User blog:Taggerung of Redwall/Senn of Redwall: Book One

This is my newest fan fiction for Redwall, I'm calling it Senn of Redwall. Feel free to comment on anything and such.

= Prologue =

Twixt woods and flatlands

Watch for the one who comes from the south

A hero to defend Mossflower

For the foes of Redwall will come marching forth

= Book One: Travellers and Conquerors = Book One: Travellers and Conquerors

Chapter 1
Seemingly limitless in celestial splendor, the moon hung like a globe of silver upon a starry night sky over the cool, crisp woodlands. A grasshopper chirped, flying off to another branch, having spotted the hungry bird stalking near him. A silvery cloud loomed overhead, adding peacefulness to the brilliance of that night. What a brilliant night it was.

All these glories, however, were hardly noticed. Rain, heavy rain, with scarce any lightning or thunder accompanying it, fell heavily on the dusty path running north to south, as well as the surrounding land. Oaks, sycamores, elms, pines, beeches and various other woodland trees swayed lightly, with small streamlets running at their bases. Under this display, heading along a normally dusty and deserted path, marched the Horde of the Wolfteeth. An assortment of rats, ferrets, weasels, stoats and foxes, led by two giant wildcat brethren, made up the fearsome array. Leading them as absolute chieftain was the bigger of the two wildcats, Blackrobe Wolfteeth. Her fur was jet-black, a strange feature for a wildcat, unlike her brother whose fur was striped and dominantly brown.

The Horde of the Wolfteeth was feared throughout all the Southlands, capable of instilling fear in a beast just by its name. Champion murderers and scoundrels, they looted and raided wherever they could, living by what they could forage or steal. Recently, the wildcat chieftain had felt like heading up northwards, with the idea of spreading her conquering campaign. Spears clanked slightly as paws plodded wearily along through the thin woodlands in the Southlands. A weasel stumbled over a large stone, growling as his bulk collided into a ferret treading on in front of him. “Watch it!” the ferret hissed, eyeing the ranks ahead of him. Seeing no one bothering to look back or make any indication that they had heard the commotion, the ferret continued on the mud-soaked path. A crow cawed from a pine tree, and moved further down into the branches to avoid further contact with the unpleasant weather.

Puddles were in existence throughout the dusty road, which was nearly swallowed up by the woodlands to either side. As vermin marched onwards, in undefined ranks, a stone suddenly cracked against the neck of a tall, menacing looking fox.

“Attack! We’re under attack!” The fox ran ahead, no longer at the sloppy, slow pace he had been in before. Vermin, stoats, rats, ferrets, weasels and a scattering of foxes, started forming into small ranks, two-deep and twelve long. Commotion reigned, as officers and hordebeasts went dashing through the dust and mud, attempting to either locate the origin of the stone, or get well out of its range.

Another weasel came scurrying from north up the path, alerted by the screams of the vermin. Seeing the fox, Sharptail, rubbing at his neck, he went to his side. Scanning around, the weasel detected the stone, a small round one. He bent and picked it up, gazing back southwards, trying to detect where it had flung from.

Sharptail had brought out a savage, tattered cutlass, pointing it at the weasel captain. “What ya doin’, round ‘ere, Dumbclaw?” he asked, picking at a mud splashing on his weapon. Dumbclaw, spitting into the rough soil, pointed to the south, at a pile of rocks in the road. “Ahh, some stupid beast treaded on that der, caused a stone to shoot upwards.” Shifting his bulk, the weasel showed his battered teeth to the fox captain.

Sharptail sat down with a grunt and then sighed. “’Tis the bloody fifth time we’ve ‘ad a false alarm for an attack. If ya ask me, we’re plodding the wrong direction. Why the Chief decided on a north’ard course, strike me, I’ll never know.” Dumbclaw stood slouched, watching hordebeasts shift their weapons downwards and stumble away from ordered ranks, some pulling out crumbs and peels from their vests and jerkins.

“Huh, some army we’ve a-come. Starving, tattered, soaked horde of murderers, jumpin’ at a stone comin’ loose, disturbing the whole march.” Dumbclaw snorted and placed himself alongside Sharptail. A stoat wandered by, his scimitar broken just above the hilt. Sharptail hailed him. “’Ey, what ‘appended to yer sword der?”

