Tales of Whiteheart

[Steelinghades]

While I do have a Fanfic already going on this site, I figured I may as well post my older one that I'm also working on.


Arc One: Awakening
Chapter One: Memories

Whiteheart was unusual for a fox, all of the Horde knew this and had known this since the day he was born. Though his parents often tried their best to ignore this, It should be mentioned they never truly succeeded at this.

His fur was as white as snow except for a few areas that were black, including all four of his paws, his bottom jaw and curiously a half circle black pattern on his ears.

He was known to be rather reserved and quiet, almost anti-social in his habit of avoiding every other beast of the Horde, but most startling for many happened when he was eleven seasons old and was just starting to have proper combat training, whereas before everything he knew was simple brawling and paw-to-paw.

He was given a sword, a basic worn arming sword, and facing him was one of the older and seemingly more skilled hordebeasts, an eighteen season old rat who also bore an arming sword.

Such a contest was designed to allow the horde's leaders to see if anyr of the beasts had natural skill, for if they did, it was possible they'd be recruited into the Claw, the elite fighters of the Horde, occasional elite scouts and assassins and the personal guards of their wolverine master.

So there Whiteheart was, matched against an older fighter, many of those watching thought they were about to see him defeated, because though Whiteheart was tenacious and had a habit of refusing to give up, it wasn't possible for him to win against somebeast with seven seasons of experience. Or so they thought.

For as the fight began, and Whiteheart darted forward with a series of rapid jabs, they saw instantly a masterful skill over the blade. The white fox seemingly danced in and out of his foe's guard, a flash of steel and smack of flesh told them that the fox had just struck his foe with the sword's flat.

Enraged, the rat had continued his attack, redoubling his efforts and ignoring the call for the fight to end.

But the rat fighter didn't listen, parrying and slashing, the sounds of steel on steel rang through the small clearing as fox and rat fought for real and in that instant, those watching saw Whiteheart's true talent.

Every blow, every parry, every step; it was all perfect, without a single wasted bit of energy or needless movement, Whiteheart moved like a true swordmaster, who held few equals within the Horde and really, only the Horde's master had a guaranteed victory against the fox.

And as Whiteheart executed a brilliant disarm and robbed the rat fighter of his blade, his entrance in the Claw was guaranteed.

His entrance into the Claw was fairly standard and he accepted the position quickly enough. He quickly became known for his supreme skills in regards to the art of combat.

Despite this supreme skill, many were still wary of the strange fox, for as he grew older, his strange habits multiplied. For many of the beasts of the Horde, this compounded the gossip that sprang around concerning the pale furred fox.
He would often stay awake at night, eat little and often stare at the moon and off to the east.

Far to the west they knew lay the mountain of Salamandastron and the vicious and supremely skilled hares of the Long Patrol, but to the east, few knew what lay in that direction, but those that did refused to speak about it. When pressed, they would often be heard merely mumbling:

"That way lies death, for there lies a foe who sits within bloodied walls with the bones of thousands laying around them."

And superstitious as all Vermin were, this made the Horde—at least the rank and file—nervous around the exceptionally skilled fox.

Sometimes he would disappear for a couple days and return bloodied, but fine. Their wolverine master, Chilldeath—named for the harshness of his previous far northern home, would let Whiteheart do his disappearing acts without complaint, knowing that despite his rather weird habits he was a supremely loyal beast, startlingly loyal in fact, friendly too once you dove passed his strange habits and the air of mystic he held about himself.

It was often said about Whiteheart that he was touched by the spirits, seemingly able to predict malicious events and stop them from occurring.

The most glaring of which was when a member of the horde had attempted to kill Chilldeath.

During the summer when Whiteheart was thirteen, he had approached the wolverine tyrant and announced he'd like to stay in his tent when the warlord went to sleep, saying he had a 'bad feeling' about that night.

If it was any other beast, even one of his Claw, he would have refused and found the entire situation questionable and suspicious, but everybeast knew of Whiteheart's seemingly otherworldly habits, so he agreed and he was thankful for agreeing seasons later.

Chilldeath was awoken in the middle of the night by the thumping of paws and singing steel. A sound he knew very well.

Waking in an instant, he beheld through blurry eyes as Whiteheart danced around a tall, lanky ferret—who Chilldeath recognized as one of his lower officers among the fighters—both with daggers flashing and teeth bared in snarls.

For the first time Chilldeath saw Whiteheart wounded, with small cuts along his flanks and arms from the dagger of the Ferret Assassin.

Rising from his bed with an ear rattling roar, Chilldeath had grabbed the closest thing at paw, a small chest he kept various bits and pieces in and threw it, right into the ferrets sternum. The blow had launched the ferret assassin outside of the small tent, and the roar had brought the rest of the Claw running, swords glinting in the dim light of dying campfires and soon enough they illuminated the life essence of a slain ferret.

