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ter now? Cruel fate and ill winds had denied everything to the young Gorath, leaving him far across the stormy seas, marooned on the harsh Northern Isles, with no means to follow his dreams.
These days, Gorath's main refuge came through sleep. Moreso as his grandparents had gone silent, they seldom told tales, or sang. They, too, withdrew into themselves, slumbering constantly.
The young badger lay by the fire, letting his eyes close, thinking how the weather had played a miserable trick on him. It had been a wild winter, followed by a false spring. In the space of a single night, all the crops, seedlings and fresh green growth, which Gorath had toiled upon, were blighted. Winter had returned with renewed fury, withering and freezing everything which had begun growing.
Gorath fell asleep with his grandmother's words echoing through his mind.
"If we have little else, at least we have peace on these Northern Isles."
And so they had.
Until that night, when the Bludgullet sailed in, and Vizka Longtooth decided that it was a night for raiding!
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2
Gorath found himself thrust roughly into a waking nightmare. Hot scattered embers of the fire were kicked into his face. Screams and roars echoed around the farmhouse amid the flickering shadows and smoke. Instinctively the young badger sat upright, grasping the closest thing to his paw. It was the big, double-pronged pitchfork he called Tung. But even as his paw fell upon it, a blinding pain exploded in his head. Dazed by the impact, he turned to see what had struck him.
A big, golden-furred fox wielding a mace and chain was standing over him. The intruder's long fangs glittered, as he smiled in astonished amusement, calling to his crew, "Dis wan haz der head like a rock I t'ink."
Before the stunned badger had a chance to dodge, the golden fox brought the ball and chain crashing down again.
Brilliant coloured lights and a cascade of shooting stars thundered through Gorath's skull. He fell into a void of agonised darkness.
How long he remained in that state, the young badger had no way of knowing. Then strange visions began confronting him, a mountain on the silent, sunlit shores of a great sea. He was wading slowly toward it through the
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waves. Standing on the tide line, over twoscore huge badgers stood watching him. They were armed with a selection of swords, axes, clubs and spears, each one a beautifully crafted weapon. Something told Gorath that these were not beasts from among the ranks of the living, but the shades of warriors who had passed beyond the pale.
One massive, silver-coated patriarch, far older than the rest, waded out to meet Gorath. He thrust a paw into the young badger's chest, his voice booming out over the sea. "Why come ye to Salamandastron?"
Gorath resisted the pushing paw, he did not like being shoved about. "Take your paw from me, old one!"
But the ancient continued pressing him backward. "Go ye to the Abbey of Redwall!" He pushed Gorath hard with both paws, sending him floundering into the sea. The young badger spluttered, spitting out the cold salt water.
"Lookit, Cap'n, der stripe'ound's alive!"
Gorath retched, as a weasel hurled a second pail of sea-water into his face. He came awake to find himself onboard a large ship, surrounded by vermin, an evil-looking crew. Weasels, ferrets, stoats and rats, all fully armed and clad in tattered barbaric gear. Gorath was held captive, a thick, iron chain was padlocked tightly about his middle, the chain secured to the lofty mainmast.
Refilling his pail from over the ship's side, the weasel hauled it up on a rope and prepared to swing it at the prisoner.
"Can I give 'im annuver drink, Cap'n?"
The tall, golden fox, who had struck Gorath down, was leaning on the midship rail. Smiling, he revealed his long fangs to the captive. "Well, do ya still be t'irsty stripe-'ound?"
Congealed blood from the dreadful wound on Gorath's forehead had stuck one of his eyes shut. The young badger stooped against the deck, his head was throbbing unmercifully. Saturated and shivering, he swayed as waves of nausea swept over him.
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The golden fox kicked him, repeating the question.
"Be ya deaf as well as daft? Do ya wanna drink, stripe'ound? Speak!"
Gorath pulled himself upright against the mast, staring at his captor angrily. "I am not called stripehound, my name is Gorath!"
