[Redwall-1996!RPF Crossover of Real Ultimate Doom] I've got to think of a catchier title tag.
Good morning, friends! I am so, so amused and delighted that you're enjoying Early Fanfic for Geeks and Younglings. We're about to add six new faces to our cast of mid-nineties rock stars. Please be warned that I was 12 and I was all about writing accents. When last we left our Sue heroine Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, she had washed up on the banks of Wuddshipp Creek near Redwall Abbey, provoking a parade of gawkers and a grand to-do. Now she wakes up and you learn her tragic backstory -- and Redwall suddenly becomes the destination of choice for not one but two of baby Esther's favorite bands. Plus there's a vermin horde! And Salamandastron!
Sister Joan pursed her lips as she looked over the peaceful body, breathing a bit unevenly.
"She still doesn't look too good: see here, she's been fighting, and was obviously overpowered and torn up." She pointed to the cruel, long slashes along her side; the fur on top, matted together by blood, had been washed and finally had had to be cut off. A small gathering of the Abbot, Michael, Dolores, Brother Neil, Joan the Infirmary Sister, and another young mousemaid named Sheryl, a visiting apprentice healer from another abbey far to the East, stood around the four mattresses that had had to be put together to accommodate the creature. "She also looks like she took a pretty big fall, into water, judging by how tender her side seems to be." Joan leaned forward, and began washing the wounds. The wolf flinched, and seemed to stiffen. "I know, it hurts, it stings, but it's for the best," she whispered.
"Aaauuughhh...Please, no more..." Sheryl jumped to attention from a corner, having been washing linens.
"What?! Who said that? Joan, was that you?"
The good sister furrowed her brow, confused. "No, certainly not."
"Water...I beg you please, give me water..."
"There it is again. It must be her." Sheryl nodded toward the wolf. She walked over, drying her paws on her apron, and knelt down toward her head. The stranger's eyes were half-opened and crusted at the edges. "Water? Did you say you wanted water?" The wolf nodded and pleaded in what seemed to be a mix of exhaustion and delirium.
"Yes, yes...please..." Sister Joan had hurried over with a pitcher. The wolf achily pulled herself up and gulped the water with desperate greed. They watched in amazement. When she had twice emptied the jar, she smacked her lips a little and sighed contentedly. She leaned back against some pillows piled against the head of the bed, wiping her eyes with a partially bandaged paw. She gazed in wonder around the infirmary. "W-where am I?" Dolores leaned down.
"You're in the infirmary of Redwall Abbey: you're perfectly safe. We found you over by the creek yesterday. I'm Dolores, the Abbey Mother." The wolf's head craned up and in more astonishment gazed around the room.
"How good my fortune is to be found by the good creatures of Redwall," she whispered in awe. She turned her head back to the silent crowd. "I am Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, daughter of Colvin and Derynai of the Tundralake Trybe." She fell silent. In a choked voice, she continued, "I am alone now in my claim to the Trybe of Tundralake, it seems." The Abbot shuffled forward and placed a paw on hers.
"Tori, my child, we are here to help you with whatever needs you have. If you wish, we will listen to your story." She looked up at him with bright eyes.
"You must be the Father Abbot." He nodded modestly.
"I am." Tori put her paw on top of his in a grasp of an almost handshake.
"Seasons back, a friend of ours from Holt Farnell-On-The-Sea, a young otter called Waterback Streamfleet must have visited you on her way to Southsward. Did she ever speak of the Songdreamers over the plains?" Brother Neil, as always, had the answer. He ventured from the background.
"I remember her: young Wynnstream was determined to go with her before she left, but he was but a few seasons out of infancy," he chuckled. Then the brother grew serious. "I remember her speaking of them, and tried to describe what they were, but never could. Was that your family, Tori?" She looked at the floor. She shook at some inner feeling, and spoke softly, almost in a whisper.
"It was not only my family, but a huge city full of us. In the Northlands, we have built vast towns, beautiful cities made of stone. My family lived in Leedsdown. The other large city is called Manchester." She stopped, and drooped. "Now it is all lost.
"We lived for our music: everyone had their own song. That's the way wolves are. You see, nothing was more important to us than our music.
"My family was of the ruling power, but they were wise and kind: they never oppressed or took over the Trybe. We had many families of us wolves." Her voice began to tremble slightly. "There were many bands of foxes that lived in a part east of our chartered city territory, called the Badlands, which are stark, barren, and poor. Their leader is a huge vixen, called Shang Widowmaker: she and her two daughters command that huge horde of vermin." Her eyes grew fierce with an unnamed and unbridled fury. "Half a season ago it must have been--no, it cannot have been that long..." She coughed feebly, but went on. "They attacked our city, and massacred us all. I know not of anyone other than myself who may have survived.
"After they killed everything and everyone I ever loved, my father, my mother, my two sisters Paula and Leah, my brother Peter, they burned everything that stood for my life. Our whole city, seven hundred summers old, in flames, kissing the sky like trees, full of death--" Tori let out a strangled sob, and could not continue. Her whole body shook with tears: Dolores could not stand seeing a creature so tortured, and bent down and hugged her with all her being.
"Tori, come back! It's all right, you're here, you're alright..." Tori's two burning emeralds stared back at her as she shook her head and stiffened in blind anger.
"I'm not all right. It's not all right. Things will not be right until I have slain Shang Widowmaker and her daughters and her whole band of vermin. Not until then will I be able to rest with the thought that innocent creatures aren't being persecuted by such merciless villains, such-such--" Something stopped her from continuing. "Please leave me be alone for a while," she finally said after heaving and gasping several deep, heavy gulps of air. The Abbot bowed.
"As you wish, my child." He and the crowd of Abbeybeasts left the room. Sheryl glanced back at Tori as she left: the poor dear was sobbing her life out. She gently closed the door behind her and softly walked down toward the orchard. She had not heard of the great invasion. She desperately hoped that these foxes stayed far from the northeastern cliffs... As she walked, she fell onto a conversation the Abbot and Brother Neil.
"So that is what a Songdreamer is. Funny, I always just assumed they were mice like us." Sheryl smiled and chuckled at the Abbot's naivete.
* * *
Paul Braunhayr leaned against a tree. "Y'know, it's gettin' late. Think we should find a place t'pack inta?"
John O'Lennain yawned and put away his guitar. "Nah, th'sun's still pretty high. We could get a little further today."
"No! Wait, don't go!" called a third voice from the woods. Paul's ears perked up and his already huge eyes widened.
"Ringo, that you, mate?" Another wolf, much smaller than Paul and John, dragged a nearly unconscious fourth one into the clearing.
"I'd guess so. C'mon, let's ‘elp George, they really beat th'drums out've ‘im."
* * *
"Sheryl?" Tori moved over to the edge of her bed in the infirmary as the mousemaid entered.
"Oh, Tori, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Tori was a little excited.
"Oh no, I've been awake for quite a while. In fact, I just wanted to tell you, I feel all better and everything. I think I can check myself out." A week had passed quickly. The wolfmaid had spent most of it sleeping.
Sheryl walked over and examined her. "You're right!" she said, her eyes wide in amazement. "You're all healed up." Her eyes darted around the room: it was empty. "I think I can run away from my duties here for once to give you a tour of our abbey." Tori jumped off the bed and stood up. No one had ever seen her at her full height: she was a little taller than an average male otter.
"Fabulous! I've been wanting to see your abbey since I was little!" Sheryl laughed a little as she led her out into a corridor.
"Actually, it's not mine at all. I'm just an apprentice." Tori seemed interested.
"Really? Where are you from?"
"Mohaercrest Abbey, on the Cliffs on the northeastern coast," she explained. "It was founded not twenty seasons ago. I was sent here to Redwall to learn medicine from their Sisters and Brothers. They're absolutely the best."
"I'm testament to that," Tori smiled toothily. As they walked down a winding staircase, Tori's bright green eyes caught something in a corner. Leaving the mouse, she wordlessly raced down the stairs toward it. Her face lit up like nothing Sheryl had ever seen. "A piano!" she breathed. "They have a piano!" Sheryl had never even noticed the run-down old thing. Tori lifted up a lid in the front, where she was sitting on a bench she'd pulled up: inside was a boggling number of dusty black and white keys. The wolf closed her eyes momentarily, as if at some buried, traumatic memory. But she shook it off, and spread her paws. She began playing a lovely, complex melody. "This is so out of tune it hurts," she murmured, frowning, and, scampering around the odd wooden chest, opened the back. Sheryl stood in a stupor, watching.
"Hold on a minute," she stuttered. "I'm going to go ask something." Tori nodded, and continued her strange behavior. Sheryl ran to find the Abbot. When she did, she led him up to the secluded corridor. He watched, amazed, as the wolf looked up from the back of the huge mystery box, what she'd called a piano.
"Good morning, Father Abbot," Tori said cheerfully, a new life seemingly having entered her. She smiled and straightened up. He returned her greeting, looking at her fur that had suddenly grayed to one ten times her seasons with dust. "I have a question," she continued. "Do you have any idea where you got this piano? It's one of the best kinds that are made, but it's been a little, ah, unnoticed." The Abbot adjusted his glasses.
"A piano! So that's what it is. It's been here for seasons, I don't know, probably since Abbot Saxtus's time." Sheryl whistled. "I'll go ask Brother Neil to look it up in the records: we'll probably find something out there."
"Thanks, Father Abbot!" Tori said gratefully, and went back to her work.
* * *
"What's that?" Brother Neil asked, his eyes wide. He nearly dropped the huge volumes he was hefting up the stairs with the Abbot and Sheryl. The sound that was drifting down the stairwell was like nothing they'd ever heard. They heard Tori's voice, softly singing something.
"...They say that, your demons, can't go there. So I got me, some horses, to ride on, to ride on, as long as your army, keeps perfectly still..." Such a beautiful interlude followed as they almost didn't dare to venture up and see what was going on, lest they shatter the spell. Tori was sitting on the bench, her paws suddenly long, nimble dancers. She saw them, though, and stopped and stood up, her face flushing. Before she had a chance to blubber, though, they heard shouts below.
"Hey, let us in! Let us in, please! We've got an injured beast with us!" Tori looked out the window and gasped. Wordlessly, she jumped away from the piano and ran down the winding staircase. As she leapt out into the bright sunshine, followed by the three panting Abbeydwellers, she stood in the middle of the thawing orchard, watching Michael and Skipper talk from the walls. As she listened, her jaw dropped, and she scampered up next to them.