Those of the Claw who had heard his request to Chilldeath earlier that day were now watching him with something akin to awe or reverence, in that moment they looked upon him and started to believe the otherworldly rumors around the Horde about him and he earned a title that day, that of the Pale Phantom. For his white fur and his seemingly confirmed preternatural capabilities, it brought his fighting skills to a whole new light and many started to wonder if he was an ancient warrior come to protect their warlord and help him achieve great things.

Whiteheart didn't say much of anything, not when the Claw asked him pointed questions, nor when the majority of the Horde started gossiping again, nor when his parents asked. But when Chilldeath asked, he said but one simple thing.
"Memories."

-

"So this is where you disappear to, Whiteheart." A calm female voice said from behind him.

The pale fox turned his head slightly, just enough for him to see the vixen behind him in his peripheral. "I like it here, It's quiet and allows me some time for introspection away from the excitement of the horde."

A snort left the vixen before she walked up his left side and joined him in staring into the small pond the Claw had claimed as his own.

Freya didn't exactly know what reason Whiteheart needed for Introspection, but considering he disappeared—and presumably came here—at least twice a week, she had to assume it was serious. "Does quiet Introspection include hurting yourself? Or is there a different reason you sometimes came back bloody?"

Whiteheart smiled softly, "Sometimes I run into other beasts out here, random robbers, bloodthirsty Woodlanders, and so on. Sometimes they leave on their own without a fight, sometimes I have to make them run away with their tail between their leg and sometimes." His voice grew quiet, "They don't leave and I have to bury their corpse in the woods."

Ignoring his melancholy, Freya mused aloud. "You really shouldn't be so surprised at running across so many beasts near here. The Central Path is just behind us." And if there was a small tinge of fear in her voice as she spoke of the Path, well, it was entirely deserved in her opinion.

She was one of the few who knew what truly lay to the east of them, that had so many bad rumours about it.

To the east of the Horde, or well, the south east, lay the great Woodlander fortress of Redwall, a brutal and terrifying presence that was far too near them for her own comfort.

Whiteheart cocked his head to the side, "That is true admittedly, but I think there is something more to this pond, something almost....spiritual." Whiteheart frowned, "Can't really say how I know that, but I just do."

"Once more Whiteheart, I don't think you realize just how weird you are."

Smirking he responded, "I know exactly how weird I am, that's why I'm not freaking out over all this stuff that happens to me."

Choking back her snickers, she managed to say. "I should probably get going, I just came to see where you always go to and let you know that the cooking fires are lit, It'll be time for the afternoon meal in a while." Finished with her part, she turned and started away but stopped after a few steps, "By the way. Why aren't you with Lord Chilldeath?"

"He told me to go take a break," He said. "Not really like I know what that is."

"Workaholic," She barked over her shoulder as she disappeared into the woods, heading back to the Horde's camp.

"Yeah," he muttered once the vixen was out of hearing range and waited another moment until her scent had faded, before he added. "I'm well aware of how strange I am, how unnatural my dreams are, how all of it should be impossible."

His eyes flocked back to the pond's surface as he drank in his features, handsome and dashing—if he believed the vixens of the Horde, he knew practically nothing about that—for a fox. And skilled too, and that skill was often what brought him out here to gaze into the pond.

At fifteen seasons old now, he was a lot more intelligent then he'd been at eleven and his thought processes didn't quite skip over his raw skill with the blade as they used to.

He'd never been trained by anybeast in the Horde, that he knew for absolute certainty, yet he fought with the skill and experience of a twenty season veteran of armed combat. Capable with all manner of weapons, though his skills were greatest with the sword and dagger. He knew what this was from.

The memories.

The memories that shouldn't be in his head, memories he at times couldn't believe.

His life in the northlands, slavery and the great pain that brought, traveling south, a rebellion he helped along, a mountain on the sea and more. Chief among these memories, and often the most alarming of them all, were the flashes of a great wildcat, armoured and cruel, he met her, sword against claw on the shores of a lake. She was mad, going insane from the water and he was trying to kill her.

He remembered a fortress under construction, he remembered a ship stuck between great pillars of stone out at sea.
He remembered some, but not all, what he was was blank whenever he thought of it. Many of the creatures he saw were shadows, not truly clear, with the exception of the wildcat. But what he did remember was the lifetime of pain and suffering, a lifetime of battle, an old love slain without mercy and with great cruelty.

His powers he couldn't remember with clarity, but he knew they were there, could almost feel them and he knew a string of words, words that were of great importance to him, and he often sat and wondered about these words, why they were so important to him.

"I am that is." He whispered.

[Steelinghades]

Arc One: Awakening
Chapter Two: The Players in the Game


It was a few hours later when Whiteheart returned to the Horde's camp, relieved slightly after spending some time near the pond, but also growing somewhat restless, with an increasing desire to get away from the camp for a bit of time.
Not that he would admittedly, he would never abandon his post or responsibilities, his trips to the pond being one of the only exceptions. Though his Lord did know about them.

