Martin The Warrior (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  ‘That’s enough. Bring him to me!’

  His paws pinioned by whips and a spear handle pulled hard across his throat, the young mouse was dragged struggling and kicking into the stoat Lord’s presence.

  Badrang drew his sword and pressed the point against the young one’s heaving chest. Leaning forward, he hissed into the captive’s face, ‘You know the penalty is death for attacking one of my horde. I could run you through with my sword right now and snuff out your life. What d’you say to that, mouse?’

  The strong young mouse’s eyes burned into the Tyrant’s face like twin flames as he gritted out, ‘Scum! That sword is not yours, it belongs to me as it belonged to my father!’

  Badrang withdrew the swordpoint. He sat back, shaking his head slowly in amazement at the boldness of the creature in front of him.

  ‘Well well, you’re not short of nerve, mouse. What’s your name?’

  The answer was loud and fearless.

  ‘I am called Martin, son of Luke the Warrior!’

  ‘See the roving river run

  Over hill and dale

  To a secret forest place,

  O my heart, Noonvale.

  Look for me at dawning

  When the sun’s reborn

  In the silent beauty

  Twixt the night and morn.

  Wait till the lark ascends

  And skies are blue.

  There where the rainbow ends

  I will meet you.’

  The mousemaid Rose sat quite still as the last tremulous notes of her song hovered on the evening air. From a vantage point in the rocks south of Marshank she looked out to sea. The water was tinted gold and scarlet from soft cloud layers, reflecting the far westering sun at her back. Below on the shore an ebbing tide gurgled and chuckled small secrets to itself as it lapped the pebbles.

  ‘Hurr Miz Roser, you’m cumm an’ get this yurr supper. Oi bain’t a-cooken vittles to lay abowt an’ git cold ’n’ soggy. Bo urr no.’

  Rose’s companion Grumm waved a heavy digging paw at her, and the mousemaid wandered over to join her mole friend at the low fire he had been cooking on. She sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Hmm, wild oatcakes and vegetable soup! Good old Grumm, you could make a banquet from nothing.’

  Grumm smiled, his dark velvety face crinkling around two bright button eyes. He waved the tiny ladle which he always carried thrust through his belt like a sword.

  ‘Hurr, an’ you udd charm’ee burds outener trees with yurr sweet talken, mizzy. Set’ee daown an’ eat oop.’

  Rose accepted the deep scallop shell full of fragrant soup. Placing her oatcake on a flat rock across the fire to keep it warm, she shook her head as she sipped away.

  ‘You’re worse than an old mousewife, Grumm Trencher. I wager you’d rock me to sleep if I let you.’

  Grumm wagged the small ladle at her. ‘Hurr aye, you’m needen all yore sleep. Urrmagine wot yore ole dad’d say iffen oi brought ’ee ’ome tired out an’ a-starved, hoo arr!’

  The mousemaid took a hasty bite of oatcake, fanning her mouth. ‘Oo, ’s hot! There’ll be no sleep for us until we’ve found out whether or not Brome is held captive in that dreadful fortress.’

  Grumm wiped his ladle clean with some sedge grass. ‘May’ap ole Brome jus’ a-wandered off ’n’ got losed, may’ap ’ee bain’t catchered in yon fortress.’

  Rose shook her head.

  ‘You must understand, Grumm, the name Brome and the word trouble go together. He was always in trouble with Father at home – that’s why he went off wandering. You weren’t there at the time but they had a furious argument over Brome just taking off and roaming as he pleased. Father said it was no way for the son of a Chieftain to learn his responsibilities, but Brome wouldn’t listen, he ran off alone. Well, we’ve tracked him this far, Grumm, and I’m certain that my brother has run straight into trouble again. That’s why I’m sure he’s been taken by Badrang’s scouts. I hope that he hasn’t been forced to tell them where Noonvale is. The whole tribe of Urran Voh would be in danger if Brome gave away our location to that filthy Tyrant.’

  Grumm refilled Rose’s shell with vegetable soup.

  ‘Doant’ee fret, mizzy. Ole Brome can keepen his’n mouth shutted toighter’n a mussel at low toide, ho urr!’

