User blog:Astar Goldenwing/The Coming of Badger Lady

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

This story is dedicated to SaynaSLuke: after writing so many great Redwall stories for us to enjoy, I think you deserve one for yourself.

The following events take place twelve seasons after events of ‘Pearls of Lutra’, five seasons after events of ‘The Taggerung’s Battle’ and twenty five seasons before events of ‘The Long Patrol’.

In this story, one season equals one year.

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

Prologue
Upon a sandy hill stood a tall rat. By his imperious posture and air of power that seemed to cling to his glossy brown pelt one could see that he was a leader, though many vermin would have said that he lacked certain bulk and width of shoulders to look like a true barbarian warlord. His face drew gazes, owing it to his ruthless pale green eyes as much as to war paint covering his face. A red stripe ran down his face from skull to nosetip, with two lines of yellow triangles pointed downwards running on its either side. A wavy green line marked his brow, and another mark, a blue lightning zigzag, could be seen on his left cheek. All these marks had a meaning: the red stripe, yellow triangles and the green line each stood for the three Juska tribes he conquered first, Juskarath, Juskasinn and Juskabor while the blue lightning marked his title as the Taggerung.

For his name was Rarog Zann Taggerung, and he was the most fearsome and powerful warrior among vermin.

Behind his back, more than seven hundred vermin camped in a small valley among dunes. Usually the Juska tribes were highly independent, and it was impossible for two tribes to meet without starting a battle. They couldn’t be united, but they could be conquered. Rarog Zann Taggerung was a beast who had achieved everything only due to his own efforts. Seasons ago, he came from the Northern Shores and became a Chieftain of one of the Juska tribes through a combat duel, as their custom demanded. Then he started his conquest, adding different Juska tribes to his horde till he united them all. The Juska were the main force of Rarog’s army, but not the only one. Bands of thieves, crews of corsairs, single bandits – all were welcomed under his rule as long as they obeyed him, and those who didn’t were to learn why Rarog was named ‘Zann’, what meant ‘Mighty One’.

But Rarog didn’t look back. His eyes were fastened forward, on a high mountain looming over the horizon. His ultimate goal, his future fortress and a stronghold of his future kingdom. Salamandastron.

Shuffling of paws on the sand warned Rarog of a beast’s approach before he had heard the servile voice. “Er, Chieftain, m’lord, sir! Er, Ruha sent me with a message for you, er, m’lord, if you kindly allow me to relay it, sir! Ruha, er, lady Ruha had just had a vision, and she called for you, m’lord, sir!”

Rarog Zann Taggerung silently turned round and walked to the camp, not bothering to look at a lean stoatmaid kneeling behind him. The messenger bowed her head ever lower, almost brushing the sand with her brow, but Rarog’s gaze swept past her as if she were nothing. According to the Juska law, she really was nothing. A black cross on her face covered her original clan marks, two lines stretching from each of her ears to the opposite side of her jaw and forming an X. A black cross was a mark of shame, the worst mark a Juska could receive. Not so long ago, the stoatmaid was one of the Chieftains of his army, and quite a promising one. But according to the Juska law, a beast could challenge their superior and win themselves a position in a duel. The stoatmaid was challenged – and lost her battle. Usually the Juska fought to death, but Rarog had felt that this custom was a waste of strong warriors. Therefore, he commanded the defeated to take on the rank of their defeaters. But this stoatmaid was a special case. Her crime was far worse than her defeat, so Rarog had judged her whole life to be crossed out by the mark of shame, and she became the lowest of the low in the Juska hierarchy.

Rarog headed for the tents atop the highest dune. His footpaws made no sound on the soft sand, and yet the tent’s inhabitant heard him. “Leave your weapons outside and enter unarmed!”

Rarog drew his sword out of the scabbard, and the sunlight shone on the blade. It was about an inch longer than most swords, though the blade was thinner and more narrow-edged, making the weapon light. The swordhilt was bound in brown-and-grey snakeskin, with a yellow semi-transparent pommel stone. Rarog had enough treasures and could choose any kind of jewel to decorate his sword, but he chose a topaz - simple, but strong. The only decorations the blade itself had were two mirror images of lighting on either side of the blade right under the hilt. Rarog paused as he drew the sword, but didn’t hesitate as he plunged it into the sand next to the tent’s entrance. Nobeast would ever dare to think about touching their warlord’s sword.

The rat pulled away a curtain screening the entrance and ducked inside. The confined room of the tent was filled with smoke and incense spiraling from the dying embers of a fire burning down in the center of it. Next to the fire sat a small creature wrapped in red and black clothes and shawls, her paws covered with bracelets and rings.

“Ruha,” greeted her Rarog. “You called for me.”

The seer raised her head. “I did. I looked for the answers in the flicking of flames and the howl of wind, and I saw the future in the firelight.” Her voice grew unusually deep and strong for such fragile-looking creature. “I saw the Fire Mountain, and I knew that the battle for its domain had just ended. I saw you there, Chieftain – you stood in the middle of the hall, having won a great battle, and a badger was kneeling before you, the striped head bowed low. Your army was cheering for you, declaring your victory. That’s all I saw.”

Rarog considered her words for a moment. “You said the badger had a striped head? Are you sure?”

“That was probably the clearest vision I ever had, Chieftain.”

“That’s interesting… because the current badger ruler of Salamandastron is so old that his stripes faded into gray. So that means I will defeat not only him, but some other, younger, badger as well?” The rat warlord shook his head. “We’ll see to it. You did well, Ruha. Your visions had never been wrong. I will conquer Salamandastron.”

“I’m only to say what I saw,” said Ruha. “The fortune doesn’t like overconfident.”

Rarog chuckled. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m going to make sure that your vision comes true.” After leaving the seer’s tent and retrieving his sword, Rarog set off to the main camp of his army. However, he was interrupted.

