Martin the Warrior

1993·0.34 MB·english

by  Jacques

"Amid the deep
white winter snow,
Sleeps Mossflow'r
until spring,
While snug in Cavern Hole below,
All Redwall's creatures sing.
Old autumn gave us plenty,
Our harvest did not fail,
No plate or jug is empty,
There's good October ale."

Three young creatures, the otter twins Bagg and Runn,
accompanied by Grubb, their molefriend, hauled a small beech
log between them along the path to Redwall Abbey. The intrepid
trio kept stopping to clear away the snowdrift building up in
front of the log as they dragged it through the snow. Singing
lustily, they pelted each other with snowballs, their breath
rising in white plumes as they ran around the beech log.
"Yaow! You'm a drefful villyun, Baggo, leggo oi!" "Hahah!
I'll save you, Grubb. Take that!" "Missed me! You couldn't hit
the Abbey gate if you was stooden in front of it, Runn!"
"Ho, couldn't I then? Well, 'ave some of this, mate!"
The young otter flung the snowball, Bagg ducked. Unaware
that two travellers were coming along the path from the north,
they hurled snowballs wildly at each
other.
"Oof! Great seasons, go easy there!"
One of the travellers, a large sturdy hedgehog, had been
struck by a snowball. He wiped snow from his snout with the
edge of his cloak. The three young ones stopped throwing and
hung their heads sheepishly. Grubb took it on himself to
apologize.
"Hurr, us'ns tumble sorry, zurr. Be you'm 'urted?"
The hedgehog's travelling companion, a very pretty
mousemaid, stifled laughter at the sight of the three
delinquent snowballers.
"Oh, I'm sure Bultip will live. He's had worse injuries."
Grinning, the big hedgehog nodded. "I have indeed, mates.
Come on, I'll help you with your log. Where are you bound with
it?"
Bagg curved his mittened paw as he pointed. "Jus' round
that bend, sir, to Redwall Abbey. We live there." Bultip
nodded at his companion as he took the tow-rope in strong
paws. "I told you we'd find the Abbey on this path. Right, you
three terrors, sit up on the log and I'll give you a ride. You
too, Aubretia, rest your footpaws."
There was little doubt the hedgehog was a mighty beast.
Tossing the rope across his shoulder, he trudged off through
the snow, hauling the log and its passengers behind with no
trace of effort.

Redwall Abbey stood backed by the vastness of Mossflower
Woods, its front facing the path and open flatlands to the
west. Capped with snow, the beautiful building resembled a
vast frosted cake, walls, battlements, belltower and Abbey
fringed with icicles hanging over its red sandstone towers and
turrets.
Abbot Saxtus folded his paws into wide habit sleeves,
gazing up at the main building. Beside him old Simeon the
blind herbalist leaned on a hawthorn stick, sniffing the cold
air.
"Looks beautiful, doesn't it, Saxtus?"
Knowing his friend's uncanny knack of sensing every
movement, the Abbot nodded. "Remember what our old friend
Abbot Bernard said before he passed on: No matter what the
season, Redwall always looks marvellous."
Simeon sniffed the air again and held up a paw.
"Somebeast is coming this way. One, maybe two, it's hard to
tell."
They stood out on the path by the open main gates. Saxtus
watched until he saw the party approaching.
"I might have known. It's Bagg, Runn and Grubb. They've
brought company, two travellers."
Simeon tapped his stick on the snow eagerly. "Oh good,
we'll have some fresh tales in Cavern Hole tonight!"

Old Friar Cockleburr hurried along with the preparations for a
Midwinter Mossflower Feast, helped by his assistant, Alder.
Both mice worked furiously, putting the finishing touches to
dishes as they called out orders to the Redwallers on kitchen
duty.
"Brush more honey on that pie if you want a good shiny
crust!"
"Pass those chopped nuts and greensap milk, please."
"Quick, pull those pasties from the oven before they're
too brown!"
"Durry Quill, will you stop loading hotroot pepper into
that soup!"
"Ohhh, leave me be, soup's gotter be 'ot t'be any good."
Paws on hips, Cockleburr glared at the hedgehog. "I wish
you'd go back to your cellars and see to the drinks with your
Uncle Gabriel. Go on, be off with you!"
Durry popped a candied chestnut into his mouth and spoke
round it. "Drinks're all ready, 'tober ale, elderberry wine,
strawb'rry cordial an' fizzy dannelion cup nowt to do in
cellar. Old Nuncle Gabe, he's takin' a nap afore feastin',
restin' 'is stummick."