  The mousemaid unwound the throwing sling from about her waist. ‘I hope you’re right, Grumm. I’d hate to think of the things those vermin would do to a young mouse to get information.’

  The mole patted Rose’s back gently with a heavy digging claw. ‘Doant’ee wurry, Roser. Us’ll get ole Maister Brome out’n yon pest’ole iffen him be in thurr.’

  When they had finished eating they extinguished the fire and broke camp. A stiff breeze had sprung out of the east, bringing with it a light spatter of raindrops which threatened to get heavier as night set in.

  Scrambling down the rocks, the two friends gained the shore, their paws making soft chinking noises as they trotted through the shingled tideline. Marshank stood grim and forbidding up ahead, a dark hump of misery in the moonless night.

  2

  THE OLD SQUIRREL Martin had saved peered through the cracks of the wooden slave compound at the lone figure tied between two posts on the walltop above the main gates. His son, a burly male named Felldoh, stood behind the elder. He gritted his teeth savagely.

  ‘The scurvy toads, they’ll pay for this someday!’

  Barkjon, the old one, shook his head sadly. ‘Martin will have a bad time tonight if the weather gets worse.’

  Felldoh thumped a sturdy paw against the wooden compound fence. ‘It’s the morning I’m more worried about, when the gannets and gulls and those other big hungry sea birds come searching for food and see him tied up there. They’ll rip Martin to bits!’

  A weasel guard called Rotnose banged his spearbutt on the fence alongside Barkjon’s nose.

  ‘Gerraway from there, you two, or you’ll be next up there with the mouse. Double work for you tomorrow. Get some sleep while you can. Sweet dreams now, hawhawhaw!’

  Floodtide returned, bringing with it a storm. The gale shrieked, driving heavy rain before it. On the walltop Martin bowed his head against the battering elements. It was all that he could do, tied as he was by four paws between two thick wooden posts. Rain plastered the single frayed garment he wore close to his body, and the wetness ran down his back, into his ears, across his eyes and over his nose into his mouth, battering his bowed head and numbing his whole body, which shook and quivered in the ceaseless gale. He hung there, like a rag doll in the wind.

  Martin’s mind went back to the caves on the northwest shore where he had been born. Luke the Warrior was his father. He had never known a mother; she had been killed in a searat raid when he was a tiny infant. Luke had raised him the best way he could, but Luke was a warrior and sworn to the destruction of searats and corsairs. He was unused to rearing babies.

  Martin was only two seasons out of infancy when his father and some other warriors captured a searat galley after a hard pitched battle on the shoreline. Flushed with success and driven by the awful rage to take vengeance upon his wife’s murderers, Luke the Warrior gathered a crew and decided to sail off in his prize vessel, to wage war on the searats. Martin remembered he was still very young, but fired with a determination to accompany his father. Luke, however, would not hear of it. He left Martin in the care of his wife’s mother Windred. The day he sailed Martin sat stonefaced outside the cave. Luke could not reason with him.

  ‘Son, son, you would not last two moons out there on the high seas. I cannot risk your life pitting you in battle against the sea scum I am sworn to do war with. Listen to me, I know what is best for you!’

  But Martin would not listen. ‘I want to sail on the ship and be a warrior like you!’

  Luke spread his paws wide and sighed with frustration. ‘What am I going to do with you, Martin? You have my warrior spirit and your mother’s determination. Listen, son, take my sword.’

  It was
a fighting sword and well used. Luke pressed it into his son’s paws. The young mouse gazed wide-eyed at the battle-scarred blade and gripped the handle tight as if he would never let go.

  Luke smiled, recalling the time when his father had passed the sword on to him. Tapping a paw against the crosshilt, Luke said, ‘I can see it is in you to be a fighter, Martin. The first thing warriors must learn is discipline.’

  Martin felt as though the sword were speaking for him. ‘Tell me what to do and I will obey.’

  Relief surged through Luke as he commanded the would-be warrior. ‘You will stay and defend our cave against all corners, protect those weaker than yourself and honour our code. Always use the sword to stand for good and right, never do a thing you would be ashamed of, but never let your heart rule your mind.’

  He tapped the blade once more as its pitted edge glinted in the winter morning.