“Rarog! Rarog, wait for me!” A young rat, almost as tall as Rarog, came running up to the warlord; a red stripe, identical to the one of the older rat, was painted on his face, flanked with four yellow triangles, two by its either side.

“Where you’ve been, Sumra?”

The young rat’s eyes shone with excitement. They were a peculiar muddy green color, a color of marsh water. “I’ve climbed the side of Salamandastron as high as the window of the badger’s forge and overheard the old stripedog talking with his hare General!”

“I see. You’ve probably attempted to get killed and cripple my army by leaving it without my second-in-command?” Rarog’s voice was calm, but his pale green eyes narrowed menacingly.

“It was worth the risk, Rarog. The stripedog and his General discussed a prophecy.”

That caught the Taggerung’s interest. “Prophecy! What prophecy, Sumra? Let’s go where nobeast can hear us.”

Two rats strode atop one of the hills, leaving a stretch of bare ground between them and the Juska camp, so nobeast could near them without being noticed.

“That’s what I gathered from their talk,” said Sumra. “There’s a secret room somewhere in the mountain, where only badgers can go, and where various prophecies are written on the walls. This day, a new prophecy had appeared, together with some pictures carved in the wall.”

Rarog Zann quickly made some calculations. “If only badgers can enter the room, and that old stripedog, Orlando, is the only badger in the mountain – then it was he who carved that prophecy. Visions are one thing, they come and go, but carved text is something different, it can’t appear from nowhere.”

“He has no memory of doing that. Anyway, I don’t think the prophecy’s origin is more important than its contents.”

“Yes. Tell me the prophecy, Sumra.”

“There was a text and some images – they had no idea what they mean. A sickle, two crossed swords, some kind of flower, a single sword and some other symbols. And the text – I memorized it by heart.”

Sumra closed his eyes and recited:

“Comes the death harvester,

Blood of white-striped on their mace;

Comes the life stealer

And writes victory upon their face.

Comes the badger ruler under the sign of rose,

And brings to the shores of west

The scout of south and killer of north

And warrior of the eastern crest.

What is written will be,

You fulfill your destiny:

What you claim is yours

Till it leads you to the death’s jaws.”

A momentary silence hung in the air. “Quite a puzzle, isn’t it?” said Sumra.

“Well, the first verse is easy, really,” Rarog smiled. “‘Death harvester and life stealer’… I don’t know any other beast it can refer to but myself. ‘Writes victory upon their face’… Ha! Every line of my war paint marks a death of an enemy.”

“The old stripedog and the hare said the same – they had already learned of our presence there. But... ‘Blood of white-striped’?”

The tall rat snorted and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that they know of our presence; my forces outnumber the so-called Long Patrol two to one anyway. And I killed the white-striped one, that’s true. I wasn’t born the Taggerung, but claimed the title by slaying the previous Taggerung. And he was Mordbrenn Tunn, the Greatrat of Rapscallion tribe. He, in his turn, was born the Taggerung – and he had a mark to prove it, just as the seers told. He had black fur, except for a single white stripe running down his muzzle.” Rarog closed his eyes a little, recalling the past. “Mordbrenn was big even for his breed, and far stronger than his younger brother Gormad. He put up a hard fight – especially hard since his tribe wouldn’t let me use my sword, so I had to fight with a club and a rope tied to a boulder, as the Rapscallion tradition demanded.” Rarog shook his painted head with a chuckle. “It was Mordbrenn’s overconfidence that had killed him – he got used to easy victories.”

“The prophecy, Rarog,” reminded his second-in-command. “The second verse… The old stripedog says that ‘badger ruler’ is a young beast who will one day come to Salamandastron and succeed him as a Badger Lord. He says he feels that day is close.”

“Young badger… That sounds logical, but… ‘Sign of rose’, fur’n’fang! That’s pathetic! Who’s that badger going to be – a gardener or a flower-grower? Bah!” This time Rarog Zann laughed out loud. “But the next line… ‘Killer of north’. Woodlanders don’t call each other killers, even if they do kill in battle. No, they reserve this name for us vermin. North. The Juska come from these lands, but there are those who arrived from the Northern Shores not long after I had become the Juska Chieftain. Huron Juskazig and Barlar, the former pirates, their crew… Diener, too.”

That piece of news made Sumra worry. “So one of them is going to betray you? We can’t let this happen! We should find all those who came from the Northern Shores and kill them!”

“Stand down, youngster!” ordered him Rarog. “I’m not doing such a stupid thing. We won’t be able to locate all the Northern beasts – and execution will give the survivors additional reason to betray me. And the rest of the prophecy is not important in any case. Have you noticed how vague the last verse is? Typical nonsense about destiny and death, but it doesn’t say whose destiny and whose death. There are only two things it’s clear about: my coming and the coming of the badger ruler.” Rarog’s pale green eyes narrowed dangerously. “Well, I’m here… and the ‘ruler’ is not. Tomorrow, I conquer Salamandastron, and when he comes, he will bow to me as Ruha had foreseen.”

Sumra’s uncomprehending look said he would’ve wanted to specify his warlord’s last statement, but he didn’t inquire. Rarog Zann Taggerung turned his back to him and headed for the camp. “Diener!” he called loudly.

At the first sound of his voice an old rat came from one of the tents and bowed, which was a wonder in itself, since his shoulders were so hunched he looked like a humpback. His face paint was simpler than the one of Rarog and Sumra: a single wavy green line on his forehead without further decorations.

“Diener, pass the word among the Chieftains,” ordered Rarog Zann Taggerung. “Tell them to get their tribes ready. Tomorrow morning, we’re marching to the war… and tomorrow evening, we’ll conquer Salamandastron.”