Aubretia and Bultip had been shown round the Abbey. They gaped
and marvelled at the great structure, expressing their
admiration for it at every opportunity. Later they had been
shown to their rooms by a Foremole. Now rested, washed and
garbed in warm old green habits, they came down to the place
called Cavern Hole to attend the feast. Aubretia smiled at the
gallant young male mice who flocked about her, each one trying
to outdo the other as they saw to every need of the pretty
stranger in their midst.
"Sit here, Miss Aubretia, next to me."
"No, sit here, it's more comfortable. Here's a cushion."
"You must have travelled far. Let me get you some food."
"Perhaps you'd like to try some elderberry wine. It'll
take the chill of your long journey away, Miss Aubretia."
Abbot Saxtus looked over the top of his spectacles, wagging a
paw. "So much help for one traveller! Aubretia, come and sit
here with Bultip and Simeon. Here, I'll push up a bit so
you'll be next to me. Why shouldn't a venerable old Abbot have
the pleasure of a pretty mousemaid's company?"
Aubretia curtsied and smiled. "Why not indeed, Father
Abbot!"
Bultip had a massive appetite. Scarcely had grace been
said when he was munching away, sampling this and that as he
allowed old Gabe Quill to fill his tankard. "Redwall October
ale, finest in Mossflower. Try it with some nutbread an'
yellow sage cheese, young 'og."
Aubretia sipped from her beaker and shuddered. "Whoo!
Taste's lovely, full of tiny bubbles too. What is it?"
Simeon pushed a large confection toward her. "It's called
fizzy dandelion cup. Very nice with snowcream pudding and
damsons fill your plate. My nose told me today when we met
that you are a healer. Am I right?"
Aubretia looked surprised at the blind mouse's keen
perception. "Yes, you're right Simeon. I am a healer."
Simeon reached out and took hold of Bultip's hefty paw.
"And you, sir, I don't think you are a healer somehow."
"I'm no healer," the stout hedgehog chuckled, "just a
travellin' companion protectin' Aubretia."
The blind herbalist felt the strength of Bultip's paw as
he flexed it. "I imagine you do it very well. Woe betide the
beast who stands in the way of this paw!"
Laughter and merry chatter rose to the rafters of the big
room beneath the Abbey. There was warmth there, good
companionship and good humour. Dishes went this way and that
from paw to paw, snowcream pudding, hot fruit pies, colorful
trifles, tasty pasties, steaming soup, new bread with shiny
golden crusts, old cheeses studded with dandelion, acorn and
celery. Sugared plums and honeyed pears vied for place with
winter salads and vegetable flans. Aubretia and Bultip joined
in the merriment, enjoyed the food and basked in the legendary
hospitality of Redwall Abbey.

It was late night. Sleepy little ones had been carried off to
their dormitory beds and fresh torches placed in the wall
sconces. Bultip nibbled on his fourth pastie. Draining a
tankard of October ale, he looked about at the still
chattering Redwallers bantering with one another across the
tables.
"Does nobeast ever sleep in this place, Simeon?" The
herbalist shrugged. "Are you tired, friend?" Bultip blew on a
bowl of hot soup. "Not me, I'm wide awake now."
The Abbot watched the soup disappear. "Good, that's the
spirit! None of us has to rise early and work tomorrow. It's
winter, and there's not a lot to do save eat and sleep, so we
eat when we're hungry and sleep when we feel like it. How does
that suit you, Aubretia?"
The mousemaid sat back contentedly. "It suits me fine,
Abbot. What happens now we're finished feasting?"
Foremole looked up from his turnip 'n' tater 'n' beetroot
pie. "You'm travellen beasts, may'ap you'm gotten gudd stories
to tell us'ns, rnizzy. We'm 'card all our tales ten 'undred
toimes o'er."
Cushions and chairs were set in a half-circle round the
big fireplace, fresh logs placed on the fire, damped down with
snow-soaked herbs to give a sweet aroma to the air. Every
Redwaller who did not want to sleep took a seat. Aubretia and
Bultip were installed in carved highback chairs. The audience
settled down, watching the two travellers eagerly.
"Today as we walked through your beautiful Abbey we saw a
tapestry," the mousemaid began. "I immediately recognized the
mouse pictured there, Martin the Warrior. As I understand it
he is the guiding spirit of this place and one of its
founders. Do you know much about him?"
Abbot Saxtus sighed, shaking his head slow. "Martin has
always been here to guide us in times of trouble. His presence
was felt when two of our young ones, Dandin and Mariel, were
here. Unfortunately they have been gone a season and a half
now. Martin's presence has not been felt since. We know too
little of our Abbey Warrior. I dearly wish we knew more."
A faint smile hovered about the face of Aubretia. She
leaned forward and looked at the Abbot and his Redwal-lers
sitting in the flickering firelight.
"Then you shall, for I have a long and great tale to
relate to you...."