"I know that accent!" she told them without explaining, and leaned over the edge to have a look. "Hey, guys! Tell me, where d'you hail from?" The leader, an average sized beast, looked fiercely up at her. He ceased pounding on the gates and yelled,
"Come on, what d'we look like, bloody vermin?" His voice rose angrily. "Leedsdown Tundralake, woman! We're from TUNDRALAKE!!" he howled. Tori turned to the amazed Warrior.
"Open the gates, these are survivors." They obeyed, and soon three wolves hustled in, supporting another, who looked quite worse for wear. Skipper explained the delay.
"We couldn't tell what they where," he said bashfully. "From the looks of it, they could've been foxes or anything: they're all different colors an' all, see." By then, most of the Abbey had curiously gathered around. They stood, listening to the energetic quartet speaking in an almost indecipherable accent.
"What are they saying?" the Abbot whispered to Brother Neil.
"I've never heard it before," the Recorder said, shaking his head in amazement. "But I may know what it is. I think this is what is called Scouse. It's a far Northern dialect, seacoast rather than mountain, though." Tori had been talking with them, asking about her home. The biggest one was shaking his head sadly. Tori seemed to shrink miserably at the news he was obviously bringing her. Dolores, Fiona, and Merrill rushed up.
"Here, let us help you," Dolores implored of the injured wolf.
"I'm not goin' anywhere without me mates," he said with determination. The one who'd yelled up from the gates punched him lightly.
"Don't be stupid, George. They're good docs ‘ere. Fix y'up real nice." He looked up at the badger, his face radiating concern. "You will get ‘im better, won't yeh?" Fiona patted him on the back to reassure him and chuckled.
"Don't worry, matey, we'll ‘ave yore friend up an' dancin' about afore you know it." The wolf nodded, a little skeptical, and stepped back and let the trio escort his friend up to the infirmary. After he'd gone, Tori turned to the remaining three.
"So, at least I know I'm not alone. What are your names?" The big one winked and introduced his pals.
"I'm Paul Braunhayr, that talkative lad over there is the famous Ringo Starr, and me shy retirin' friend with th'crossed eyes is John O'Lennain. Th'lad y'took in is George, George Flantyr. We know who you are, though, miss," he said respectfully, with a courtly nod of his head. "You're Tori Rubyhaer, who woulda been th'next ruler had that scum not destroyed everythin'."
"What district were you guys in?" she inquired, curious. "I don't know if I've even seen you, and I didn't exactly live trapped inside that gilded prison." She shook her head. John replied, a little bitterly,
"I'm not surprised. We're just workin' class heroes from th'streets, missus. It doesn't take a genius like me," here he winked roguishly, "t'reckon that one out." She giggled and pushed him a little.
As the crowds eventually drifted away, and as the Abbot announced that a great meal, the best that could be made on such short notice, would be prepared, Paul and Ringo wandered off to explore the fabled abbey. Tori almost hadn't noticed John lingering tentatively behind her until he slid up next to her and smiled.
"Well, it'll be a good three hours or so b'fore the tuck's dished out, I guess. D'you, ah, wanna do somethin'? You c'n surely show me ‘round better than I could." He chuckled. "I'd get lost in th'great bloody place. Wouldn't find me f'weeks!" She was immediately hooked by his infectious charm. Her paws were still itching, though, after having discovered that piano.
"I do, in fact, have something I've been contemplating for quite a while. Come with me," she commanded lightly, and bounded toward the stairway. John bowed, impressed with her character, before catching up with her.
"Your wish is my command, Your Most Beautiful and Serene Majesty." he whispered to himself.
The two wolves sat closely together, constricted by the small amount of space the bench Tori had found offered. She set her paws on the keys, and took a breath. John watched, transfixed, as she began singing a sweet melody.
"Baker, baker, bake me a cake. Make me a day, make me whole again..." She hummed a little bit, warming up. She made him jump, as her tempo changed rapidly. "I don't believe I went tooooo, faar." She went into a well-known song she'd written, called "Past The Mission". John knew it, and added his backing vocals to the chorus. She looked at him, pleasantly surprised that he had a good voice. She came to her favorite part, though, and entered her own world.
"Heeey. They found a body. Not sure it was his, still they're using his name and she, gave him shelter. Somewhere, I know she knows. Somewhere, I know she knows. Some things, only she knows..."
* * *
Poe was an inconspicuous figure among the more brawny of the ferrets, but she was nonetheless Widowmaker's top officer. She was deceptively scrawny; tall, but seemingly too thin to inflict any real damage to anyone. She slithered over to Divvilsbain, one of her spies, who was guffawing with some of his mates around a skimpy campfire just behind the boundaries of the forest they'd entered.
"Come with me. Shang's givin' us a new assignment." The fox's face fell slightly, disappointed to be pulled away from his friends, but reluctantly stood up and collected his fighting knives.
Anastasia greeted the pair at the door. "Mother has been expecting you for quite some time," she sniffed nastily.
"Aw, shut it, you double-eyed brat," Poe snapped. "It's colder'n' a body out there. While you three were sitting on your royal derrieres we've been trudgin' through this mess for months." The Widowmaker's younger daughter pursed her lips, and huffily led them to Shang's ornate headquarters. At the curtains that were draped across the door, ransacked from the Trybe's palace before they burned it, with all its court inside, the white fox signaled for them to wait there.
"I'll see if she's in a negotiable mood," she announced pertly.
"Just hurry up," Divvilsbain muttered impatiently, eager to return to his buddies.
Passing Tatyanna said smugly, "I wouldn't be in such a hurry."
"What I wouldn't give for an hour with those two nuisances," Poe growled. "I'd show ‘em who'd be in a negotiable mood..."
"Get your filthy hinds in here and stop shedding on my carpets, you swine!" came a scream from behind the drapery. Tatyanna scampered out, yelling curses at her mother.
"Powerhungry wench! Tawdry dictator!"
"As if you aren't!" Shang shrieked in reply. "I'm your mother, don't you talk to me that way!" she simpered and chuckled as her two confederates stumbled in.
The Widowmaker was decked out in all her cruel lavishness. She lay on layers of pillows and rugs, watching smoky incense curl around the bedposts of the canopied bed of Colvin Wolflord and his wife, Derynai Fioraja. She closed her green eyes luxuriously and breathed deeply in content. She then opened her emeralds and stared right into Poe and through Divvilsbain.
"The spring thaw is close, is it not?"
"It is already well underway, Widowmaker. The birds are singing away the ice and snow and the snowdrops are battling with the streams of melted water."
Shang smiled slightly. "Very poetic." She sighed contemplatively. "Hmm, well. This southern weather, it is very strange here." Shang stood up: she had no need for ornamental weaponry. The wolves fought with their teeth and claws, she now with her deceit and silver tongue. She didn't fight for herself with the horde, but she was ruthless when need be. There were rumors she didn't bother to stop of her defeating an adult male polar bear once. Its skin lay sprawled on the floor, and she stepped unnoticing on its head as she made her way over to a chair.
"We are not moving, though, yes?" she purred, her slight accent like chunks of hard icebergs.
"You had not decided to give us that order, Shang," Poe told her, her contempt for the fox well concealed.
"Ahhh, yes, well...I think it is time that we head toward this southland that your deceased prisoner yearned so for. We are going no closer by sitting here." Divvilsbain became edgy. He knew that the prisoner she spoke of, a mouse with a strange, muddled accent, had died over the past few days while in his keeping.
Shang chuckled, playing with her claws, sensing the fox's fear. "There is no need to fear for your life and wellbeing, fox. You are too valuable an asset to me." She turned to the ferret. "We have remained inert for much too long. Poe, I want you to fetch my daughters. Tell them to sound the southward Call."
"Will that be all, Shang?" Shang waved her off unceremoniously.
"Yes, thank you for your concern, Poe. Leave now." The ferret bowed, and exited. The vixen turned back to Divvilsbain. "I asked you to remain because there is a favor I wish to ask of you." The stout knifethrower stood to attention, surprised by Shang's casualness and trust.
"Anything you ask of me, Widowmaker." Shang arose, her eyes wild like a storm. She smiled glowingly.
"I want you to take Silverweed, that wolf we took prisoner, with you. Keep her on a leash, so the little wretch won't try and run away to Manchester. I want to have her scout the area for runaways and Journeyers. Make her smell them out like a hound."
"And what shall I do when I find them?" he asked thickly. Shang's eyes roared with a primitive, unleashed glee. Her slick voice echoed around the room like water dripping from an icicle in a cave.
"Kill them. Kill them all. I want no trace of them in this area, and I want it to last!"
* * *
The two brothers were singing to keep their spirits up. They were strong, sleek young wolves, fresh on their way to Redwall Abbey from their native home of the great city of Manchester.
"So now what this time?" the smaller wolf, the elder, asked his brother. His lithe sibling, his heavily-lidded, unearthly blue eyes considering, broke out into a raucous,
"Maybe I don't really wanna know how your garden grows, ‘cause I just wanna fly.
Lately did you ever feel the pain of the morning rain that soaks you to the bone?
Maybe I just wanna fly, wanna live don't wanna die.
Maybe I just wanna breathe, maybe I just don't believe.
Maybe you're the same as me, we see things they'll never see."
His brother joined him on the last line. "You and I, we gonna live forever..."
The smaller one nodded. "That's a good one." His little brother beamed.
"That song's a work of genius! Better than most of yer others."
"You sayin' th'rest of my songs're shite?"
"Yeah, if yer in the spirit t'admit that they are!" he fired back, his eyes gleaming. The older wolf leapt at him, snarling, and they engaged in a tremendous struggle. Suddenly, from a nearby grove of trees, they heard a feeble yelp,
"RUN!" Another, painful one followed it, after which a huge, molting fox charged out of the underbrush and sprang on the two. The younger wolf let out a cry of surprise. Unlike them, this fox wasn't jesting.
* * *
The four able survivors were lounging on the western abbey walls, oblivious to the slight chill of mid spring. The afternoon was warm and fresh, with the smell of full honeysuckle on the breeze. They sat recollecting fond memories of the vanquished city of Leedsdown. The view around them was spectacular. Ringo was admiring it when he suddenly noticed a flickering light to the south.
"Hey, look. Someone's down there, looks like wolffolk." Paul and Tori joined him, and peered down. Two wolf-like figures were barely visible through the naked trees: they were apparently sitting around a small fire. Paul's brow furrowed.
"I dunno, they look sorta like coyotes t'me."
"From here, though," John pointed out.
"I'll go down and check," Tori said, and before anyone could stop her, which Paul and Ringo tried to do, she'd darted down the walls, out the gates, and into the undergrowth and was slinking toward the campfire. As she neared, she heard them talking.
"Aye, Noel, so yer sure it's ‘slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball'? What kinda shite lyric's that?"
"Just learn it, Liam, or I'll just ‘ave t'claim it."