Lifting his snout he scented the air and grimaced at the smell of roasting bird, he'd always preferred fish, though he never quite understood why.

Shrugging, he muttered. "Food is food, aunt Drena'll tan my tail if I say anything." He grinned crookedly, "I ain't nearly as dumb as Ceprik."

Snickering to himself as he thought over the last time his adoptive father had opened his mouth and got in trouble with his adoptive mom, he added. "That was our last stirring spoon too, too bad she broke it over his head."

Ahead of him, Whiteheart could begin to make out the palisade wall surrounding the camp, outside of those palisade walls was a trench twenty paws deep and nearly thirty eight across. A number of beasts were visible across the wall, all standing on the platforms set up behind the palisade wall, which was composed of two layers of logs, sharpened at the top to make it difficult to crawl over.

Approaching the eastern gate, Whiteheart eyed the sub-commander currently in charge over the gate with a weary reluctance.

Sub-commander Buckfang was the very same rat fighter Whiteheart had bested during his first real fight, the fight that had landed him in the Claw.

Buckfang had never truly forgiven Whiteheart for besting him that day, not that the rat could actually do anything about it. Whiteheart was a Claw, far above the basic fighter that Buckfang served as and thus immune to any machinations the petty rat may attempt. Though with his more preternatural qualities, such attempts to catch him off guard almost always failed.

Though his abilities were admittedly not perfect.

A season ago a pair of Long Patrol hares had stumbled onto him at the pond he frequented. He hadn't seen them coming and had had to fight desperately against some of the continents greatest fighters. Though he'd won, he had been stabbed in the side.

Though the Horde's healers had done an excellent job of patching him up.

From that point on, Whitheart had stopped relying so much on his strange memories and battle instincts and his preternatural capabilities. Instead he'd started training himself, pushing his body to the limit repeatedly to grow faster and more skilled, he had also trained his sense of smell and hearing to pick out the slightest variations in the environment around him, or so he liked to believe. In actuality, Whiteheart hadn't really had a lot of chances to test out how trained his senses were.

Not that that was unexpected though, he was Claw, his position was beside Chilldeath and not trundling around the underbrush hounding after scents like a common tracker.

Shifting from paw to paw, Whiteheart nodded to Buckfang and rumbled. "Sub-commander, open the gates if you please."

Grimacing, the rat nodded and motioned to the quartet of fighters on either side of the gate, who proceeded to open the gates—a pair of heavy pine gates with a simple iron bolt as a lock and at least seven centimeters thick.
Swinging outwards, the gates opened to a sight of controlled chaos.

As usual the sight of the camp of Chilldeath's horde always brought warmth to Whiteheart's heart, around seven hundred adult beasts and numerous younglings were noisy, chaotic and rather cramped inside the palisade of the Camp.

But, it was home.

Atop the gate were a pair of iron poles topped with a bronze spearhead, from which soared Chilldeath's emblem. A black wolverine's head on a field of foggy white-grey, this was the image emblazoned on the surcoats of the Horde, on their shields and their banners.

Whiteheart's Claw robes lacked this emblem, though his more battle appropriate attire did have a surcoat and thus his leader's symbol.

Passing the maille—Interlocking rings of iron or steel, or very rarely, bronze—and gambeson—thick cloth capable of protecting against blades and bows—clad gate guards, Whiteheart began to meander his way through the mud and smoke and noise of The Camp. He received a few nods, mostly from the more elite and informed warriors of the horde—the lower ranked and less in the know fighters tended to shy away from him.

The stories they told each other about him were frankly ridiculous.

"Whiteheart!"

Stopping, the pale fox turned and lifted a brow at the tall, female rat standing behind him. She was bedecked in a fine surcoat, proudly bearing the Horde's symbol, with steel and iron plate on her limbs and a cuirass over her torso, a simple kettle helmet with gorget covered her head and she bore sword and poleaxe. Her equipment was much the same as a Claw's battlefield equipment.

While very heavily armoured by vermin standards, especially to those of seasons past, to the standards of the woodlanders—especially those of the Woodlander's Knightly Orders or, Vulpez forbid, the Hareguard of Salamandastron—she was rather lacking in equipment.

"Resa," Whiteheart said coolly. "How kind of you to grace me with your presence today, It has been a while since I've seen you." One that wasn't nearly long enough, he silently growled.

"His Lordship is looking for you, Whiteheart, you and a few others."

Frowning, He ventured. "Why?"

"Redwallers, Or at least what we believe to be Redwallers. The two knights in their party at least bear the red keep and red sky of Redwall upon their surcoats."

"Fighting Redwallers has always been something Chilldeath has avoided," Whiteheart mused, drumming his fingers upon his longsword's pommel. "What could have changed when I wasn't looking I wonder."