It is said that Badrang's dream was to be Lord of all the
Eastern Coast. A former corsair, he ceased plundering the high
seas to carve out his own empire on land. He chose good
territory, facing the Eastern Sea, with hills to the north,
cliffs to the south, marshes to the west and wild forests
beyond. Secure at the edge of the shoreline the
battle-hardened stoat could defend his position from any
attack. There he set about making his dream become reality, a
fortress of timber and stone.
Marshank!
Badrang was Chieftain of a horde: weasels, ferrets, foxes
and rats. He did not trust other stoats, considering his
species to be the most cunning and resourceful of all
creatures. Scuttling his crippled ship on the northwest coast,
Badrang had set out overland, striking for the far coast where
corsairs and searats seldom sailed the grey-blue waters of the
great Eastern Sea. As he travelled, the vicious stoat ravaged
the land, killing those he could not conquer and enslaving
those he could. It took two long seasons until he finally
arrived triumphant at his destination, laden with plunder,
backed by his ruthless horde and driving a long chain of
wretched slaves before him.
Badrang set his slaves to work, forcing them to carve a
rock quarry and commence building his fortress. The work went
well, and soon a living quarters was erected, followed by a
perimeter guard wall with its gates facing the shoreline.
He scanned the open sea each day, for he had made enemies
among his own kind when he was pirating. Fortunately there was
never a sign of sail or ship on the horizon. However, he
bullied and drove both slave and hordebeast to have the
fortress fully built and established. Only then could he rule
completely, burning and killing his way in all directions
until he was absolute ruler of all he surveyed. Tyrant!
Badrang loved the sound of the word.... Tyrant!
BOOK ONE