The stoat looked around, and came closer to the two captains. “When da alarm was raised, I drew my scimitar, but another hordebeast crashed into me, runnin’ backwards. Huh, wish the broken half ‘ad just finished him der, but instead it felled to the leaves, leavin’ me a defenseless beast. What the bangin’ frogsteeth are we doin’ this far north, anyway?” The stoat never uttered another word, a surprised look of terror on his face. He fell straight down into a heap, transfixed by a knife. The two captains leapt up and saluted as a shadow fell across them. The rain had stopped falling considerably, but their skin now felt colder than ever.

The origin of the shadow was none other than a giant, jet-black wildcat. Blackrobe Wolfteeth stood on a high piece of rock, surveying a motley assembly of hordebeasts, numbering a near third of her horde. “Anyone else care to question my orders?” A hush fell over the assembly, and without further ado the black creature hurled herself into the nearest group of vermin. Thrashing madly with her claws and biting with her razor-sharp teeth, the hordebeasts fell back, fleeing to get away from this mad terror.

The Chieftain retrieved her knife, which was half hilt, half blade. The blade curved from the sides of the hilt in a semi-circle, which ended in a sharp point at the top of the weapon. Anybeast who ever saw it used knew it was deadly. It was also the only weapon Blackrobe used; she thought it adequate in use with her claws and teeth.

Blackrobe laughed, almost humorously, with a tinge of malice. “When I say you march, you march. If I say you die, then you’ll die. Never doubt that.” Heads bobbed and many gulped, knowing she meant every word of it. The wildcat’s malice voice rang out, “I suggest you all get your gear together, you’ve camped long enough to eat somethin’. Bladge, go north and get the rest of my horde moving. Fiercetail, get this bunch moving on forced march, northwards!”

The wildcat chieftain sprang lightly forward, heading north along the path back to her vanguard, bullying vermin who had not heeded the order into tighter, more organized ranks. Things were getting good, she thought. Very good!

~

Fiercetail cracked down hard on the unconscious figure. The Horde of the Wolfteeth had captured the otter days ago, found trekking the Vast South Plains. Seeing him stir a little in the rough-hewn oak cage, the weasel captain trod off, signaling two stoats to pick up the otter. The stoats inserted two poles between the bars and lifted up the cage, placing the pointless spears up on their shoulders.

Fiercetail continued moving up the path, with ranks forming up ready to tread on. With the rain gone, the soldiers felt more up to marching. “March! We move northwards until nearing midnight on the Chief’s orders. You two, ‘old up that cage, the boss wants fun wid ‘im later.”

Senn Longbattler was a sea otter. Normally strong and braw, he lay crumpled in a cage twice his size. He had been wandering, through strange woodlands and dusty plains, far from home. Home. He knew nothing of the nature of it, he remembered only that he had been born someplace to the north, before ending up in the Southlands, trekking ceaselessly over terrain, avoiding vermin as much as possible.

He licked at the wet timbers of the cage as well as his soaking paws, trying to get a decent mouthful of water to drink. His legs and rudder bore several wounds, inflicted when he was captured days earlier. Straining his neck, he opened his eyes.

Around him, rain continued falling, even picking up again. His head still throbbed from his capture. Capture. He had never before been faced by such a proposition. He had been surrounded by a score of vermin, headed by a vicious-looking jet-black wildcat. Blackrobe Wolfteeth.

He had not heard of the monster before, but he knew now. Rain began pounding down on his head. Pulling it back into the shelter of the cage, the sea otter positioned himself out flat, with his limbs pressing against the sides of the cage. He could not break out he knew, but he was determined to hold on in his plight.

His mind drifted back into the past, remembering the seasons he spent wandering and travelling through the Southlands. Of living in his father’s holt, spending his youth near the sea. Of being ambushed and laid upon by twenty-one vermin. The scene was vivid in his memory. He had been trekking along, attempting to reach a woodland fringe in the distance before nightfall. The shrubbery and sparse trees around him had shaken from behind. Turning, he saw nothing. Turning back to the path ahead of him, he saw that he had wandered into a scouting party of vermin.

He guessed they were going back along their previously traversed trail, checking to see if anything was following them. Snarling, the wildcat held a strange knife, looking like a straw, with half cut off down the length. He rose one of several javelins he carried, taking stance in the dust. Several ferrets and rats were advancing slowly on him, when the wildcat shouted out: “Go in and grab ‘im!”