Scowling, Resa growled. "One of these days, fox, his Lordship's fondness for you will run out, and I will be there to laugh."

Flashing a smug smirk, Whiteheart said. "That'll be a long wait, rat. Chilldeath's fondness for me is beyond being damaged by such petty frivolities of me using his name instead of fawning all over him."

Stalking past, he sent one last look at the rat before turning his nose to Chilldeath's Courtyard.

Once more a scowl overtook his features, though this time it was directed at himself instead of any others.

He could never explain it, but Resa had always rubbed his fur the wrong way and he just couldn't figure out why.

Perhaps it was because she was one of the types of beast that gave their kind such a bad name, being a merciless marauder obsessed with combat and killing, or perhaps it was because of her conceited attitude to everybeast but the Claw—excluding Whiteheart—and Chilldeath. He honestly didn't know.

Doing his best to shrug it off, Whiteheart stepped into Chilldeath's Courtyard, a large clear space of flat, packed earth with the wolverine's personal tent to the north of it and a number of communal Claw tents on the south, east and west of it.

The normally empty courtyard currently had a large and long rectangular table set up in the middle of it, at which Chilldeath and a number of the Claw currently sat.

"Whiteheart!" Chilldeath's deep booming voice called the moment he entered the courtyard. "Come, sit, we've much to talk about."

Nodding, the Pale Fox seated himself to Chilldeath's right and three seats down from him.

Those before him—on either side of the table—were the higher ranked Claws, individuals like Treerunner, Marshhunter, Mooncaller, Vekrek and such.

"Now that everybeast is here," Chilldeath growled, "It is time we spoke of why I've called the Claw together like this."
And indeed, the entirety of the Claw—all forty of them—being gathered in one place was very rare.

Leaning back and crossing his arms, Chilldeath continued speaking. "Earlier today, a patrol of our warrior-scouts ran across what appeared to be a warparty of Redwallers. Two knights, a dozen Beasts-at-arms and a score of Rangers of Redwall, alone they are no threat to us, but the possibility of them running across us and assembling a force to drive us out are there. Thoughts?"

Mooncaller, one of the few other far Northerners like Chilldeath and a snow fox at that, Spoke up. "Perhaps the best option would be to watch them to make certain they don't come near."

"And what would we do if they did?" Betrilis, a Ferret and one of the largest Whiteheart had ever seen, said. "Just sit here twiddling our paws while they discover our existence?"

"No, of course not." Mooncaller snapped. "I'm not sure what we could do if that did happen."

"Emergency Evacuation?" Vekrek, a piebald rat, asked. "We could perhaps even make It look like the entire place was abandoned seasons ago."

Blackpike, a thin and tall fox, piped up. "That wouldn't work, a skilled tracker would be able to see through our deception in an instant. And skilled is perhaps an understatement of the Rangers of Redwall's skills."

Greyspire, a great big, grey hulk of a fox—who fancied himself one of the mighty wolves—growled "Then if they discover us, we eliminate them before they can get word back."

Whiteheart audibly snorted, "That would certainly be an intelligent action on our part, It's not like Redwall wasn't built on the bones of thousands of our kind, they still know how to deal with us and I guarantee, that patrol won't be moving around without some kind of planned route. And that planned route will lead the Redwallers right to us."

Blackpike nodded, "Our horde is one of the greater ones, with a large collection of metal armour and well trained and disciplined fighters, but Redwall and their traditional allies outnumber us greatly. A fight is the last thing we want."

"Yet a fight is very well what we may get." Greyspire said, "Woodlanders and our lot," none of them particularly liked the term Vermin, "have never gotten along. If Redwall stumbles upon us, we very well may be fighting for our lives in an instant."

Treerunner, another fox—Whiteheart had always found it slightly curious that Chilldeath seemed to promote foxes and ferrets more often then others species'—spoke up.

"What about leaving?"

Silence was his response to that, and around Whiteheart the other beasts at the long table were likewise silent as they too considered Treerunner's suggestion. A suggestion that to many was looking rather nice with Redwall now capable of running across them.

"Where would we go?" The oft quiet and soft spoken Ferret, Messil, said. Twirling a knife between the claws of his left paw.

"West?" Mooncaller suggested, though that was quickly shot down by a number of others.

Whiteheart, after a single run in with the Long Patrol, had no desire to get closer to the mountain to see what the more elite of the patrol—the Hareguard—were capable of. He shivered merely thinking of It.

Whiteheart cleared his throat and said. "East will bring us right through Redwall territory, practically inviting them to come kill us, north is where we've come from. There is only one option left open to us.  And that, my fellows, is South."

