to him among the ocean waters.

Zekran’s pose was relaxed as he leaned on his cutlass, watching how a line of creatures, his new oarslaves, was led on Scorched Ground. From where he stood the corsair could see the smoldering ruins of what had once been a peaceful vole village. Some kind of commotion further the line attracted Zekran’s attention.

A sturdy middle-seasoned vole suddenly threw himself on one of his escorts, dealing the vermin a smashing blow with his chains. Before the latter could recover, the vole felled another corsair, shouting, “Run, Rilak! Run!”

The young vole that was next in line stood frozen for a moment, then he turned and ran back to the burnt down settlement. The third corsair fitted an arrow on his bow, but the older vole stabbed him with the sword he took from the fallen vermin. Now the whole crew was running toward the valiant vole, and nobeast paid attention to the young one that was getting away.

Zekran took a throwing knife from a diagonal crossbelt across his chest. The fox weighted it in his paw, aiming, and let the blade fly. When the knife found its mark, the barest twitch of lips marred the fox’s emotionless face. His aim was to hit the runaway right below his knee, at the hamstring; however, the young vole tripped and fell, and the knife went under his left shoulder blade. Zekran walked over to the fallen captive. The vole was wounded severely, but he still tried to crawl away, whimpering with pain. The black fox grabbed the young vole by the throat and lifted him, inspecting his wound. It would heal, but this creature wouldn’t be able to row during the time required for such healing.

The young vole sobbed, scared by the corsair’s strange manner. “Please,” he begged, “please, don’t…”

Zekran withdrew the knife and used it to slit the young one’s throat. An oarslave who couldn’t row was useless.

The Heartless left the vole’s body lying where it was and walked back to his crew. The middle-seasoned vole that had attacked the pirates was already subdued, lying on the ground under the weight of three searats. Zekran’s bosun, a lean weasel named Davar, saluted him. “Captain, the vole killed two of the crew.”

“A chained slave killed two of my crew?” Zekran repeated, his voice even.

“Yes, Captain. He managed to wrap the chains round Shardfang’s neck and break it, and then he ran Saggybelly through with Shardfang’s sword.”

“Is that Shardfang’s sword you carry now, Davar?” the Heartless inquired, looking at the beautiful blade now resting in his bosun’s scabbard. It was a long broadsword with wide blade and two-pawed handle, its tip scratching the earth: the sword had been made to be carried behind a beast’s back, not on one’s belt.

“Yes, uhm, not, uhm, not quite, Captain. Shardfang took it as his share of the plunder, and since Shardfang is dead, I thought…” Davar’s voice trailed off under the gaze of Zekran’s cold yellow eyes. “Sorry, Captain,” the weasel took the sword off and set it down next to the vermin’s body with a bow.

Zekran nodded. “I distribute the plunder, not any other beast. And everything my crew owns belongs to me as well. Don’t forget it. Now, why the line isn’t moving?” he said, addressing the corsairs herding the rest of the new slaves. “And get this one to the oars, too.”

The defiant vole he was referring to stared at the black fox with hatred. “Where’s my son, fox?”

“Dead.”



The vole growled. “You’ve already killed my old parents and my two infant daughters because they were too weak to work, and now you take my son as well?”

Zekran shrugged. “He would’ve lived if he hadn’t run. Get this slave to the ship.”

The vermin started to drag the vole to the ship, but he dug his footpaws in the earth, stopping them. “Listen and remember, fox. This is my brother’s sword that lay at your paws. You’ve killed him and defeated me, but I do not surrender. I’m weaponless, but I will become your death. I’m Varyg Ratatoskr, the Gnawer Tooth, the warrior of the line of Ratatoskrs, and I swear I will kill you and every creature of your crew and destroy your cursed ship!”

Zekran’s only reply was to sneer. He was killing since he could remember himself, and over the long seasons he had heard the endless torrent of curses and damnations. None of them were fulfilled.

The slaves were kept at the ship’s lowest deck, always dark and damp from the water splashing inside through the oarlock holes, which also were the only sources of light. The rest of Varyg’s tribe had already been chained to the oars when the pirates dragged the disobedient vole in. Varyg tried to bite his captors when they had locked iron cuffs on his wrists, but a whip descended upon his back multiple times, scorching it with pain.