"Like ‘ell you will!" the one called Liam shouted, bolting up. Noel calmly told him to sit down and sing. Rebellious and scornful, Liam obeyed, and relaxed. Tori made a signal to the others to come over, but be inconspicuous. When she turned her head back, she was suddenly faced with the towering Noel.
"Here now, ‘oo might you be? Doesn't matter, c'mon over: we need you t'tell uz somethin'." He grabbed her arm and dragged her over. Terrified and stunned, she stumbled over to where he led her and fell down onto a makeshift bench. In the dancing firelight, she moved only her wide open eyes to see who her captors were. The Abbey was only a stone's throw away. She could easily call for help...
Untensing a bit when she saw they were wolves like herself, she began to wonder where they were from. They didn't sound like anyone native to Leedsdown or the boroughs around it, she thought, listening to them argue a bit more. "Miss? Forgive me, we forgot to introduce ourselves." He bowed his head in a respectful nod. "We're the Gallagher brothers of Manchester. I'm Noel and that's our Liam." Liam seemed to fancy Tori, and wasn't shy about it. Tori disregarded his gazes, though.
"There're more of you?" she asked in a near whisper, her heart racing wildly. Noel chuckled, and ignored the question. Lifting up his guitar, he picked out a tune, and Liam began to softly accompany him.
"How many special people change?
How many lives are livin' strange?
Where were you while we were getting high?
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high?
"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova in the sky.
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky."
He noticed out of the corner of his eye three more wolves approaching cautiously. He kept right on singing as if they didn't exist.
"Wake up the dawn an' ask her why.
A dream, a dream, she never dies.
Wipe that tear away now from your eye.
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high?"
He raised his head and bared his soul to the star-dusted night sky.
"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova in the sky.
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky.
"‘Cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer.
But you and I, will never die, the world's still spinnin' ‘round,
y'don't know whyyyyyyy! Whyyyy, whyyy whyyyyyyyyyyy?"
He took a breath and closed his eyes, and gazed up at the sky while Noel deftly played on. When that was over, Liam opened his heavily-lidded blue eyes again and sang tenderly to Tori,
"How many special people change?
How many lives are livin' strange?
Where were you while we were getting high?
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high? Weeeee were getting high?
Weeeee were getting hiiiiiigh, weee were getting high..."
Noel's accompanying "Ooo"s were lullaby-like in the background. As it was winding down, Noel stopped and dropped his guitar, surprised, and leapt up, staring at the three who'd just joined them and were sitting by quietly, listening.
"Fook! I know you! You're the bloody fuckin' Beatles! God!"
"An' you two are th'most talented bastard's I've ever heard!" John replied calmly. "Who're you guys with? I'm almost positive I've ‘eard yeh before. I loved it." Liam was grinning wildly.
"The Beatles, lovin' us. D'you ‘ear that, Noely? Bloody amazin'!"
"D'you like us that much?" Paul asked, surprised.
"We're totally bloody mad for yeh!" Noel cocked his head. "Where's George?"
"He was hurt pretty bad by them foxes. He's at the Abbey."
"Redwall?" Liam asked laconically.
"Yeah, s'matter of fact," Tori answered. I wonder how he is. A cold wind blew from above, and she suddenly felt a pang in her chest. He was not well.
"‘Cause we were on our way to Redwall," Noel remarked off-handedly. "Our mam threw us out of our house an' told us t'go south there. Said a friend o' hers lived there."
"You're practically at the foot of the damn thing," John informed them, his eyes dancing at their blindness. Liam jumped up on their log and ogled for a look and finally spotted the monolithic red house.
"Ah, yeah, guess yer right. See Noely, told yeh you were gone in the ‘ead. Got to get glasses, you ‘ave." Noel ignored his little brother's snide comment. Tori squinted at Liam's chest.
"What happened there?" she asked, concerned. The object of her attention was a patch of matted brown fur. Silvery scars and crusty scabs were slightly visible. Liam fell silent. Noel shifted uncomfortably, and spoke for him.
"We, met some unexpected company."
"Oh really?" John asked.
"Fox," Noel confided. "Armed to t'teeth with knives. He just came outta nowhere an' began tearin' our Liam all t'pieces."
"Me big bro got ‘im good, though, didn't yeh?"
Noel was serious. "We had to kill him. Believe me, he would've us if he'da gotten th'chance." He shuddered at the memory. That poor, thin she-wolf. She just...stumbled out into the clearing and died, right there. How they ran...
"Woulda been a hard day for Mam, eh Noely?"
"She really threw you out?" Paul asked, wide-eyed.
"No, she more told us t'stop stickin' ‘round th'house, that there was a whole wide world out there outside th'streets o' Manchester. We left with a sack o' sandwiches, cookies, an' her clingin' on t'us fer dear life," Liam informed them. "She's a good lass, our mam. Our dad's another story."
"An' our brother," Noel reminded him. "But e's dead, an' not much we can do ‘bout that." Tori burst out in a strangled sob at the word ‘dead'. Paul and Liam were immediately at her side.
"What's wrong, love?"
Liam put a comforting paw round her shoulder. "Now look what yeh've done, Noel, yeh sick twat."
"I did?! Twas you that brought this whole shite issue up!" Liam growled and lunged at his brother. They began fighting wildly.
Tori sat, smiling a little despite her tears. She suddenly stood up and barked, "Hey!" The brothers untangled themselves and looked at her. "You can come if you want. We've got plenty of hot food."
"Food! Now we ‘aven't ‘ad a good meal in months!" Tall and lanky Liam was already racing toward the Abbey, his fire and newfound friends comically forgotten.
* * *
Wynnstream peered down from the gatetops. "Gosh, you all sure are lookin' like a proper liddle pack there! Who're these two?" he called good-naturedly. Liam answered for himself.
"Liam Gallagher, and that's our kid Noel, me brother."
"I assume these two ‘aven't taken y'all pris'ner, now ‘ave they?" Wynnstream chuckled as he heaved at the lever that operated the great wooden gates.
George had been reclining in the warmth the temperamental sun had decided to bless them with. His lazy eyes panned the view of the orchard where that Jakob was laughing merrily and playing a romantic game of tag with a beautiful meadow mouse called Julia. The young mouse always visited him, would always be enraptured by his descriptions of life in Leedsdown. His thoughts turned, and he noticed the gates opening. Two strangers wandered into the Abbey, wide-eyed. He squinted at them, and pulled himself upright to have a better look of them.
They were certainly scruffy, and they looked like they could fight--
(lord knows they'll be needing it they'll need all the fight they have)
--if need be. The larger one had a scar painful just to look at on his chest. Fur was just beginning to really conceal it, but George knew--
(Shang's gotten at this one she has)
--these two could only be brothers. They shared the same menacing undertone and deep blue eyes, heavily-lidded and arrogant.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the messages. But that never worked
(it will for now i'll make it)
(talk to me!)
Oh all right. D'you think they're Journeyers?
(couldn't say fer sure gotta be though look at the fright in their eyes blue like fury though god knows they'll need it in autumn)
"Fates an' seasons!" the larger of the brother wolves yelped. "It's George Flantyr! It's actually George Flantyr!!" The pair reverently approached him. Noel was close to groveling and prostrating himself as he said,
"You are, like, one of my all-time heroes! You're one of the three greatest guitarists of Tundralake!" Flattered by the unexpected hero-worship, he asked, in an attempt to sway the conversation another direction,
"Who're you? I think I've seen you somewhere before."
"Noel Gallagher," he said, drawing himself up proudly. "My old man was the director of the Manchester Symphony. Mam always said I looked like ‘im most."
George whistled admirably. He closed his eyes, and then opened them, asking, "D'you play guitar?"
"Oh, every day," Noel swore. "I'm a fanatic."
"Aye, I'll vouch fer that," his brother added smugly in the background.
George smiled wanly, as that was all his present condition would allow. "Then we'll ‘ave t'jam sometime, won't we."
Liam turned around to Ringo and commented out of the blue, "You know, I somehow always seemed to have imagined you all sort of the same size."
"Oh, no," Ringo chuckled. "Paul an' George are just naturally big, and I'm th'runt of me litter. John's the only normal one between us!"
Liam gazed up at thick ramparts of the Abbey. "My, my, though, you've certainly found yersel's a grand ol' shack, ‘aven't yeh?"
"Sure ‘ave. Twas only luck that brought us ‘ere though. Mind you, if they'd a built this thing five yards further ‘way, George woulda died on us."
"Umm, just wonderin', miss," Noel was asking courteously of Dolores. "D'you ‘ave any recollections of one Amberanne Gallagher? She's certainly told us gobs about you." Dolores's face lit up.
"Amberanne! My goodness, it's been seasons since I saw her! Moved somewhere up north after our traveling days, as I recall."
Noel nodded. "She sure did. She's me an' Liam's mam. Lives up in Manchester Tundralake, just out've th'wake of the invasion by th'foxes." He noticed Tryffen trying to charm a basket of candied chestnuts from Friaress Elena. "Say, s'that one o'them southern ‘ares, what, what talks funny? Never seen one of them up close an' personal b'fore." Tryffen's ears shot up indignantly.
"Here now, talks funny? Listen t‘him, sounds like a bloomin' molechappie himself! Talks funny, huh."
Noel chuckled at the hare's mutterings. Dolores nodded. "Yes, that one's on loan from Salamandastron from a brother of mine, the resident Badger Lord, actually."
"Really?" the wolf inquired. "Well, my my. Seems this Salamandastron's not a myth after all."
The good badger was confused, and a little peeved. "Salamandastron? A myth? Not likely! It protects all of Mossflower country and is a magical place. The whole history of Mossflower is written there, past and future."
Noel shook his head. "Well then, I'll take it you've never heard of Angliaterryn. Not too far from uz, actually." He ambled toward Great Hall, following the crowd of others. "So, tell me about this Salamandastron. I've only heard stories ‘bout it."
* * *
Caxton Sbioann Miahcris stood solemnly before the current Badger Lord of Salamandastron, Antisle Rawnblade the Fiery. The strange arctic hare's cloud-gray eyes remained averted to the ceiling as the enormous badger examined the scroll he'd been presented from the stronghold of Angliaterryn.
Antisle swayed his head back and forth slowly. "No one has heard from the northern white bears in many seasons." He sat back and sighed. "Many, many seasons. They were a legend when Old Lord Brocktree came to this mountain."
Caxton smiled slightly. "I assure you," he replied in a broad, heavy accent, "they are certainly there, Lord."
Antisle sighed, and turned to the hare to his left. "Quinn, tell me, how did you come across this ambassador?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"He came on foot, Milord," the well-built captain replied. "Long Patrol escorted ‘im ‘ere. They found ‘im fairly far north, fer ‘ere, but ‘e's apparently come from a lot further." The badger looked back at Caxton.