  ‘And never ever let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as you live. When the time comes, pass it on to another, maybe your own son. You will know instinctively if he is a warrior. If not, hide the sword where only a true warrior who is brave of heart, would dare go to find it. Swear this to me Martin.’

  ‘I swear it, on my life!’ The young mouse’s grey eyes reflected the wintry sea as he spoke.

  Coming back to reality, Martin lifted his head in the teeth of the gale. Was it a tear, or just rain running from his eyes as he pictured the small figure standing upon the pebbled strand alone, waving the sword in a warrior’s salute as his father’s ship was lost on the horizon in an afternoon of snow and icy winter spume.

  Martin’s head slumped on to his sodden chest as he recalled the day of his capture. Timballisto was a budding warrior, several seasons Martin’s senior. He had been left in charge of the tribe by Luke. The young mouse resented his older friend’s authority and often showed it by wandering far along the coast, away from the safe boundaries of the caves. It was on one such day that Martin took his father’s sword, following the tideline north until the short winter afternoon began darkening. He was busy chopping away with the great blade at a driftwood log, reasoning that he could not be scolded for bringing back firewood to the cave fires.

  Windred saw him from afar. She had been following his pawtracks since early noon; they stood out clearly in the smooth wet sand, marked with a straight furrow where the swordpoint trailed at Martin’s side. She hurried forward scolding her grandson. ‘Martin! I’ve been out of my mind with worry. What have you been told about going off alone? D’you realise you’re almost a league from the caves?’

  Suddenly Windred stopped berating him. She was staring beyond Martin to where a band of villainous-looking creatures were running along the shore towards them. The old mouse threw off her shawl. ‘Martin, come to me. We must get away from here. Quickly!’

  The young mouse turned and saw the corsairs. Dropping the firewood, he took up the sword in both paws. ‘Run Grandma!’

  Windred would not have run anyway, but she was rooted to the spot with fear. A stoat headed the band. They stopped within two paces of their victims. The stoat grinned wickedly. ‘That’s a big sword for a little mouse to be wielding. You’d better give it to me before you hurt yourself.’

  The sword was heavy and Martin’s paws were tired, but he held it point forward, unwavering. ‘Leave us alone, stay back! My father told me never to let another creature take this sword from me!’

  Now the corsairs began spreading out slowly, encircling Martin and Windred, licking knives and spearblades as they chuckled evilly at the old mouse and the small would-be warrior. The stoat took a pace forward, his voice deceptively friendly. ‘A wise beast your father. Did he ever tell you about those who could slay with a single spear thrust? Like this . . . or this!’ As he spoke the stoat brought up his spear and began jabbing expertly at Martin. The young mouse parried, fighting off the questing spearpoint amid the laughter of the cruel corsairs.

  At a nod from the stoat a weasel ran forward from behind Martin. He dealt the young mouse a heavy blow with an oaken pikestaff, laying him out flat on the sand. Badrang picked up the sword. Stepping over Martin’s senseless body, he winked at Windred. She was held tight between two searats, tied and gagged by her own shawl, eyes wide with terror. The stoat stared along the swordblade at her.

  ‘Well Grandma, he’s a bold brat, that one of yours. Hmm, nice sword. It should serve me well. Hisk, we’ve wasted enough time. Chain these two up and get ’em back to the slavelines.’

  Shackled to Windred, Martin was half-dragged, half-carried further north along the wintry shore into the gathering night.

  It was in the short hours before dawn that Martin came awake, shivering and moaning as a fiery drum of relentless pain beat inside his skull. Whips cracked; he was pulled upright by other slaves as the chain began moving.

  Then came the long march. . . . Two seasons, trekking under the rods and whips of slavedrivers, tied by the neck to a succession of wretched creatures, all captives together. He lost count of the days. They rolled interminably on into spring, summer then autumn, with Windred long dead from hunger, thirst and hardship under the lash.

  Martin recalled his grief for the old mousewife, the closest he had ever come to knowing a mother: his stifled tears and the leaden weight of sadness at her loss, the feeling of loneliness and desolation without her. She had deserved far better a fate than the one she suffered. His body began trembling at the thought of the vermin who had caused all of this cruelty.

  Badrang!