“If you as much as move a paw, I’ll tear your pelt off and feed it to the fish!” growled the slave-driver. Varyg had no choice but to allow chaining his paws to the oar. The slave-driver, a tall lean rat, cracked his whip, and everybeast’s eyes were on him. “Listen, you useless lumps of fur! I’m Skinner, and there on this deck I’m your master. When I say you to row, you row. If you don’t row, you die. That’s all the rules you need to know!” And with the final crack of his whip, Skinner and the convoy pirates had left.

A volewife chained directly across the aisle frantically cried out, “Varyg! Where’s Rilak? He’s not there! Did he escape?”

Varyg slumped heavily on the oar. “I tried to save him… But he’s dead, Korie.” Suddenly, Varyg straightened his back, and a warlike fire lit up in his black eyes. “But neither Rilak nor the rest of my tribe will be unavenged. I’ll destroy this black ship and her heartless Captain!”

“Ha! Brave words for a chained slave,” said a voice somewhere from behind. “I’ve heard lots of oaths of vengeance, but I hadn’t seen any of them fulfilled.”

Varyg turned till he could see an elderly otterwife chained four rows behind Korie. “I’m Varyg Ratatoskr, the Gnawer Tooth, the warrior of the line of Ratatoskrs. I always keep my word!”

The otterwife shrugged in response. “Warrior or no, once you’re there, you’re nothing more but a dead meat!”

“Don’t let old Swald upset you,” said the beast who had become Varyg’s rowing partner – a young gaunt squirrel. “I’m Redleaf.”

Varyg clasped the squirrel’s paw. “I’m Varyg Ratatoskr. Only yesterday I used to be a chieftain of Riverbank tribe of voles. Now all of my tribe is there.” His voice was full of sorrow as he took a view of what was left of his tribe. Riverbank voles had never been a big tribe, but now there were barely a score of the survivors. Varyg went on introducing each of its members to their new companions in distress. The volewife who asked him about Rilak was one of the last to be introduced. “And there’s my wife Korie. Next to her is her brother Arald. And then…” Varyg paused, looking for somebeast in the dark. “Jarnsaxa? Are you here, Jarnsaxa?”

“Here I am!” A volemaid called from behind him, chained two rows away. She raised her cuffed right paw in greeting. “Hello, I’m Jarnsaxa Ratatoskr, Varyg’s younger sister. Ow!” She winced, rubbing her wrist.

Varyg tensed. “Saxa? Are you wounded?”

“No, this cuff just has a sharp edge and I cut my wrist.”

A beast sitting before Jarnsaxa and directly behind Varyg promptly turned round and wrapped a rag on her wrist, placing the old cloth between the volemaid’s paw and the iron cuff. “Thanks,” Jarnsaxa muttered. Then she actually saw her helper’s species. “Eek! A fox!”

A large vixen before Jarnsaxa flinched and shied away. The vixen’s rowing partner turned to Jarnsaxa. “Don’t worry, that’s just Moot.”

“But- but you’re a stoat!” Saxa exclaimed.

The stoat in question shrugged. “Stoat, vole, what does it matter? There’s no vermin and no woodlander on the lowest deck.”

Now when Varyg looked around, he could see other vermin as well. There were not as many of them as woodlanders, but they were there nonetheless. He hadn’t noticed them at first because they blended in. They, too, wore rags; they, too, were unnaturally thin and famished; they, too, were chained. They, too, were slaves.

“But you’re vermin,” said Varyg. “You’re supposed to be the ones holding the whip.”

The stoat shrugged. “Bad luck. I used to serve in the crew of Cap’n Icetail. Ever heard of one?” The voles shook their heads. “Huh, no wonder, the Heartless sunk his ship seasons ago. All of the crew that hadn’t been killed was chained there. I’m Grimclaw, by the way.” He elbowed the vixen at his side. “Moot here got the same story. Another Cap’n, another ship, but story all the same. Aye, even the ones on this very ship aren’t safe. Just look at poor old Scarred.” Grimclaw pointed at the thin and famished black rat sitting three rows before Korie, his back covered with multiple scars. At the sound of his name Scarred pulled his shoulder-blades higher as if expecting a blow. “He served on Scorched Ground, but fell out of favor. Skinner takes special pleasure in beating him up, even though they are shipmates… or maybe because of it.”

Jarnsaxa gently tapped the back of the vixen before her. “Ehm, sorry I snapped, Moot. Thanks for the help.” Moot grinned and mouthed something inaudible so that Jarnsaxa had to say, “Uhm, what? I didn’t hear.”

“And you won’t never,” answered Grimclaw instead. “She’s moot.”