-

Abbot Bartholomew sighed wearily as the echoing bang of hammers and chisels and the sound of saws blared all around him. Redwall was changing, the aged mouse had never thought he'd see it happen in his life time, but it was.
Seasons ago, when Skipper Sleekcreek had approached him and suggested an idea that would eventually evolve into the Redguard and its assorted sub-militaries, all the young Bartholomew had been doing—in his mind—was creating a protection force to protect Redwall from Vermin.

Now, Redwall was evolving into a city-state, an idea that wasn't their own. They had copied it from Salamandastron who in turn had copied it from the disparate City-states of the southern lands.

The problem in Bartholomew's eyes was that these City-states seemed to promote rivalry and war between them, Indeed, he hadn't heard aught but war from the south since they'd begun building city-states.

Arriving at the stairs up onto Redwall's walls, the aged mouse slowly worked his way up the worn and smooth stones. One of these days, I have to get one of the carpenters to build a banister, he mused, finally topping the walls and gazed out.

Seeing the once empty fields and woodlands around the Abbey cleared for seas of tents and temporary dwellings, that were torn down as the permanent dwellings, houses of both timber and stone, were raised around Redwall and other areas were cleared for farms to feed everybeast.

And further past them was the beginning of the new walls to protect everything. Vast walls stretching around the soon to be City-state of Redwall, capable of holding up to ten thousand or more beasts, though there of course wouldn't be that many.

There were, at most, three thousand beasts currently around Redwall—not including the Redwallers themselves. But that number would grow, oh would it grow.

He had seen it happen in the south, whenever a new city-state came into being. Beasts would flock to it.

Before him was the banging of tools and behind the clashing of weapons as soldiers of the Redguard fought and sparred with each other. Mice and otters and squirrels and shrews, all woodlanders of goodly persuasion had a place in the Redguard, they even had some hares and rabbits, though some like  voles and moles were rarer, as were sea otters. For a variety of reasons.

All Bartholomew truly wanted to do was retire and finish writing his journal, telling future generations of his—in his own mind—mistakes in allowing things to become as they were. But he couldn't, there were none to take his place that would approach things from a neutral, more peaceful point of view, beasts these days, even Redwallers were intrested solely in war.

And the occaisonal Vermin raids didn't satisfy them, especially as they became increasingly rare. For Bartholomew, all he could see of the future was suffering and death.

-

It was with the shouted command of "launch!" That the trebuchet loosed its boulder. Arching above the lines of Southsward infantry and falling with a crash among the lines of Weasels beyond. A pained howling set up immediately among the recently crippled and harmed, from the dead there was naught but silence.

King Swiftarrow, the Squirrel-king of Southsward, watched pleased as the trebuchet's two sister machines loosed their own boulders. Reaping death through the enemy lines.

The weasels of Sandhome, a city-state of weasels to the south-east of Southsward had once again assembled their armies and marched against Southsward. This time however, there would be no long, bloody campaign to drive them out, this time, Swiftarrow had new weapons to fight them.

The trebuchet, a weapon originally from a horde of vermin that had assaulted Salamandastron—whose hordeleader had been something of an inventor, before his death—The Hares of the Long Patrol had taken the siege weapons and disassembled them to better study them, and now, seasons later they had passed the knowledge on to their allies in the south.

Swiftarrow was quite pleased with his new toys thus far, he knew they would be even better against a fortress wall, but invasion was not something he could perform. Not with all the Vermin city-states about him.

Giving a quick gestured command to the commander of his longbow regiments, Swiftarrow watched as scores of squirrels put arrow to string and loosed them into the Weasel ranks, many were pierced and fell, wounded or slain, Swiftarrow cared not, if they lived when their fellows ran he would kill them as well. He had no mercy in his heart for Vermin and no matter who they were, he would kill them.

[Steelinghades]

Interlude I: The Howling Horde and Golden Storm.


Aedhain grimaced as consciousness returned to him, That's the last time I drink that much mead, he mused. Wincing as he sat up, his head crying out In protest. Collecting himself for a moment he gazed around the tent he found himself In.

The first thing he noted was the five other warm bodies around him, each of them a wolf like him, though none were familiar to him. Not exactly that he was bothered by this, the Lands of Ice and Snow were very cold—like their name suggested—thus actions like sharing tents was quite common. Admittedly, Aedhain was somewhat curious whose tent he'd ended up in, though It wasn't exactly Important at the moment.

Doing his best to ignore his aching head, he collected his maille shirt, heavy cloak and weapons, then putting them on, he strode from the tent into the early morning chill of the Lands of Ice and Snow.

Despite the lands name, It was not covered by snow and Ice all the time, even now in early Autumn the ground wasn't touched by any snow, though It was deathly cold.

That was something many didn't know, that while It may not always be covered by snow, It was always cold, or at least slightly chilly, across the Lands of Ice and Snow.

It's especially bad this morning, Aedhain mused, but then that might have been because of the wind coming off the water to their east.