  The laughing, sneering, commanding stoat, swaggering along wearing the sword he had taken from Martin.

  A strength born of built-up rage coursed suddenly through the young mouse. He stood erect, tugging at his bonds, oblivious to the pounding storm as a mighty roar welled up from deep inside him.

  ‘I am a warrior! Martin son of Luke! I will live, I will not give in and die up here! Do you hear me, Badrang? I will live to take back my father’s sword and slay you one day! Badraaaaaaaannggg!’

  Stormwater filled his mouth, rushing winds tore at his face.

  ‘Martin son of Luke, can you hear me?’ a voice called up to him from the shore outside the fortress.

  He could not see the speaker but he heard the voice clearly above the gale.

  ‘Yes, I hear you. What is your name?’

  ‘There are two of us, my friend Grumm Trencher the mole and myself, Laterose, daughter of the Chieftain Urran Voh. We heard you calling out. Tell me, is there a prisoner in there called Brome, a young mouse? He is my brother.’

  Martin could feel the storm beating the senses from him. He rallied and shouted back. ‘I do not know of a mouse called Brome and I don’t think I’ll have much chance to. I am sentenced to die up here, Laterose.’

  The answer came back in as kindly a tone as the mousemaid could shout under the circumstances.

  ‘Laterose is my full title. Please call me Rose. My friend and I will do anything possible to help you, though we cannot climb up – the walls are too sheer and high. What can we do? Is there a message you wish carried to another creature?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No message. I am alone. The guards told me that if I live through the night the big sea birds will finish me off in the morning. Is there any way you can keep them off me?’

  Rose thought for a moment before answering.

  ‘Maybe, yes. We are not warriors, but we can use our slings. Also I know a trick to drive sea birds away.’

  She waited, but there was no reply. Grumm stepped away from the wall, out on to the beach, shading his eyes against the downpour as he gazed up at the limp figure slumped between the posts.

  ‘Yurr, ee’m lost ’is senses, fallen aconshuss, if’n you ask oi, pore creetur!’

  Rose joined Grumm, and together they watched the unconscious form sway slackly as the elements assaulted it. The mousemaid chose a hard round pebble and fitted it to her sling.

  ‘We must help him to live, we must!’ Her lip quivered as she
spoke. ‘Ooh that Badrang, the cruel cowardly, heartless vermin . . .’

  Grumm chuckled softly. ‘Noice wurrds fer a mousey-maid, oi must say. Hurr hurr, him’n ull live sure ’nuff, iffen ’ee be arf as ill-tempurred as ’ee, mizzy.’

  3

  DAWN CAME PEARLY grey, shot with shafts of peach and dusky pink as the sun broke the eastern horizon in the wake of the night storm. The sea was a dim shade of oily turquoise, with cream-crested waves in the middle distance. Badrang the Tyrant had his carved throne chair brought out on to the courtyard, where he could watch the fun. Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox stood along with two weasels called Lumpback and Stiffear, awaiting orders as the Tyrant stoat pointed to Martin’s limp figure with his sword.

  ‘He looks strong enough to have lived through a bit of wind and rain. Gurrad, go and wake the sleeping beauty. When he’s conscious and wriggling about, the birds’ll soon spot him.’

  Gurrad sniggered as he looked up at the circling sea birds that were beginning to mass above the fortress.

  ‘Aye, Lord, that lot look in good appetite as usual, eh?’

  Badrang nodded. ‘Never knew a gannet that wasn’t. Ho there, Hisk! Don’t send the slaves to the quarry yet, parade ’em out here where they can see the sentence being carried out. It’ll show ’em what happens to anybeast who puts a paw wrong in my fortress.’

  Gurrad slapped Martin around the face with a wet piece of rag until the young mouse revived. He held a beaker of fresh water to the captive’s lips, chuckling as the prisoner drank greedily.

  ‘That’s the stuff. Drink up now, mouse. Those sea birds’ll soon be down for breakfast. Hehee, look at ’em, big uns, ain’t they? Great pointed beaks they’ve got, good as a knife fer rippin’ an’ tearin’. They’ll enjoy you . . .’

  Martin managed to spit the last of the water full into Gurrad’s face. The rat backed off, spluttering nastily.