"Tell me, who is the head of Angliaterryn? They have been lost to the ages this far south."
"Governor Creenhlay, Lord. Yellowback Creenhlay."
Antisle bowed his head, changing the subject. "This is very serious. If Shang Widowmaker's horde is indeed headed in our direction, we have quite a struggle ahead of us." He looked up again with tears threatening to bead his brown eyes. "And you say that Leedsdown Tundralake has been vanquished?"
"Yes, and possibly Manchester as well," the arctic hare replied sadly.
"Great seasons and ancestors above..." he murmured. "Are there any survivors at all?" Caxton glanced at his feet.
"There...have been rumors through the countryside that I have traveled through, of a great red singing wolf. It could possibly...nay, I dare not hope too greatly..." He turned his head away.
"What? Who?"
Caxton looked back at Quinn and Antisle. "It is well-known fact that Colvin Wolflord and Derynai Fioraja are both slain. Their daughters Paula and Leah and their son Peter were accounted for as dead as well, but Tori Rubyhaer is still an enigma..."
Quinn grew excited. "An' you're sayin' that this great singin' wolfgel could be her?"
"She is our only hope for salvation, it seems." Antisle rested his head on a monstrous paw. "Caxton, could you accompany me? I hate to ask anything of you after your long journey, but I feel you have the missing piece in which to help me."
Caxton bowed his head. "Certainly, Lord."
The far northern messenger followed Antisle through the twisting caverns below the mountain stronghold. His footsteps echoed heavily through the tunnels, as did his heavy breathing.
"Here, stop here," Antisle whispered. Caxton leaned against the wall of the hall, and squinted at the carvings the badger lord was examining under the firelight.
"Tell me, why am I to see these?" Caxton questioned, a little frightened. "These are the halls of the future, meant only for badgers to see."
Antisle shook his head. "What you are looking at are the same prophesies that a mouse, Martin the Warrior of Redwall, gazed upon. Over to my right is the story of Urthstripe the Strong. He rests further down in the passage. Beyond that is the poetry of Sunflash the Mace. This is the history of Mossflower Country and its surrounding areas. But I have never taken the time to look in its skies."
Caxton was confused. "Sir, pardon me for inquiring, but...what skies?"
Antisle lifted his head and searched the ceiling. "Here." His eyes flickered over the writing. He squared his jaw. "It seems it is time for Tryffen to come home." He turned back to the hare. "Lord Yellowback should have given you a package. Do you have it?"
"It hasn't left my side since I departed Angliaterryn."
"Give it to me and wait here," he commanded. The hare handed him a small stone figurine, old and primitively carved, vaguely resembling a wolf, beset with two emeralds as eyes. Antisle Rawnblade silently disappeared into a corridor. He placed the statuette into an eroded crevice, carved by beasts long ago gone to Dark Forest. The light that shone through the two jewels fell on a simple engraving of a great stone building. A great vermin claw was pointed at it. Antisle squinted.
"It is Redwall surely," he muttered to himself. He stepped back, though, and examined it. "But there are no trees. Redwall is in a forest...I know of no other Abbey in the region..." His eyes widened. "Mohaercrest," he whispered cryptically. "Sheryl must go home!"
* * *
Tori sat alone at the piano, which had been moved down to Great Hall, keeping her footpaw on the soft petal so as not to disturb those sleeping in the dormitories. The plaintive calls of nightbirds echoed through the forest outside. She rested her paws on the smooth, cool keyboard, holding back her crying. Bowing her head in an elegant arch of her neck, she listlessly pressed a low G.
The tune began to flock together like an image in a cloud. Lyrics wafted down from the rafters, and she captured them as they struggled beneath her tongue. Tori's eyes were red from withheld tears and sleepiness. She watched as spirits appeared, and danced in graceful Russian circles, waltzing like music boxes. A line parted through them, and she arose, expecting by all rights to see her deceased family and the royal court, her beloved life that had been burned and shattered. But no: her jaw slowly dropped as a mouse lead a short procession through the hole of her past. Was it Michael? It certainly looked like him...
"Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer," he said at length, with the ease and understanding of a breezy summer day. "Your battle will come soon enough. Enjoy what you have whilst you still have the time to."
"What right have you to tell me to enjoy while I have it?" she whimpered angrily. "What knowledge have you of war and hatred and loss, Michael? You've never been beyond this Abbey, I'm sure of it!"
"Michael, backwards through many others," the strange mouse said, the light confident smile never leaving his lips. "Through Mariel and Dandin, through Samkim and Arula, through Bryony and Togget, through countless hares, badgers, otters..." The phantasm bowed his head. "All the way back, even to and beyond Rose, Felldoh, and Gonff. You see, I too once lost everyone and everything." Tori's drooping eyes widened.
"You must be..." It went understood and unspoken. Martin the Warrior smiled again, his gray eyes shining brightly.
"Keep your fire, Tori. You will use it to burn out the evil scourge of Shang Widowmaker and her daughters. Tori?" The mouse leaned forward to her, his face suddenly worried. He shook her shoulder.
"Tori?" The ghosts dissipated, and the northern princess was left staring at another restless soul. Noel, concerned, offered a paw. "C'mon, dear, y've been up harf th'bloody night. Get some sleep, luv."
* * *
The white fox paced restlessly through the field. The horde had been deflected off course by unexpected guerrilla attacks. They were now hopelessly tangled in the mountains, and every few days, her sentries were being picked off for food by the mountain eagles and falcons. Unused to the harsh conditions of the peaks and impasses, mutinies were beginning to kindle: she could feel it.
Poe watched Shang brooding. "Widowmaker, perhaps if we captured some of the inhabitants," she offered, "one of the smaller birds, perhaps, or a marten? They would surely show us maybe a pass or a gap through these infernal mountains?"
The vicious white fox shook her head. "And where would we find one of these invaluable scouts? No, Polewski," Poe straightened slightly as her full title was used, "we must do this ourselves. I think our only solution, however, is either backing out or trudging through."
"Shang," the ferret ventured, "the troops, they will not like that either way."
"I know that! Don't you think I don't know that?!" She sat down on a rock and rested her chin upon a paw. "But what to do, what to do!" Shang arose, and began pacing again. " Hmm, mayhaps I'm just being paranoid. Poe, fetch one of my spies. I need to find a conspiracy before I can destroy it."
* * *
Putwer and Shaftclaw were both foxes whose grumblings had exceeded the bounds of each other. Nightly, around their campfires, as they shivered against the high mountain winds and inhospitable ground, mates would gather and share complaints and doubts about the Widowmaker's trek southward.
"Huh, who's to even say this glorious southland even exists? It's only gotten colder th'further south we've gone!" Shaftclaw growled as he shoved the pine branch into the fire in an attempt to kindle the meager flames. Three other foxes, two weasels, and a stoat coughed and cursed as the stick produced noxious smoke.
"Garr, learn t'handle a fire properly, dunder'ead!" a weasel, Cawfrent, snarled.
"Hah, betcha the fox couldn't learn t'do that ‘erself," Rankwhisker, the stoat, laughed humorlessly. "While we're freezin' t'death up here, she's probably feastin' wid those two brats of hers in front of a fireplace!"
Putwer shook his head mournfully. "I tells yeh, t'ain't fair, mates. We're livin' like bloody oarslaves wi' nary a crust betwixt us, an' she probably don't even know up from down t'get us out've here!"
Cawfrent's companion looked down at his dagger, as it glittered coldly in the chill light. "That fox might be pretty, but I betcha she'd look a lot prettier inside out, wid this between ‘er ribs!"
"An' how's would yer plan on doin' that, Vimple?"
The weasel looked into the firelight. "Wouldn't be too ‘ard. With Poe snawin' away outside ‘er tent, and Anastasia an' Tatyanna off amusin' theyselves..." He trailed off suggestively.
One of the foxes stood up and stretched. "I'm with yeh, mate! That would solve a passle of our problems, an' I'll be party to it." Ribsy then shivered. "But I'm off to a good forty winks afore I do any murderin'. This cold makes th'paw that wolf got at all throbbin'." Stiffly, he made his way to the niche he'd dug out in the snow.
"Aye, I'm with Ribsy too," Rankwhisker agreed. "I'd rather be dreamin' ‘bout some warm island than shiverin' an' plottin' at this hour." The gang was addressed one last time by Shaftclaw.
"But when we meets ‘ere tomorrer, bring yer skinnin' knives an' such. We got's a job ter do, remember that!"
Cawfrent and Vimple trudged away through the rocks and bone-biting snow. Cawfrent turned to Vimple. "So, should we report t'Widowmaker now?"
"Nah, maybe we should get Poe first. She'd be easier t'get through to."
* * *
The twin beacons of Anastasia and Tatyanna atop a high perch on either side of the vast horde had been long absent. Now they stood on juts of rock above the valley, howling in an unearthly cadence, an echo stolen from the wolves. Instinctively, they silently assembled before the line of flags and skulls perched on spears.
The widowmaker fox had decked herself out in some of her barbaric finery. She'd capped her fangs in silver, and dyed the area around her eyes jet black, causing her haunting, captivating eyes to stand out even more. A necklace, strung with the teeth and claws of Colvin and Derynai, adorned her neck.
"Rivenkeepers!" she called. "Bring forth the traitors!!" Seven huge Norwegian rats, each holding a chain lead of one of the campfire would-be assassins, prodded forth Putwer, Shaftclaw, Rankwhisker, Ribsy, and the three other foxes; Hankfur, Neoparn, and Shornear. Each of the trembling vermin had been whipped, maimed, tortured, and beaten. They were now bound together in a slave line.
"Parade them!" Shang commanded. The horde watched, horrified, as some of their best fighters were dragged through each rank, pleading, tripping, sobbing, and yelping. Above the stunned silence, the leader fox's voice rose. "So, Winterchildren, you see what happens to the fools who doubt me and plot against me! You have called me soft, yes. You have called me lost, and you have said I am losing my grip!" The horde shrank back at her fury. "Well, I may be a mother, but merciful, I am not!" When the Rivenkeepers had made a full circle of the army, the prisoners were brought up onto a ledge above a pond. They cringed away from the edge, ignoring their comrades' stares as they shivered, stumbled, and wailed.