The Howling Horde—a force of over three thousand wolves—was camped alongside the Land of Ice and Snow's south-east coast as they built a great horde of ships. The Howling Horde's Packlord, Toke, was leading them to fertile lands far to the south, If such a land existed of course.

There were legends of Its existence of course, from the great sailing of the foxwolf—Aedhain spat at the thought of his name—and the Great Cannibal, the wolverine Gulo, to ships from the south washing ashore—or so some claimed.

Aedhain himself didn't know what to think.

Sighing, he began to weave his way through various Wolves just starting to go about their early morning business. He personally was making his way for Toke's tent.

As one of the Howling Horde's Packleaders, he had certain duties to see to, especially because he was the Packleader of one of the Horde's sword-packs, elite warriors who led the charge against enemy forces, clearing the way for the young and less experienced wolf warriors. It was a dangerous position, many of the sword-packs died young, slain as they charged well held enemy positions.

"Aedhain, there you are." The rough voice of a female wolf sounded from behind him.

"Raethald," A said, knowing without turning around exactly who was behind him. "To what do I owe the Pleasure of your company?"

"The Packlord wanted all of his Packleaders to know that the ships are almost all built."

Pausing, Aedhain nodded and said. "That is good to hear, but why have another Packleader act as a messenger?"

A snort from behind him clearly told him she found something amusing. "Because I've nothing better to do," She drawled, "And because you intimidate all the couriers sent your way."

Without responding to her teasing, he asked. "How long for everything to be built?"

"The ship-builders estimate a season and a half."

"A season and a half," he mused, nodding. Only another season and a half of waiting and then, things would truly begin. Continuing on his way, he spared one glance to the flag flying over the camp, a flag depicting shattered bones in a pile beneath a howling wolf's head.

-

The sounds of saws and hammers echoed up even to his employer's mansion, upon Colina del Sol Frívolo, The hill of Frivolous sun. Within the bay of the city of Mélladrao sat a score of ships, all being outfitted for a long, long voyage. Alexander de Mélladrao, the Maestre de Campo of Tercio de Mélladrao watched his future in the Golden Empire wither away.

His position was an honor, he was to be part of the claiming of that continent to the east, none of the beast nations of the West Continent could stand against the Golden Empire—or just Empire—and other Folk nations had been brought to heel.

But truthfully, the Empire's efforts to crown themselves as the West Continent's greatest military force had bled them deeply, Alexander could only shake his head thinking over all those lost lives. And despite It all, none of their enemies had truly been bested, The nations of Freni and Garia still stood, perhaps not as strong as before, but still mighty in their own way, the only beings truly conquered were the disparate groups of foxes, mustelids, rodents and such that lived around the great Folk nations, Vermin and Woodlander, he believed they called each other.

Turning away from the great frigates being constructed, Alexander couldn't help but smile. Perhaps, things will turn out all right.

If things went well, his force might have to fight a few scattered tribes to establish dominance over at least a small part of the Eastern Continent to start.

Smiling softly, he stepped through the doors of the balcony to speak with his employer, while behind him, a flag emblazoned with a fiery sun behind a red rose, flickered in the wind.

[Steelinghades]

Arc One: Awakening
Chapter Three: An organized Panic


The silence that erupted after Whiteheart spoke was profound, he didn't know why everybeast assembled for the meeting was bearing such unsure looks or harshly grimacing. He honestly wasn't sure what was prompting such looks, but clearly he'd missed something of great importance.

"Come now," he began. "I know the heat will be unbearable, but It can't be that bad."

Of course, he didn't exactly believe that at all, Whiteheart, like most beasts in Chilldeath's horde, had come from the Northlands—and, a select few, were from even further north, the Lands of Ice and Snow specifically—the heat was going to be terrible. That was a simple, indestructible fact and there was nothing anybeast could do about It. But surely they wouldn't let something small like that keep them from a possible safe haven.

A look of sudden understanding flickered across Chilldeath's face, so fast he would have missed It If he hadn't been looking.
"You don't know," Chilldeath breathed. "Of course you wouldn't, you weren't here."

"What couldn't I know?" Whiteheart asked.

"Two weeks ago," Chilldeath said, "You left camp."

"Yes," Whiteheart said, raising a brow, wondering where this was going. "I was leading a raiding party on that iron mine those shrews are running."

"Yes, and when you were gone, a party of our warrior-scouts ran across a small group of rats traveling north. According to them, they were from the South. They claimed that multiple petty kingdoms were being founding throughout the south, called City-states; one of them, the city-state of Southsward has been systematically hunting down and driving away, or killing, every rat, mustelid, or fox they came across in the South." Chilldeath said, his voice low and husky with anger.

"That, however is not the worst part." Mooncaller said, "According to these rats, the Squirrel-King of Southsward has fifteen thousand Woodlanders under arms, primarily otters and squirrels."

Whiteheart's breath caught in his throat, they were outnumbered fifteen to one. That was insane, Southsward apparently had an army akin to those legendary few that were present in Woodlander and Vermin myths and history.