“Moot? You mean mute?”

Grimclaw nodded. “Aye, moot. She was pretty feisty when they just chained her there, always shouting insults and jeers no matter how hard Skinner whipped her. So he cut her tongue off.” Saxa wanted to comment on the story when Moot herself interrupted. She raised her chained paw and wiggled her fingers, then she closed her jaws with a snap and grinned widely. Grimclaw translated, “She says she bit off two of Crooklip’s fingers when he was holding her down, and that’s enough to make her happy.”

“Crooklip? Who’s Crooklip?”

No beast had a chance to answer Varyg’s question because Skinner returned, raining down lashes on the back of the slaves closest to the lower deck’s entrance. “Enough idling round, bone sacks! Time to row or lose your mangy hides!”

“It’s hopeless,” admitted Redleaf.

Hearing that from his friend and staunch supporter of his escape plans made Varyg sigh in desperation and let go of the chain he was holding in his paws. Maybe it really was time to admit his defeat…

Varyg and his tribe had been oarslaves for a full month now, and this had taken its toll on all of them. Skinner remembered his rebellion the first day and therefore considered him to be the disobedient one. That meant that even for the slightest mistake Varyg received a blow of Ripper. Skinner had always carried two whips on him, Welter and Ripper. Welter was a long lash of springy leather with several knots tied on its end, and Skinner used it when he was in a good mood. But if a slave was showing a slack or failing in their work or if Skinner was in a particularly bad mood, he was using Ripper – a lash with small steel hooks sewn all along its length. Welter would strip a slave’s skin off their backs, but Ripper would tear flesh off their bones.

Skinner’s assistant Crooklip did his own share of tormenting. That runty rat had a face as ugly as his soul – his upper lip was split and twisted into perpetual grimace by a fishing hook. Crooklip was a drummer, but he was responsible for feeding the slaves as well, and he took cruel pleasure in denying a random slave their rations each day.

That was how that month had passed, rowing for days and using the scarce moments of moorage and tail-wind for rest. But Varyg used those moments of rest to search for a way to escape. He spent the time probing his chain and the cufflock again and again, clawing and sniffing and shaking and gnawing it. He was looking for anything that may prove itself a weak link – a rusted bit of metal, a loosened bolt of the lock, a chink in the chain, anything. Now Varyg’s paws were almost numb and his teeth were aching from his attempts to loosen the lock’s mechanism.

“It is,” agreed the warrior vole, letting his head drop low. “There is no way I can get this chain off. But that only means that I’ll have to find another way to free us all.”

“When will you finally give up?” called the grouchy voice from behind their backs. Swald. “You cannot escape. Once you’re chained to these oars, you’ll take them to the Dark Forest with you!”

Varyg turned to glare at the otterwife. “At least I try to do something instead of just sitting there and waiting for death!”

Swald laughed gloomily at that. “Try? Oh, I’ve tried escaping when I was young. The Heartless made sure I’ll never try it again.” She pointed her claw at her legs and gave one of her bitter sarcastic smiles. “The Heartless loves to repeat that oarslaves don’t need their hindpaws to row. So he hamstrings those that try to run.”

Varyg swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “So you can’t even walk?”

“Crawl, maybe. Now, you see what happens if you try to run? Stay where you are, vole. That way, you’ll at the very least stay in one piece… and you’ll live.”

“But is this life worth living?”

Varyg’s question hung in the air for what seemed like eternity before Swald had given the tiniest shake of her head. “No. I wish it would end, but when I was young and foolish, I swore that I’ll live long enough to see at least one of the slaves break free, so that I could die smiling.”

“You will,” said Varyg. “You will die smiling, and you will die free, far away from there, many seasons after this ship is destroyed. I, Varyg Ratatoskr, the Gnawer Tooth, the warrior of the line of Ratatoskrs, promise you that, even if I have to carry you out on my back!”

He raised his paw. Swald was chained too far away from him to be able to take it, so she raised hers instead. “I accept your promise, Varyg Ratatoskr. After all, death is nothing but deliverance after such a life.”

The staunchest opponent of Varyg’s plans being won over, the rest of the slaves joined in. After a count, it was discovered that a dozen of other slaves had also been hamstrung and needed assistance in their escape. That put any possible plan into tight time frame: more time needed to get everybeast out meant less time spent on getting out of their chains. It took the slaves several days of hushed conferences to establish their final plan, daring and most certainly crazy. The only way to take the chains off was to use the keys. And so they would get the keys.