"SILENCE!" Widowmaker roared. "I am as coldhearted as you soon will be!" One of the Rivenkeeper rats kicked Ribsy, the largest of the group, off the ledge. The unfortunate hordebeasts struggled to stay on the ground, but each slowly fell, linked together and suspended by the chains, and finally they plummeted into the freezing water. "I know something these clods did not, nor did they think I did! I know a way out of here! And we move now!" Her daughters began howling again: Go south. Shang's examples now bobbed in the water, either frozen to death or pitifully beseeching passing mates to help them out. But either way, they were chained to death in two places, and Shang Widowmaker had earned a new title: Coldhearted!
[next!]
Sister Joan pursed her lips as she looked over the peaceful body, breathing a bit unevenly.
"She still doesn't look too good: see here, she's been fighting, and was obviously overpowered and torn up." She pointed to the cruel, long slashes along her side; the fur on top, matted together by blood, had been washed and finally had had to be cut off. A small gathering of the Abbot, Michael, Dolores, Brother Neil, Joan the Infirmary Sister, and another young mousemaid named Sheryl, a visiting apprentice healer from another abbey far to the East, stood around the four mattresses that had had to be put together to accommodate the creature. "She also looks like she took a pretty big fall, into water, judging by how tender her side seems to be." Joan leaned forward, and began washing the wounds. The wolf flinched, and seemed to stiffen. "I know, it hurts, it stings, but it's for the best," she whispered.
"Aaauuughhh...Please, no more..." Sheryl jumped to attention from a corner, having been washing linens.
"What?! Who said that? Joan, was that you?"
The good sister furrowed her brow, confused. "No, certainly not."
"Water...I beg you please, give me water..."
"There it is again. It must be her." Sheryl nodded toward the wolf. She walked over, drying her paws on her apron, and knelt down toward her head. The stranger's eyes were half-opened and crusted at the edges. "Water? Did you say you wanted water?" The wolf nodded and pleaded in what seemed to be a mix of exhaustion and delirium.
"Yes, yes...please..." Sister Joan had hurried over with a pitcher. The wolf achily pulled herself up and gulped the water with desperate greed. They watched in amazement. When she had twice emptied the jar, she smacked her lips a little and sighed contentedly. She leaned back against some pillows piled against the head of the bed, wiping her eyes with a partially bandaged paw. She gazed in wonder around the infirmary. "W-where am I?" Dolores leaned down.
"You're in the infirmary of Redwall Abbey: you're perfectly safe. We found you over by the creek yesterday. I'm Dolores, the Abbey Mother." The wolf's head craned up and in more astonishment gazed around the room.
"How good my fortune is to be found by the good creatures of Redwall," she whispered in awe. She turned her head back to the silent crowd. "I am Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, daughter of Colvin and Derynai of the Tundralake Trybe." She fell silent. In a choked voice, she continued, "I am alone now in my claim to the Trybe of Tundralake, it seems." The Abbot shuffled forward and placed a paw on hers.
"Tori, my child, we are here to help you with whatever needs you have. If you wish, we will listen to your story." She looked up at him with bright eyes.
"You must be the Father Abbot." He nodded modestly.
"I am." Tori put her paw on top of his in a grasp of an almost handshake.
"Seasons back, a friend of ours from Holt Farnell-On-The-Sea, a young otter called Waterback Streamfleet must have visited you on her way to Southsward. Did she ever speak of the Songdreamers over the plains?" Brother Neil, as always, had the answer. He ventured from the background.
"I remember her: young Wynnstream was determined to go with her before she left, but he was but a few seasons out of infancy," he chuckled. Then the brother grew serious. "I remember her speaking of them, and tried to describe what they were, but never could. Was that your family, Tori?" She looked at the floor. She shook at some inner feeling, and spoke softly, almost in a whisper.
"It was not only my family, but a huge city full of us. In the Northlands, we have built vast towns, beautiful cities made of stone. My family lived in Leedsdown. The other large city is called Manchester." She stopped, and drooped. "Now it is all lost.
"We lived for our music: everyone had their own song. That's the way wolves are. You see, nothing was more important to us than our music.
"My family was of the ruling power, but they were wise and kind: they never oppressed or took over the Trybe. We had many families of us wolves." Her voice began to tremble slightly. "There were many bands of foxes that lived in a part east of our chartered city territory, called the Badlands, which are stark, barren, and poor. Their leader is a huge vixen, called Shang Widowmaker: she and her two daughters command that huge horde of vermin." Her eyes grew fierce with an unnamed and unbridled fury. "Half a season ago it must have been--no, it cannot have been that long..." She coughed feebly, but went on. "They attacked our city, and massacred us all. I know not of anyone other than myself who may have survived.
"After they killed everything and everyone I ever loved, my father, my mother, my two sisters Paula and Leah, my brother Peter, they burned everything that stood for my life. Our whole city, seven hundred summers old, in flames, kissing the sky like trees, full of death--" Tori let out a strangled sob, and could not continue. Her whole body shook with tears: Dolores could not stand seeing a creature so tortured, and bent down and hugged her with all her being.
"Tori, come back! It's all right, you're here, you're alright..." Tori's two burning emeralds stared back at her as she shook her head and stiffened in blind anger.
"I'm not all right. It's not all right. Things will not be right until I have slain Shang Widowmaker and her daughters and her whole band of vermin. Not until then will I be able to rest with the thought that innocent creatures aren't being persecuted by such merciless villains, such-such--" Something stopped her from continuing. "Please leave me be alone for a while," she finally said after heaving and gasping several deep, heavy gulps of air. The Abbot bowed.
"As you wish, my child." He and the crowd of Abbeybeasts left the room. Sheryl glanced back at Tori as she left: the poor dear was sobbing her life out. She gently closed the door behind her and softly walked down toward the orchard. She had not heard of the great invasion. She desperately hoped that these foxes stayed far from the northeastern cliffs... As she walked, she fell onto a conversation the Abbot and Brother Neil.
"So that is what a Songdreamer is. Funny, I always just assumed they were mice like us." Sheryl smiled and chuckled at the Abbot's naivete.
* * *
Paul Braunhayr leaned against a tree. "Y'know, it's gettin' late. Think we should find a place t'pack inta?"
John O'Lennain yawned and put away his guitar. "Nah, th'sun's still pretty high. We could get a little further today."
"No! Wait, don't go!" called a third voice from the woods. Paul's ears perked up and his already huge eyes widened.
"Ringo, that you, mate?" Another wolf, much smaller than Paul and John, dragged a nearly unconscious fourth one into the clearing.
"I'd guess so. C'mon, let's ‘elp George, they really beat th'drums out've ‘im."
* * *
"Sheryl?" Tori moved over to the edge of her bed in the infirmary as the mousemaid entered.
"Oh, Tori, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Tori was a little excited.
"Oh no, I've been awake for quite a while. In fact, I just wanted to tell you, I feel all better and everything. I think I can check myself out." A week had passed quickly. The wolfmaid had spent most of it sleeping.
Sheryl walked over and examined her. "You're right!" she said, her eyes wide in amazement. "You're all healed up." Her eyes darted around the room: it was empty. "I think I can run away from my duties here for once to give you a tour of our abbey." Tori jumped off the bed and stood up. No one had ever seen her at her full height: she was a little taller than an average male otter.
"Fabulous! I've been wanting to see your abbey since I was little!" Sheryl laughed a little as she led her out into a corridor.
"Actually, it's not mine at all. I'm just an apprentice." Tori seemed interested.
"Really? Where are you from?"
"Mohaercrest Abbey, on the Cliffs on the northeastern coast," she explained. "It was founded not twenty seasons ago. I was sent here to Redwall to learn medicine from their Sisters and Brothers. They're absolutely the best."
"I'm testament to that," Tori smiled toothily. As they walked down a winding staircase, Tori's bright green eyes caught something in a corner. Leaving the mouse, she wordlessly raced down the stairs toward it. Her face lit up like nothing Sheryl had ever seen. "A piano!" she breathed. "They have a piano!" Sheryl had never even noticed the run-down old thing. Tori lifted up a lid in the front, where she was sitting on a bench she'd pulled up: inside was a boggling number of dusty black and white keys. The wolf closed her eyes momentarily, as if at some buried, traumatic memory. But she shook it off, and spread her paws. She began playing a lovely, complex melody. "This is so out of tune it hurts," she murmured, frowning, and, scampering around the odd wooden chest, opened the back. Sheryl stood in a stupor, watching.
"Hold on a minute," she stuttered. "I'm going to go ask something." Tori nodded, and continued her strange behavior. Sheryl ran to find the Abbot. When she did, she led him up to the secluded corridor. He watched, amazed, as the wolf looked up from the back of the huge mystery box, what she'd called a piano.
"Good morning, Father Abbot," Tori said cheerfully, a new life seemingly having entered her. She smiled and straightened up. He returned her greeting, looking at her fur that had suddenly grayed to one ten times her seasons with dust. "I have a question," she continued. "Do you have any idea where you got this piano? It's one of the best kinds that are made, but it's been a little, ah, unnoticed." The Abbot adjusted his glasses.
"A piano! So that's what it is. It's been here for seasons, I don't know, probably since Abbot Saxtus's time." Sheryl whistled. "I'll go ask Brother Neil to look it up in the records: we'll probably find something out there."
"Thanks, Father Abbot!" Tori said gratefully, and went back to her work.
* * *
"What's that?" Brother Neil asked, his eyes wide. He nearly dropped the huge volumes he was hefting up the stairs with the Abbot and Sheryl. The sound that was drifting down the stairwell was like nothing they'd ever heard. They heard Tori's voice, softly singing something.
"...They say that, your demons, can't go there. So I got me, some horses, to ride on, to ride on, as long as your army, keeps perfectly still..." Such a beautiful interlude followed as they almost didn't dare to venture up and see what was going on, lest they shatter the spell. Tori was sitting on the bench, her paws suddenly long, nimble dancers. She saw them, though, and stopped and stood up, her face flushing. Before she had a chance to blubber, though, they heard shouts below.
"Hey, let us in! Let us in, please! We've got an injured beast with us!" Tori looked out the window and gasped. Wordlessly, she jumped away from the piano and ran down the winding staircase. As she leapt out into the bright sunshine, followed by the three panting Abbeydwellers, she stood in the middle of the thawing orchard, watching Michael and Skipper talk from the walls. As she listened, her jaw dropped, and she scampered up next to them.
"I know that accent!" she told them without explaining, and leaned over the edge to have a look. "Hey, guys! Tell me, where d'you hail from?" The leader, an average sized beast, looked fiercely up at her. He ceased pounding on the gates and yelled,
"Come on, what d'we look like, bloody vermin?" His voice rose angrily. "Leedsdown Tundralake, woman! We're from TUNDRALAKE!!" he howled. Tori turned to the amazed Warrior.
"Open the gates, these are survivors." They obeyed, and soon three wolves hustled in, supporting another, who looked quite worse for wear. Skipper explained the delay.