The majority of Woodlander and Vermin armies had hundreds or thousands on both sides, never tens of thousands. Really, only the Mythical Blue Horde had such immense numbers—although most Vermin legends stated them to be much greater in number, more along the lines of a hundred thousand, although Whiteheart was skeptical of such numbers, to say the least.
Of course, the fact that a violently unfriendly army of over ten thousand Woodlanders was chasing all of their kin out of the south had thrown a rather spectacular tangle into his plan.

The shocking part of It wasn't so much just the size, there were more then enough beasts around to form multiple armies of that size, from each individual species. No, what was impressive was supplying such a large amount of beasts with food, armour and weapons—the barely armed and unarmoured armies of past seasons were no more—and keeping them together as a cohesive force are what keep armies from growing so large. It was primarily the first two that were prohibative of armies growing large.

Treerunner, clearly having enough of the silence spoke up. "Now you know why we're not exactly eager to march south to our death."

But Whiteheart was not so easily beaten. "That would happen should we march directly south, but if we hug the mountains to our west on our way south, after we cross the northern fork of the Great South Stream, we'll come across a smaller stream, trailing off the mountains, we cross that and then we are at the southern fork of the Great South Stream. Then we turn directly west and continue until we reach a long chain of hills. Toads claimed these hills a long time ago," There was a certainty in Whiteheart's gaze as he added, "They've been there as long as Redwall has been around, maybe even longer. These hills border the western coast for leagues, though once they draw even with Castle Floret to the east, the Great South Streams comes closer and closer to the coast, causing the hills to thin. After the Great South Stream crosses into the ocean, the land starts to grow more, barren. The amount of desert drastically increases as you go deeper into Southsward, the further south you go, the more sand you will find, especially as you go south-east, eventually south-east you'll find the Great Desert; but we're not going that far."

Treerunner asked the question burning in all their eyes, "How do you know?"

"I just do, It is as I've always been, I am that Is." He grumbled, while the beasts around him blinked in confusion. "Now, If anybeast else has a plan, they should speak up."

Chilldeath slowly shook his head, "It's clear, going south is one of the better choices for us, Southsward and whatever other City-states are down there clearly have more military forces then we do, but we know or can find out where these forces are garrisoned. The east, past Redwall is the only other place we could possibly go. But unlike with the south, we haven't a clue what we're walking into.

"It's decided then, Treerunner assemble the warrior-scouts and have them begin a mass foraging, we'll need every bit of extra food as we can get. Mooncaller, have the fighters go about disassembling the camp, in full armour with their weapons nearby, just In case. Betrillis, I want you to oversee the general packing and preparedness of the non-combatants. I want the rest of you to gather your belongings and have them packed away, this includes battlefield equipment, once that Is done leave It with Betrillis and spread out in all directions and watch for any Redwallers nearby." Rising from his chair, Chilldeath nodded and added. "Get to It My Claws, get It done as fast as you can, but no mistakes, not now."

-

The sun was nearing Its height by the time the self-titles Emperor of Corsairs, the wildcat known as Blackmane, left his palace and stepped out onto the isle of Sampetra proper. With a cloak of soft fabric around his shoulders, the black furred cat set out to look over his subjects current actions.
He believed quite solidly that his presence pushed them to perform their duties with a vigor and skill they would otherwise lack. Hellgates knew he'd seen enough of their 'best work' before, in circumstances in which he hadn't been watching them, and It did not stand up to Blackmane's quite high standards. If he got to see all the corsairs under his command sweat and squirm in fear while he was lurking over their shoulders watching them, judging them in their eyes, all the better.
A small, stone path lead from his palace to the beach side village the majority of his corsairs lived In. It wasn't exactly a pretty village—technically speaking nor was his palace—but It worked for them, Corsairs weren't professional carpenters, they had to repair both the village and Blackmane's palace with what they had on paw.

Frankly, considering the absolutely poor condition then entire Isle had been in when Blackmane had first found It, he felt they'd done rather well. Actually, he thought, I'm certain It's even better then It was before. His mother always told him he had an 'ego' problem, whatever that meant. He called It confidence.

His internal musings were broken by the sight of one of his corsairs sprinting toward him.

"What Is it?" He hissed, annoyed at the rat who dared interrupt his thoughts.

"Unknown ships, yer majesty, four o' them."

"Really," Blackmane purred, "How were they sighted?"

"The watchtower, yer majesty." The rat said, pointing at the—in Blackmane's mind—excessively tall and very rickety, watchtower. At the top of which he could just make out a figure. "They'll be here soon if Ol' Toothrot is right about their current heading and position. Course, 'e might not be right, 'e was drunk on grog last I checked," Shrugging the rat added. "It'll be close enough."