The Prisoner and the Tyrant
1

He was only a young mouse, but of strong build, with a glint
in his eye that proclaimed him a born fighter. A creature of
few words who never chattered needlessly. The early summer sun
of the Eastern Coast beat down pitilessly on his unprotected
head as he carried and stacked chunks of rock beside the
masons who would shape it into blocks that would enlarge Fort
Marshank.
A weasel Captain named Risk swaggered up/ cracking his
long whip threateningly, looking for an excuse to cut loose on
the slaves who toiled in the dusty heat around him. His eye
settled on the young mouse.
"You there, liven yourself up! Come on, stir yer stumps.
Lord Badrang will be round for an inspection soon. Get movin'
or y'll taste my whip!"
The mouse dropped the rock he was carrying and stood
staring levelly at the bullying weasel. Hisk cracked the lash
viciously, the tip flicking the air a fraction from his
victim's face. The young mouse did not move. His eyes hooded
over as he stood in silent defiance.
The weasel Captain drew the lash back to strike, but the
bold, angry eyes of the young slave seemed to challenge him.
Like all bullies, the weasel was a coward at heart. Averting
his gaze from the piercing stare, Hisk snapped his whip in the
direction of some more timid creatures.
"C'mon, you worthless idlers, no work, no food. Move your
carcasses. 'Ere comes Lord Badrang!"
Flanked by his aides, Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox,
Badrang the Tyrant strode imperiously onto the site. He waited
while two hedgehogs hurriedly built him a makeshift seat from
stone blocks. Skalrag swiftly covered it with a velvet cloak.
Badrang sat, gazing at the work going on around him.
The stoat Lord addressed Hisk: "Will my fortress be
finished before summer is out?"
Hisk waved his coiled whip about at the slaves. "Lord, if
the weather was cooler an' we 'ad more creatures..."
Badrang moved swiftly in his anger. Seizing a pebble, he
hurled it, striking Hisk on the jaw. The weasel Captain stood
dumbly, blood trickling from his lip as the Tyrant berated
him.
"Excuses! I don't want to hear complaints or excuses,
d'you hear me? What I need is a fortress built before autumn.
Well, don't stand there snivelling, get on with it!"
Immediately, Hisk got to work, flaying about with the
whip as he passed on his master's bad mood.
"Move, you useless lumps! You heard Lord Badrang,
Marshank must be ready before the season's out! It'll be
double the work an' half rations from now on.
Move!"An old squirrel was staggering by, bent double
under the burden of a large rock. Hisk lashed out at him. The
whip curled around the aged creature's footpaws, tripping him
as he dropped the rock. The weasel began laying into his
victim, striking indiscriminately at the old one's frail body.
"You worthless layabout, I'll strip the mis'rable hide
off yer!"
The lash rose and fell as Hisk flogged away at the
unprotected creature on the ground.
"I'll teach yer a lesson yer won't ferget..."
Suddenly the whip stopped in midswing. It went taut as
Hisk pulled on the handle. He tugged at it but was yanked
backwards. The young mouse had the end of the whip coiled
around his paw.
Hisk's eyes bulged with temper as he shouted at the
intruder, "Leggo my whip, mouse, or I'll gut yer!"
The weasel reached for the dagger at his waist, but he
was not fast enough. The mouse hurled himself upon Hisk.
Wrapping the whiplash round the Captain's neck, he heaved
hard. Hisk thrashed furiously about in the dust, choking and
slobbering as the lash tightened. Gurrad blew a hasty alarm on
a bone whistle he carried slung about his neck.
In a trice the mouse was set upon by the nearest six
guards. He disappeared beneath a jumble of ferrets, weasels
and rats as they pounded him mercilessly, stamping upon his
paws and breaking his hold on the whip. They continued
relentlessly beating him with spearhandles, rods and whips
until Badrang intervened.
"That's enough. Bring him to me!"
His paws pinioned by whips and a spear handle pulled hard
across his throat, the young mouse was dragged struggling and
kicking into the stoat Lord's presence.
Badrang drew his sword and pressed the point against the
young one's heaving chest. Leaning forward, he hissed into the
captive's face, "You know the penalty is death for attacking
one of my horde. I could run you through with my sword right
now and snuff out your life. What d'you say to that, mouse?"
The strong young mouse's eyes burned into the Tyrant's
face like twin flames as he gritted out, "Scum! That sword is
not yours, it belongs to me as it belonged to my father!"
Badrang withdrew the swordpoint. He sat back, shaking his
head slowly in amazement at the boldness of the creature in
front of him.
"Well well, you're not short of nerve, mouse. What's your
name?"
The answer was loud and fearless.
"I am called Martin, son of Luke the Warrior!"
"See the roving river run
Over hill and dale
To a secret forest place,
O my heart, Noonvale.
Look for me at dawning
When the sun's reborn
In the silent beauty
Twixt the night and morn.
Wait till the lark ascends
And skies are blue.
There where the rainbow ends
I will meet you."

The mousemaid Rose sat quite still as the last tremulous
notes of her song hovered on the evening air. From a vantage
point in the rocks south of Marshank she looked out to sea.
The water was tinted gold and scarlet from soft cloud layers,
reflecting the far westering sun at her back. Below on the
shore an ebbing tide gurgled and chuckled small secrets to
itself as it lapped the pebbles.
"Hurr Miz Roser, you'm cumm an' get this yurr supper. Oi
bain't a-cooken vittles to lay abowt an' git cold 'n' soggy.
Bo urr no."
Rose's companion Grumm waved a heavy digging paw at her,
and the mousemaid wandered over to join her mole friend at the
low fire he had been cooking on. She sniffed appreciatively.
"Hmm, wild oatcakes and vegetable soup! Good old Grumm,
you could make a banquet from nothing."
Grumm smiled, his dark velvety face crinkling around two
bright button eyes. He waved the tiny ladle which he always
carried thrust through his belt like a sword.
"Hurr, an' you udd charm'ee burds outener trees with yurr
sweet talken, mizzy. Set'ee daown an' eat oop."
Rose accepted the deep scallop shell full of fragrant
soup. Placing her oatcake on a flat rock across the fire to
keep it warm, she shook her head as she sipped away.
"You're worse than an old mousewife, Grumm Trencher. I
wager you'd rock me to sleep if I let you."
Grumm wagged the small ladle at her. "Hurr aye, you'm
needen all yore sleep. Urrmagine wot yore ole dad'd say iffen
oi brought 'ee 'ome tired out an' a-starved, hoo arr!"
The mousemaid took a hasty bite of oatcake, fanning her
mouth. "Oo, 's hot! There'll be no sleep for us until we've
found out whether or not Brome is held captive in that
dreadful fortress."
Grumm wiped his ladle clean with some sedge grass.