The fox ignored him, turning to the weasel with the pail. "Give der stripe'ound dat udder drink, Balid."
As the pail of freezing water sloshed over him, Gorath gasped with shock. The fox pointed at him with his mace haft.
"Yew got no name aboard my ship, except wot I calls ya. I'll call ya Rock'ead, 'cos yew got a skull t'ick as a rock. Aye, Rock'ead, dat's a good name, eh?"
The crew laughed dutifully at their captain's feeble joke. Balid, the water-throwing weasel, called out, "Sink me, Cap'n, 'e must 'ave a t'ick 'ead, if'n ye couldn't slay 'im wid two blows o' yer weppin." Balid had said the wrong thing, it was obvious by the pall of silence which fell over the crew.
The golden fox's heavy cape swirled as he rounded on Balid. "I'm Vizka Longtooth, cap'n o' der Bludgullet, an' I didn't kill dat 'un 'cos I wants 'im alive. So wot d'ye say to dat, Balid? Who did yew slay, tell me?" Vizka saw the weasel's paws trembling as he bowed in abject apology.
"Beggin' y'pardon, Cap'n, I was wid Codj. We never slayed anybeast. Alls wot we did was set fire to der farm 'ouse an' locked de two ole stripe'ounds inside, so they couldn't gerrout."
That was the second slip of Balid's tongue. It was also his last. With a maddened roar, Gorath launched himself at the weasel. The shortness of the chain prevented him from actually getting hold of Balid, but as the chain went taut, Gorath strained against it, lashing out with one paw. It connected with the weasel's neck, slaying him stone dead.
Suddenly, Vizka Longtooth was yelling. "Back! Get back,
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all of ye! Stay outta dat beast's way!" The vermin crew needed no second urging, they scattered to the for'ard and aft deckrails, away from Gorath's reach.
Codj the fox, who was Vizka's younger brother and second in command, took up the big pitchfork, which he had taken from Gorath's unconscious body at the farmhouse. "Balid wuz my mate, I'll kill 'im fer dat!"
Vizka stayed his brother's paw. "No, ye won't. I wants Rock'ead kep' alive."
Codj scratched at his tail stump. "Alive, wot for?"
The golden fox chuckled, nodding toward Gorath. "Ye'd lose a sight more'n ya tailstump, if'n yew tried tacklin' dat 'un. Look close at 'im."
Both foxes watched Gorath carefully. He was making sweeping lunges at everything, from the limits of the taut chain which held him to the mast. His powerful, blunt-clawed paws were flexing, seeking to tear and destroy anything, or anybeast. Gorath was panting hoarsely, foam flecking over his bared teeth. Fearful roars emerged from his heaving chest. But it was the badger's eyes which struck terror into the beholders. They were suffused totally with dark red blood. The Sea Raiders' young captive had become transformed into a ravening beast, in the grip of some awesome madness.
Vizka took the pitchfork from his brother, showing his impressive teeth as he whispered, "Aye, Stumple, 'avin' no tail'd be der least o' yer worries if'n yer went near Rock'ead!"
Codj shot a resentful glance at his brother--he hated the nickname Stumple. It had come about after losing his tail in a fight when he was young. He spat sullenly in Gorath's direction. "Dat beast's crazy mad, 'e should be slain, I tell ya. If'n ye won't let me do d'job, then kill 'im yerself!"
Vizka called out orders to his crew. "Steer clear o' dat beast, don't feed 'im or give 'im water. Set course due south 'til I tells yer diff'rent. I'll be in me cabin wid Codj."
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Keeping a safe distance from Gorath, the golden fox steered his brother round to the captain's cabin.
Pouring out two beakers of seaweed grog, Vizka gave one to Codj, explaining his reasons for keeping Gorath alive. "Lissen, I 'eard once about stripe'ounds like dat one. Some calls 'em Berserks, but ole Windflin said it was sum-mat called der Bloodwrath."