The group charged in, raising spears, swords and hatchets. He threw the javelin, catching a ferret in the footpaw. By then, two rats were on him. He swung out a javelin from his back, ducked, and came up swinging. The javelin caught an advancing ferret in the jaw, but then it was over. The wildcat had bounded forward, cracking him between the ears with a cudgel. He staggered, then felt his leg pricked. He threw himself backwards, pulling a rat downwards with him. More vermin had arrived, and he was slashed several times in fighting them. After smashing a stoat in the shin with a javelin-butt, he was down with a weighted net.

Gazing upwards, at the same time drifting out of consciousness, he saw the wildcat wave her knife. “Haha, a valiant fight, young one. But no one beats the hordebeasts of the Wolfteeth.” Promptly, she grabbed a few javelins he had still had slung to his back, and cracked them hard onto his back. Crack! Several javelins splintered, the last she broke with her claws.

Clinging to consciousness, he saw a couple weasels insert spent javelins into the nets he was entangled in. Roughly jerked by the ropes and rocks, he had flung his weight to one side of the mess, but only twisted his footpaw in the process. By then, consciousness was temporarily lost from him.

It was nightfall when he was awake again, in the same cage he now found himself. He was off from a large camp, including the fires which burned. He had attempted to count the vermin in assessing his position, but only several score were in his sight range. The rest he knew would be sitting around fires blazing in nearby places, which were successfully blocked from his limited view.

He had actually not even good sight due to the night itself, and the woodlands he was in did little to aid the problem. He was aching in many places, and his throat was parched from lack of water. He was determined, from that moment onwards, to survive, and later deal with this villain who called herself the Wolfteeth.

As the days pasted, and his conditions did little to improve, he grew more hungry. With only stale bread, he was in little position to try much that night. Resting his head on one of his forearms, he began to doze.

~

Much farther north, away from the brutal lands of the South, the same weather conditions dominated about the thick foliage of Mossflower Woods. Scattered rock crags and patches of dirt and grass were well soaked and watered by the downpour. Oaks, firs and beeches made up the majority of the trees in North Mossflower, near the River Moss. A hare, not considerably old of a creature, stood out on the ramparts of a high wooden wall. He had been surveying the landscape from this high position, intent on being ready when the foragers returned. All night, with a firefly lantern tucked partially beneath his long brown cloak, he watched with little interest as rain pounded down on trees, plants, rocks and wood alike.

Stifling a yawn, the hare’s ears went up rigid, straining to catch a sound from the south. Rain came down more heavily than before, lightning and thunder were increasing in magnitude and frequency. With his vision and hearing so limited, the hare had no idea that several beasts had started to pound on the oaken door to the fort until a large chestnut slammed into the side of his face.

Caught off guard, the hare got himself quickly together and called down into the rainy night. “I say, is there chestnut tree down there hurlin’ nuts at me? I rather like chestnuts afterall, wot wot!” In response, another of the nuts flew up and hit him in one of his long ears. “Oh, ya walkin’ stomach, just get down and open up this door, will ya!” The hare called back down as he started to descend the rampart steps. “At y’service, marm. Juhenchin Bentonhings Kaminglain Baggscut will allow you passage tae the greatest construction this side ‘o the great river.” Climbing down the remaining steps to the grass compound, the lanky hare bounded to the door, a large oaken contraption. Sliding off a considerable sized beam, the hare yanked one of the double doors open, revealing a couple squirrels and a hedgehog out in the night.

Stepping through the portal last, one of the squirrels spoke again to the hare. “Anythin’ ‘appen while we were out?” The hare fell in step with the squirrel, whose red fur was mostly hidden by her heavy coat. “Nothin’ much. Old Bluman nearly ruined a blueberry trifle, coated with meadowcream. Not really surprising though, is it?” “Huh, knowin’ you, ya probably were the one ruinin’ it by eating it afore it could be served.” The squirrel’s rough and casual voice was sounded out by a loud boom of thunder and a bolt of lightning. The hare, having heard the remark, answered. “Humph, bit unfair of a chap, accsuin’ him of pinching blueberries and purloining extra meadowcream with thin oatcakes.” The hare walked alongside the three foragers into a small wicker-gate into the main build of Fort Thallsmergan.