"We couldn't tell what they where," he said bashfully. "From the looks of it, they could've been foxes or anything: they're all different colors an' all, see." By then, most of the Abbey had curiously gathered around. They stood, listening to the energetic quartet speaking in an almost indecipherable accent.
"What are they saying?" the Abbot whispered to Brother Neil.
"I've never heard it before," the Recorder said, shaking his head in amazement. "But I may know what it is. I think this is what is called Scouse. It's a far Northern dialect, seacoast rather than mountain, though." Tori had been talking with them, asking about her home. The biggest one was shaking his head sadly. Tori seemed to shrink miserably at the news he was obviously bringing her. Dolores, Fiona, and Merrill rushed up.
"Here, let us help you," Dolores implored of the injured wolf.
"I'm not goin' anywhere without me mates," he said with determination. The one who'd yelled up from the gates punched him lightly.
"Don't be stupid, George. They're good docs ‘ere. Fix y'up real nice." He looked up at the badger, his face radiating concern. "You will get ‘im better, won't yeh?" Fiona patted him on the back to reassure him and chuckled.
"Don't worry, matey, we'll ‘ave yore friend up an' dancin' about afore you know it." The wolf nodded, a little skeptical, and stepped back and let the trio escort his friend up to the infirmary. After he'd gone, Tori turned to the remaining three.
"So, at least I know I'm not alone. What are your names?" The big one winked and introduced his pals.
"I'm Paul Braunhayr, that talkative lad over there is the famous Ringo Starr, and me shy retirin' friend with th'crossed eyes is John O'Lennain. Th'lad y'took in is George, George Flantyr. We know who you are, though, miss," he said respectfully, with a courtly nod of his head. "You're Tori Rubyhaer, who woulda been th'next ruler had that scum not destroyed everythin'."
"What district were you guys in?" she inquired, curious. "I don't know if I've even seen you, and I didn't exactly live trapped inside that gilded prison." She shook her head. John replied, a little bitterly,
"I'm not surprised. We're just workin' class heroes from th'streets, missus. It doesn't take a genius like me," here he winked roguishly, "t'reckon that one out." She giggled and pushed him a little.
As the crowds eventually drifted away, and as the Abbot announced that a great meal, the best that could be made on such short notice, would be prepared, Paul and Ringo wandered off to explore the fabled abbey. Tori almost hadn't noticed John lingering tentatively behind her until he slid up next to her and smiled.
"Well, it'll be a good three hours or so b'fore the tuck's dished out, I guess. D'you, ah, wanna do somethin'? You c'n surely show me ‘round better than I could." He chuckled. "I'd get lost in th'great bloody place. Wouldn't find me f'weeks!" She was immediately hooked by his infectious charm. Her paws were still itching, though, after having discovered that piano.
"I do, in fact, have something I've been contemplating for quite a while. Come with me," she commanded lightly, and bounded toward the stairway. John bowed, impressed with her character, before catching up with her.
"Your wish is my command, Your Most Beautiful and Serene Majesty." he whispered to himself.
The two wolves sat closely together, constricted by the small amount of space the bench Tori had found offered. She set her paws on the keys, and took a breath. John watched, transfixed, as she began singing a sweet melody.
"Baker, baker, bake me a cake. Make me a day, make me whole again..." She hummed a little bit, warming up. She made him jump, as her tempo changed rapidly. "I don't believe I went tooooo, faar." She went into a well-known song she'd written, called "Past The Mission". John knew it, and added his backing vocals to the chorus. She looked at him, pleasantly surprised that he had a good voice. She came to her favorite part, though, and entered her own world.
"Heeey. They found a body. Not sure it was his, still they're using his name and she, gave him shelter. Somewhere, I know she knows. Somewhere, I know she knows. Some things, only she knows..."
* * *
Poe was an inconspicuous figure among the more brawny of the ferrets, but she was nonetheless Widowmaker's top officer. She was deceptively scrawny; tall, but seemingly too thin to inflict any real damage to anyone. She slithered over to Divvilsbain, one of her spies, who was guffawing with some of his mates around a skimpy campfire just behind the boundaries of the forest they'd entered.
"Come with me. Shang's givin' us a new assignment." The fox's face fell slightly, disappointed to be pulled away from his friends, but reluctantly stood up and collected his fighting knives.
Anastasia greeted the pair at the door. "Mother has been expecting you for quite some time," she sniffed nastily.
"Aw, shut it, you double-eyed brat," Poe snapped. "It's colder'n' a body out there. While you three were sitting on your royal derrieres we've been trudgin' through this mess for months." The Widowmaker's younger daughter pursed her lips, and huffily led them to Shang's ornate headquarters. At the curtains that were draped across the door, ransacked from the Trybe's palace before they burned it, with all its court inside, the white fox signaled for them to wait there.
"I'll see if she's in a negotiable mood," she announced pertly.
"Just hurry up," Divvilsbain muttered impatiently, eager to return to his buddies.
Passing Tatyanna said smugly, "I wouldn't be in such a hurry."
"What I wouldn't give for an hour with those two nuisances," Poe growled. "I'd show ‘em who'd be in a negotiable mood..."
"Get your filthy hinds in here and stop shedding on my carpets, you swine!" came a scream from behind the drapery. Tatyanna scampered out, yelling curses at her mother.
"Powerhungry wench! Tawdry dictator!"
"As if you aren't!" Shang shrieked in reply. "I'm your mother, don't you talk to me that way!" she simpered and chuckled as her two confederates stumbled in.
The Widowmaker was decked out in all her cruel lavishness. She lay on layers of pillows and rugs, watching smoky incense curl around the bedposts of the canopied bed of Colvin Wolflord and his wife, Derynai Fioraja. She closed her green eyes luxuriously and breathed deeply in content. She then opened her emeralds and stared right into Poe and through Divvilsbain.
"The spring thaw is close, is it not?"
"It is already well underway, Widowmaker. The birds are singing away the ice and snow and the snowdrops are battling with the streams of melted water."
Shang smiled slightly. "Very poetic." She sighed contemplatively. "Hmm, well. This southern weather, it is very strange here." Shang stood up: she had no need for ornamental weaponry. The wolves fought with their teeth and claws, she now with her deceit and silver tongue. She didn't fight for herself with the horde, but she was ruthless when need be. There were rumors she didn't bother to stop of her defeating an adult male polar bear once. Its skin lay sprawled on the floor, and she stepped unnoticing on its head as she made her way over to a chair.
"We are not moving, though, yes?" she purred, her slight accent like chunks of hard icebergs.
"You had not decided to give us that order, Shang," Poe told her, her contempt for the fox well concealed.
"Ahhh, yes, well...I think it is time that we head toward this southland that your deceased prisoner yearned so for. We are going no closer by sitting here." Divvilsbain became edgy. He knew that the prisoner she spoke of, a mouse with a strange, muddled accent, had died over the past few days while in his keeping.
Shang chuckled, playing with her claws, sensing the fox's fear. "There is no need to fear for your life and wellbeing, fox. You are too valuable an asset to me." She turned to the ferret. "We have remained inert for much too long. Poe, I want you to fetch my daughters. Tell them to sound the southward Call."
"Will that be all, Shang?" Shang waved her off unceremoniously.
"Yes, thank you for your concern, Poe. Leave now." The ferret bowed, and exited. The vixen turned back to Divvilsbain. "I asked you to remain because there is a favor I wish to ask of you." The stout knifethrower stood to attention, surprised by Shang's casualness and trust.
"Anything you ask of me, Widowmaker." Shang arose, her eyes wild like a storm. She smiled glowingly.
"I want you to take Silverweed, that wolf we took prisoner, with you. Keep her on a leash, so the little wretch won't try and run away to Manchester. I want to have her scout the area for runaways and Journeyers. Make her smell them out like a hound."
"And what shall I do when I find them?" he asked thickly. Shang's eyes roared with a primitive, unleashed glee. Her slick voice echoed around the room like water dripping from an icicle in a cave.
"Kill them. Kill them all. I want no trace of them in this area, and I want it to last!"
* * *
The two brothers were singing to keep their spirits up. They were strong, sleek young wolves, fresh on their way to Redwall Abbey from their native home of the great city of Manchester.
"So now what this time?" the smaller wolf, the elder, asked his brother. His lithe sibling, his heavily-lidded, unearthly blue eyes considering, broke out into a raucous,
"Maybe I don't really wanna know how your garden grows, ‘cause I just wanna fly.
Lately did you ever feel the pain of the morning rain that soaks you to the bone?
Maybe I just wanna fly, wanna live don't wanna die.
Maybe I just wanna breathe, maybe I just don't believe.
Maybe you're the same as me, we see things they'll never see."
His brother joined him on the last line. "You and I, we gonna live forever..."
The smaller one nodded. "That's a good one." His little brother beamed.
"That song's a work of genius! Better than most of yer others."
"You sayin' th'rest of my songs're shite?"
"Yeah, if yer in the spirit t'admit that they are!" he fired back, his eyes gleaming. The older wolf leapt at him, snarling, and they engaged in a tremendous struggle. Suddenly, from a nearby grove of trees, they heard a feeble yelp,
"RUN!" Another, painful one followed it, after which a huge, molting fox charged out of the underbrush and sprang on the two. The younger wolf let out a cry of surprise. Unlike them, this fox wasn't jesting.
* * *
The four able survivors were lounging on the western abbey walls, oblivious to the slight chill of mid spring. The afternoon was warm and fresh, with the smell of full honeysuckle on the breeze. They sat recollecting fond memories of the vanquished city of Leedsdown. The view around them was spectacular. Ringo was admiring it when he suddenly noticed a flickering light to the south.
"Hey, look. Someone's down there, looks like wolffolk." Paul and Tori joined him, and peered down. Two wolf-like figures were barely visible through the naked trees: they were apparently sitting around a small fire. Paul's brow furrowed.
"I dunno, they look sorta like coyotes t'me."
"From here, though," John pointed out.
"I'll go down and check," Tori said, and before anyone could stop her, which Paul and Ringo tried to do, she'd darted down the walls, out the gates, and into the undergrowth and was slinking toward the campfire. As she neared, she heard them talking.
"Aye, Noel, so yer sure it's ‘slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball'? What kinda shite lyric's that?"
"Just learn it, Liam, or I'll just ‘ave t'claim it."
"Like ‘ell you will!" the one called Liam shouted, bolting up. Noel calmly told him to sit down and sing. Rebellious and scornful, Liam obeyed, and relaxed. Tori made a signal to the others to come over, but be inconspicuous. When she turned her head back, she was suddenly faced with the towering Noel.