I'm surrounded by Idiots, Blackmane despaired, "Send for the captains of the Goretide, Swordwave, Fleetrush, Fangheart, Pikeheart, Slavemaster, Bloodriver, and Darktide; Tell them to gather their crews and slaves and go deal with whoever is fool enough to approach us."

"Do yer want the captains to capture or sink them?"

"Sink them, we have no need for more ships."

And that was quite true, with a little over twenty ships moored at Sampetra and under his command, they had quite the little fleet, honestly, Blackmane was certain he had naval superiority over the western sea. Very few beasts actually put ships to sea, only really Vermin sea-raiders or corsairs did with any regularity, and most of them only had half a dozen at most and the occasional Woodlander sea-goers would only have a ship or maybe they'd have two.

The exception to that of course, was a tribe of northern sea otters that had a decent collection of longboats under their command, but they didn't exactly use them often nor were they exactly a good counter to Blackmane's galleys, which were all armed with a heavy crossbow at the fore and aft, strong enough to put a bolt through a ship's hull at close range or and their galley's heavy catapult in the midships section of his galleys, which could throw a heavy stone and shatter through the wood of a foe's ship. Only the Searats could compete with this level of naval dominance. They actually had far more ships then Blackmane did, but they were also completely unorganized, their greatest enemy was actually themselves.

The Searat Captains were completely incapable of trusting each other. Leading to constant conflict and strife between them.
The rat he'd been speaking to completely interrupted Blackmane's thoughts again, this time with spinning around and proceeding to rush off.

Turning is back toward the beach side village, Blackmane returned to his palace, wondering the entire way who had been foolish enough to attack him.

In the distance, four great ships flying flags of brilliant suns and roses approached.

-

It was with a great screaming that the survivors of Sandholm's weasel army ran, further south-west back toward their pathetic City-State. The squirrels and otters of Southsward gave immediate chase, casting javelins and sling-stones, while the longbow-squirrels loosed shaft after shaft into their fleeing mass. The less well armoured of weasels fell, possibly slain, if not, the chasing infantry would make them that way. The only force not taking part in chasing down the fleeing Vermin army was the Kings Company—the hundred strong personal guard of King Swiftarrow, the descendants of the old Southsward Otter and Squirrelguards—and the army's trebuchets, whose projectiles were a bit dangerous to fling after the Vermin with friendly forces closing In on them.

Across the field there lay thirty eight hundred dead weasels, over half of Sandholm's sixty five hundred weasel strong military had died on the battlefield. They hadn't a chance to resist Southsward's great military might.

Of course, just about everybeast in the South knew they didn't stand a chance against Southsward head on, which made them avoid meeting Southsward on the field of battle; unless they thought they had the advantage. Such as stumbling across a detachment from the army doing something else, which is what Swiftarrow had led the Weasels to think was going on at the battle's start.

Ten thousand of his beasts had sheltered, hidden from site in the nearby forest, which if followed north would lead to Castle Floret and the rest of the City-state of Southsward, as he and five thousand of his beasts went about digging, knowing the Sandholm Weasels were nearby.

Having swept in like a plague from the South-west, burning and killing as they swept north-east. Swiftarrow wasn't about to sit around and let them destroy his Kingdom, so he'd set a trap.

Gazing out at the sea of weasel corpses he couldn't help but smile at what he saw.

They had fallen for It completely, walking right into a kill zone. His army had surged out of the forest, surrounding and striking at the Weasels hard.

His forces, bettered armed and armoured had suffered minimal casualties. From counting the bodies he could see, he'd lost maybe a hundred beasts.

All in all, perfectly acceptable as far as Swiftarrow was concerned.

Though recruiting a new hundred or so beasts would certainly be annoying, It would mainly be expensive, for a military force that was already exceedingly expensive. Swiftarrow could already see his wealth tumbling away.

It was Southsward that had helped introduce coinage into the South, about two generations back, and they'd always maintained a position of wealth; mostly because of their position and size.

When one referred to the 'South' generally speaking they were speaking of the lands south of the southern fork of the Great South Stream. And of these lands only the very north of the 'South' was verdant and filled with life to a great degree. As you went south, It became more barren, at the very southern edge of the South, the coast that aligned with the Southern Sea, It was near inhospitable. Of course south and south-east could lead to the Great Desert. What was past there was unknown.

Southswards wealth came from Its verdant farmlands and the mountains Castle Floret sat upon, and the mines weaving throughout those mountains. Those mountains and the mountains to the east of Salamandastron were two of the continent's largest sources of Iron, Two others were the Mountains of the North and the Old caves along the western coast far to the north.
They obviously weren't remotely the only sources, but they were among the greatest. Particularly to Swiftarrow since all four were owned by Woodlanders of goodly persuasion.

Casting one last glance toward the distant fleeing forms of the Weasels of Sandholm, Swiftarrow announced. "Sound the horns, call back the army, they've chased them far enough. It's time to go home."