Inside, several benches were aligned along the walls with a fireplace to one side, unlit. Passing through this room into the next, the hedgehog dropped his cloak off into a chair by the door. “Jasse, ‘ow many of those chestnuts you still got left after chuckin’ ‘em at that feedbag?” The squirrel who had been conversing with Juhenchin turned to the short stout hedgehog. “Plenty, friend. Though, I’d like to ask what became of that woodland trifle ya mentioned, hare.” As Juhenchin bowed and exited the room to the kitchen, Jasse’s voice called after him. “Oh, and ya’d best gather the rest ‘o the crew from sleep. There’s something that needs to be reported, very urgently.”

Within half an hour, just over a score of sleepy woodlanders were gathered in the kitchen. Hedgehogs, mice like Bluman, squirrels and several moles were in attendance, watching intently as the three woodlanders ate their trifle and some oatcakes, washed down with mint tea. Jasse Twootack, an accomplished boxer, got right to the point. “The River Moss is floodin’ its bounds, near directly to the south. Looks like erosion ‘o sorts has caused the land depression that runs nearby to expand. If the river continues to fill, then that river’s gonna ‘ead south quick, right through Mossflower Woods.”

The assembly was stunned for a few moments, then questions poured forth. “Where exactly is this floodin’ goin’ on at, Jasse?” “Huh, did ya see this too, Mauthie?” “Well, I for one can’t believe it.” “Marm, don’t be so ‘ard down on Jasse now. She might be a bit strong to a chap at times, but she ain’t no liar. Not now or ever, I’d say, eh?” The questions were cut short by the mousecook, Bluman. “Hold it! Silence! If Jasse and Mauthie, as well as Pinkal, saw the River afloodin’, then ya can be sure ‘tis is. Jasse, anything more you want to add?” Jasse nodded to the mouse. “Thankee, Bluman. Now, the River isn’t exactly floodin’ yet, but ‘tis will if nothin’ is done. Now, I’d say the reason this began is cause ‘o a block in the path of the River Moss. Wherever that be, we really don’t have the ability to deal wid it. I say we head to the Abbey o’ Redwall, if Skipper of Otters is there, I’m willin’ to say he’d come up wid somethin’. Agreed?

A chorus of “Ayes” rang out, with several conversations starting out as well amongst those gathered. Redwall Abbey was a majestic place, with soaring buttresses and a towering spire. Strong walls protected it against harm and inhabiting it was many woodlanders, all goodbeasts who would welcome anyone in trouble into their midst. Pinkal the hedgehog spoke up. “Well, if we agoin’ to Redwall, ain’t we best do it quick?” Some heads nodded, but rarely were Thallsmergan settlers known to do anything extra quickly. Juhenchin spoke up. “Aye, but tonight’s no good. The weather’d stop us long afore we got to Redwall. Best just sit tight ‘ere and journey in the mornin’ after a bite ‘o the old breakfast, wot?”

“Aye, that’s best be what we doing,” said Mauthie Browncloak, who had seen the danger of the flooding, “We should just hold out for the night here. Also, not all of us need to go. Thallsmergan needs to be guarded and kept going. I’d say only a small party is needed to head for Redwall. The very old and very young should simply stay here, and Bluman I’m sure would rather reside here in his kitchens at the moment. Jasse took a good look at the problem, so she’d best lead the quest. Right, marm?”

Jasse Twootack nodded to the young squirrel. “Well said, Mauthie. I’ll take Pinkal and Mauthie wid me, and I suppose you’d best come to, eh, Juhenchin?” The hare flopped his ears through his small cap. “Aye, marm. Somebeast best be goin’ tae render assistance with some sense in ‘is ‘ead and all that, wot! Oh, Bluman, mind packin’ tae supplies for the journey? Er, food that is. Me ‘n Jasse can take care ‘o da gear and all.”

~

The storm continued into the night. The moon rose high and the stars twinkled rarely through the thick display of clouds, dark and dangerous. Rain poured as was practically never seen before in parts of Mossflower. The River Moss rose steadily. Its banks were higher in its course eastward, in the west out to see they remained the same. Nobeast as yet knew the cause, but a great burden lay across the river.