"Here now, ‘oo might you be? Doesn't matter, c'mon over: we need you t'tell uz somethin'." He grabbed her arm and dragged her over. Terrified and stunned, she stumbled over to where he led her and fell down onto a makeshift bench. In the dancing firelight, she moved only her wide open eyes to see who her captors were. The Abbey was only a stone's throw away. She could easily call for help...
Untensing a bit when she saw they were wolves like herself, she began to wonder where they were from. They didn't sound like anyone native to Leedsdown or the boroughs around it, she thought, listening to them argue a bit more. "Miss? Forgive me, we forgot to introduce ourselves." He bowed his head in a respectful nod. "We're the Gallagher brothers of Manchester. I'm Noel and that's our Liam." Liam seemed to fancy Tori, and wasn't shy about it. Tori disregarded his gazes, though.
"There're more of you?" she asked in a near whisper, her heart racing wildly. Noel chuckled, and ignored the question. Lifting up his guitar, he picked out a tune, and Liam began to softly accompany him.
"How many special people change?
How many lives are livin' strange?
Where were you while we were getting high?
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high?
"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova in the sky.
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky."
He noticed out of the corner of his eye three more wolves approaching cautiously. He kept right on singing as if they didn't exist.
"Wake up the dawn an' ask her why.
A dream, a dream, she never dies.
Wipe that tear away now from your eye.
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high?"
He raised his head and bared his soul to the star-dusted night sky.
"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova in the sky.
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky.
"‘Cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer.
But you and I, will never die, the world's still spinnin' ‘round,
y'don't know whyyyyyyy! Whyyyy, whyyy whyyyyyyyyyyy?"
He took a breath and closed his eyes, and gazed up at the sky while Noel deftly played on. When that was over, Liam opened his heavily-lidded blue eyes again and sang tenderly to Tori,
"How many special people change?
How many lives are livin' strange?
Where were you while we were getting high?
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,
where were you while we getting high? Weeeee were getting high?
Weeeee were getting hiiiiiigh, weee were getting high..."
Noel's accompanying "Ooo"s were lullaby-like in the background. As it was winding down, Noel stopped and dropped his guitar, surprised, and leapt up, staring at the three who'd just joined them and were sitting by quietly, listening.
"Fook! I know you! You're the bloody fuckin' Beatles! God!"
"An' you two are th'most talented bastard's I've ever heard!" John replied calmly. "Who're you guys with? I'm almost positive I've ‘eard yeh before. I loved it." Liam was grinning wildly.
"The Beatles, lovin' us. D'you ‘ear that, Noely? Bloody amazin'!"
"D'you like us that much?" Paul asked, surprised.
"We're totally bloody mad for yeh!" Noel cocked his head. "Where's George?"
"He was hurt pretty bad by them foxes. He's at the Abbey."
"Redwall?" Liam asked laconically.
"Yeah, s'matter of fact," Tori answered. I wonder how he is. A cold wind blew from above, and she suddenly felt a pang in her chest. He was not well.
"‘Cause we were on our way to Redwall," Noel remarked off-handedly. "Our mam threw us out of our house an' told us t'go south there. Said a friend o' hers lived there."
"You're practically at the foot of the damn thing," John informed them, his eyes dancing at their blindness. Liam jumped up on their log and ogled for a look and finally spotted the monolithic red house.
"Ah, yeah, guess yer right. See Noely, told yeh you were gone in the ‘ead. Got to get glasses, you ‘ave." Noel ignored his little brother's snide comment. Tori squinted at Liam's chest.
"What happened there?" she asked, concerned. The object of her attention was a patch of matted brown fur. Silvery scars and crusty scabs were slightly visible. Liam fell silent. Noel shifted uncomfortably, and spoke for him.
"We, met some unexpected company."
"Oh really?" John asked.
"Fox," Noel confided. "Armed to t'teeth with knives. He just came outta nowhere an' began tearin' our Liam all t'pieces."
"Me big bro got ‘im good, though, didn't yeh?"
Noel was serious. "We had to kill him. Believe me, he would've us if he'da gotten th'chance." He shuddered at the memory. That poor, thin she-wolf. She just...stumbled out into the clearing and died, right there. How they ran...
"Woulda been a hard day for Mam, eh Noely?"
"She really threw you out?" Paul asked, wide-eyed.
"No, she more told us t'stop stickin' ‘round th'house, that there was a whole wide world out there outside th'streets o' Manchester. We left with a sack o' sandwiches, cookies, an' her clingin' on t'us fer dear life," Liam informed them. "She's a good lass, our mam. Our dad's another story."
"An' our brother," Noel reminded him. "But e's dead, an' not much we can do ‘bout that." Tori burst out in a strangled sob at the word ‘dead'. Paul and Liam were immediately at her side.
"What's wrong, love?"
Liam put a comforting paw round her shoulder. "Now look what yeh've done, Noel, yeh sick twat."
"I did?! Twas you that brought this whole shite issue up!" Liam growled and lunged at his brother. They began fighting wildly.
Tori sat, smiling a little despite her tears. She suddenly stood up and barked, "Hey!" The brothers untangled themselves and looked at her. "You can come if you want. We've got plenty of hot food."
"Food! Now we ‘aven't ‘ad a good meal in months!" Tall and lanky Liam was already racing toward the Abbey, his fire and newfound friends comically forgotten.
* * *
Wynnstream peered down from the gatetops. "Gosh, you all sure are lookin' like a proper liddle pack there! Who're these two?" he called good-naturedly. Liam answered for himself.
"Liam Gallagher, and that's our kid Noel, me brother."
"I assume these two ‘aven't taken y'all pris'ner, now ‘ave they?" Wynnstream chuckled as he heaved at the lever that operated the great wooden gates.
George had been reclining in the warmth the temperamental sun had decided to bless them with. His lazy eyes panned the view of the orchard where that Jakob was laughing merrily and playing a romantic game of tag with a beautiful meadow mouse called Julia. The young mouse always visited him, would always be enraptured by his descriptions of life in Leedsdown. His thoughts turned, and he noticed the gates opening. Two strangers wandered into the Abbey, wide-eyed. He squinted at them, and pulled himself upright to have a better look of them.
They were certainly scruffy, and they looked like they could fight--
(lord knows they'll be needing it they'll need all the fight they have)
--if need be. The larger one had a scar painful just to look at on his chest. Fur was just beginning to really conceal it, but George knew--
(Shang's gotten at this one she has)
--these two could only be brothers. They shared the same menacing undertone and deep blue eyes, heavily-lidded and arrogant.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the messages. But that never worked
(it will for now i'll make it)
(talk to me!)
Oh all right. D'you think they're Journeyers?
(couldn't say fer sure gotta be though look at the fright in their eyes blue like fury though god knows they'll need it in autumn)
"Fates an' seasons!" the larger of the brother wolves yelped. "It's George Flantyr! It's actually George Flantyr!!" The pair reverently approached him. Noel was close to groveling and prostrating himself as he said,
"You are, like, one of my all-time heroes! You're one of the three greatest guitarists of Tundralake!" Flattered by the unexpected hero-worship, he asked, in an attempt to sway the conversation another direction,
"Who're you? I think I've seen you somewhere before."
"Noel Gallagher," he said, drawing himself up proudly. "My old man was the director of the Manchester Symphony. Mam always said I looked like ‘im most."
George whistled admirably. He closed his eyes, and then opened them, asking, "D'you play guitar?"
"Oh, every day," Noel swore. "I'm a fanatic."
"Aye, I'll vouch fer that," his brother added smugly in the background.
George smiled wanly, as that was all his present condition would allow. "Then we'll ‘ave t'jam sometime, won't we."
Liam turned around to Ringo and commented out of the blue, "You know, I somehow always seemed to have imagined you all sort of the same size."
"Oh, no," Ringo chuckled. "Paul an' George are just naturally big, and I'm th'runt of me litter. John's the only normal one between us!"
Liam gazed up at thick ramparts of the Abbey. "My, my, though, you've certainly found yersel's a grand ol' shack, ‘aven't yeh?"
"Sure ‘ave. Twas only luck that brought us ‘ere though. Mind you, if they'd a built this thing five yards further ‘way, George woulda died on us."
"Umm, just wonderin', miss," Noel was asking courteously of Dolores. "D'you ‘ave any recollections of one Amberanne Gallagher? She's certainly told us gobs about you." Dolores's face lit up.
"Amberanne! My goodness, it's been seasons since I saw her! Moved somewhere up north after our traveling days, as I recall."
Noel nodded. "She sure did. She's me an' Liam's mam. Lives up in Manchester Tundralake, just out've th'wake of the invasion by th'foxes." He noticed Tryffen trying to charm a basket of candied chestnuts from Friaress Elena. "Say, s'that one o'them southern ‘ares, what, what talks funny? Never seen one of them up close an' personal b'fore." Tryffen's ears shot up indignantly.
"Here now, talks funny? Listen t‘him, sounds like a bloomin' molechappie himself! Talks funny, huh."
Noel chuckled at the hare's mutterings. Dolores nodded. "Yes, that one's on loan from Salamandastron from a brother of mine, the resident Badger Lord, actually."
"Really?" the wolf inquired. "Well, my my. Seems this Salamandastron's not a myth after all."
The good badger was confused, and a little peeved. "Salamandastron? A myth? Not likely! It protects all of Mossflower country and is a magical place. The whole history of Mossflower is written there, past and future."
Noel shook his head. "Well then, I'll take it you've never heard of Angliaterryn. Not too far from uz, actually." He ambled toward Great Hall, following the crowd of others. "So, tell me about this Salamandastron. I've only heard stories ‘bout it."
* * *
Caxton Sbioann Miahcris stood solemnly before the current Badger Lord of Salamandastron, Antisle Rawnblade the Fiery. The strange arctic hare's cloud-gray eyes remained averted to the ceiling as the enormous badger examined the scroll he'd been presented from the stronghold of Angliaterryn.
Antisle swayed his head back and forth slowly. "No one has heard from the northern white bears in many seasons." He sat back and sighed. "Many, many seasons. They were a legend when Old Lord Brocktree came to this mountain."
Caxton smiled slightly. "I assure you," he replied in a broad, heavy accent, "they are certainly there, Lord."
Antisle sighed, and turned to the hare to his left. "Quinn, tell me, how did you come across this ambassador?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"He came on foot, Milord," the well-built captain replied. "Long Patrol escorted ‘im ‘ere. They found ‘im fairly far north, fer ‘ere, but ‘e's apparently come from a lot further." The badger looked back at Caxton.
"Tell me, who is the head of Angliaterryn? They have been lost to the ages this far south."
"Governor Creenhlay, Lord. Yellowback Creenhlay."
