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 onto 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 realize 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 Wind red 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 reeling 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.