Antisle bowed his head, changing the subject. "This is very serious. If Shang Widowmaker's horde is indeed headed in our direction, we have quite a struggle ahead of us." He looked up again with tears threatening to bead his brown eyes. "And you say that Leedsdown Tundralake has been vanquished?"
"Yes, and possibly Manchester as well," the arctic hare replied sadly.
"Great seasons and ancestors above..." he murmured. "Are there any survivors at all?" Caxton glanced at his feet.
"There...have been rumors through the countryside that I have traveled through, of a great red singing wolf. It could possibly...nay, I dare not hope too greatly..." He turned his head away.
"What? Who?"
Caxton looked back at Quinn and Antisle. "It is well-known fact that Colvin Wolflord and Derynai Fioraja are both slain. Their daughters Paula and Leah and their son Peter were accounted for as dead as well, but Tori Rubyhaer is still an enigma..."
Quinn grew excited. "An' you're sayin' that this great singin' wolfgel could be her?"
"She is our only hope for salvation, it seems." Antisle rested his head on a monstrous paw. "Caxton, could you accompany me? I hate to ask anything of you after your long journey, but I feel you have the missing piece in which to help me."
Caxton bowed his head. "Certainly, Lord."
The far northern messenger followed Antisle through the twisting caverns below the mountain stronghold. His footsteps echoed heavily through the tunnels, as did his heavy breathing.
"Here, stop here," Antisle whispered. Caxton leaned against the wall of the hall, and squinted at the carvings the badger lord was examining under the firelight.
"Tell me, why am I to see these?" Caxton questioned, a little frightened. "These are the halls of the future, meant only for badgers to see."
Antisle shook his head. "What you are looking at are the same prophesies that a mouse, Martin the Warrior of Redwall, gazed upon. Over to my right is the story of Urthstripe the Strong. He rests further down in the passage. Beyond that is the poetry of Sunflash the Mace. This is the history of Mossflower Country and its surrounding areas. But I have never taken the time to look in its skies."
Caxton was confused. "Sir, pardon me for inquiring, but...what skies?"
Antisle lifted his head and searched the ceiling. "Here." His eyes flickered over the writing. He squared his jaw. "It seems it is time for Tryffen to come home." He turned back to the hare. "Lord Yellowback should have given you a package. Do you have it?"
"It hasn't left my side since I departed Angliaterryn."
"Give it to me and wait here," he commanded. The hare handed him a small stone figurine, old and primitively carved, vaguely resembling a wolf, beset with two emeralds as eyes. Antisle Rawnblade silently disappeared into a corridor. He placed the statuette into an eroded crevice, carved by beasts long ago gone to Dark Forest. The light that shone through the two jewels fell on a simple engraving of a great stone building. A great vermin claw was pointed at it. Antisle squinted.
"It is Redwall surely," he muttered to himself. He stepped back, though, and examined it. "But there are no trees. Redwall is in a forest...I know of no other Abbey in the region..." His eyes widened. "Mohaercrest," he whispered cryptically. "Sheryl must go home!"
* * *
Tori sat alone at the piano, which had been moved down to Great Hall, keeping her footpaw on the soft petal so as not to disturb those sleeping in the dormitories. The plaintive calls of nightbirds echoed through the forest outside. She rested her paws on the smooth, cool keyboard, holding back her crying. Bowing her head in an elegant arch of her neck, she listlessly pressed a low G.
The tune began to flock together like an image in a cloud. Lyrics wafted down from the rafters, and she captured them as they struggled beneath her tongue. Tori's eyes were red from withheld tears and sleepiness. She watched as spirits appeared, and danced in graceful Russian circles, waltzing like music boxes. A line parted through them, and she arose, expecting by all rights to see her deceased family and the royal court, her beloved life that had been burned and shattered. But no: her jaw slowly dropped as a mouse lead a short procession through the hole of her past. Was it Michael? It certainly looked like him...
"Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer," he said at length, with the ease and understanding of a breezy summer day. "Your battle will come soon enough. Enjoy what you have whilst you still have the time to."
"What right have you to tell me to enjoy while I have it?" she whimpered angrily. "What knowledge have you of war and hatred and loss, Michael? You've never been beyond this Abbey, I'm sure of it!"
"Michael, backwards through many others," the strange mouse said, the light confident smile never leaving his lips. "Through Mariel and Dandin, through Samkim and Arula, through Bryony and Togget, through countless hares, badgers, otters..." The phantasm bowed his head. "All the way back, even to and beyond Rose, Felldoh, and Gonff. You see, I too once lost everyone and everything." Tori's drooping eyes widened.
"You must be..." It went understood and unspoken. Martin the Warrior smiled again, his gray eyes shining brightly.
"Keep your fire, Tori. You will use it to burn out the evil scourge of Shang Widowmaker and her daughters. Tori?" The mouse leaned forward to her, his face suddenly worried. He shook her shoulder.
"Tori?" The ghosts dissipated, and the northern princess was left staring at another restless soul. Noel, concerned, offered a paw. "C'mon, dear, y've been up harf th'bloody night. Get some sleep, luv."
* * *
The white fox paced restlessly through the field. The horde had been deflected off course by unexpected guerrilla attacks. They were now hopelessly tangled in the mountains, and every few days, her sentries were being picked off for food by the mountain eagles and falcons. Unused to the harsh conditions of the peaks and impasses, mutinies were beginning to kindle: she could feel it.
Poe watched Shang brooding. "Widowmaker, perhaps if we captured some of the inhabitants," she offered, "one of the smaller birds, perhaps, or a marten? They would surely show us maybe a pass or a gap through these infernal mountains?"
The vicious white fox shook her head. "And where would we find one of these invaluable scouts? No, Polewski," Poe straightened slightly as her full title was used, "we must do this ourselves. I think our only solution, however, is either backing out or trudging through."
"Shang," the ferret ventured, "the troops, they will not like that either way."
"I know that! Don't you think I don't know that?!" She sat down on a rock and rested her chin upon a paw. "But what to do, what to do!" Shang arose, and began pacing again. " Hmm, mayhaps I'm just being paranoid. Poe, fetch one of my spies. I need to find a conspiracy before I can destroy it."
* * *
Putwer and Shaftclaw were both foxes whose grumblings had exceeded the bounds of each other. Nightly, around their campfires, as they shivered against the high mountain winds and inhospitable ground, mates would gather and share complaints and doubts about the Widowmaker's trek southward.
"Huh, who's to even say this glorious southland even exists? It's only gotten colder th'further south we've gone!" Shaftclaw growled as he shoved the pine branch into the fire in an attempt to kindle the meager flames. Three other foxes, two weasels, and a stoat coughed and cursed as the stick produced noxious smoke.
"Garr, learn t'handle a fire properly, dunder'ead!" a weasel, Cawfrent, snarled.
"Hah, betcha the fox couldn't learn t'do that ‘erself," Rankwhisker, the stoat, laughed humorlessly. "While we're freezin' t'death up here, she's probably feastin' wid those two brats of hers in front of a fireplace!"
Putwer shook his head mournfully. "I tells yeh, t'ain't fair, mates. We're livin' like bloody oarslaves wi' nary a crust betwixt us, an' she probably don't even know up from down t'get us out've here!"
Cawfrent's companion looked down at his dagger, as it glittered coldly in the chill light. "That fox might be pretty, but I betcha she'd look a lot prettier inside out, wid this between ‘er ribs!"
"An' how's would yer plan on doin' that, Vimple?"
The weasel looked into the firelight. "Wouldn't be too ‘ard. With Poe snawin' away outside ‘er tent, and Anastasia an' Tatyanna off amusin' theyselves..." He trailed off suggestively.
One of the foxes stood up and stretched. "I'm with yeh, mate! That would solve a passle of our problems, an' I'll be party to it." Ribsy then shivered. "But I'm off to a good forty winks afore I do any murderin'. This cold makes th'paw that wolf got at all throbbin'." Stiffly, he made his way to the niche he'd dug out in the snow.
"Aye, I'm with Ribsy too," Rankwhisker agreed. "I'd rather be dreamin' ‘bout some warm island than shiverin' an' plottin' at this hour." The gang was addressed one last time by Shaftclaw.
"But when we meets ‘ere tomorrer, bring yer skinnin' knives an' such. We got's a job ter do, remember that!"
Cawfrent and Vimple trudged away through the rocks and bone-biting snow. Cawfrent turned to Vimple. "So, should we report t'Widowmaker now?"
"Nah, maybe we should get Poe first. She'd be easier t'get through to."
* * *
The twin beacons of Anastasia and Tatyanna atop a high perch on either side of the vast horde had been long absent. Now they stood on juts of rock above the valley, howling in an unearthly cadence, an echo stolen from the wolves. Instinctively, they silently assembled before the line of flags and skulls perched on spears.
The widowmaker fox had decked herself out in some of her barbaric finery. She'd capped her fangs in silver, and dyed the area around her eyes jet black, causing her haunting, captivating eyes to stand out even more. A necklace, strung with the teeth and claws of Colvin and Derynai, adorned her neck.
"Rivenkeepers!" she called. "Bring forth the traitors!!" Seven huge Norwegian rats, each holding a chain lead of one of the campfire would-be assassins, prodded forth Putwer, Shaftclaw, Rankwhisker, Ribsy, and the three other foxes; Hankfur, Neoparn, and Shornear. Each of the trembling vermin had been whipped, maimed, tortured, and beaten. They were now bound together in a slave line.
"Parade them!" Shang commanded. The horde watched, horrified, as some of their best fighters were dragged through each rank, pleading, tripping, sobbing, and yelping. Above the stunned silence, the leader fox's voice rose. "So, Winterchildren, you see what happens to the fools who doubt me and plot against me! You have called me soft, yes. You have called me lost, and you have said I am losing my grip!" The horde shrank back at her fury. "Well, I may be a mother, but merciful, I am not!" When the Rivenkeepers had made a full circle of the army, the prisoners were brought up onto a ledge above a pond. They cringed away from the edge, ignoring their comrades' stares as they shivered, stumbled, and wailed.
"SILENCE!" Widowmaker roared. "I am as coldhearted as you soon will be!" One of the Rivenkeeper rats kicked Ribsy, the largest of the group, off the ledge. The unfortunate hordebeasts struggled to stay on the ground, but each slowly fell, linked together and suspended by the chains, and finally they plummeted into the freezing water. "I know something these clods did not, nor did they think I did! I know a way out of here! And we move now!" Her daughters began howling again: Go south. Shang's examples now bobbed in the water, either frozen to death or pitifully beseeching passing mates to help them out. But either way, they were chained to death in two places, and Shang Widowmaker had earned a new title: Coldhearted!
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