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, haw hawhaw!"
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 comers, protect those weaker than yourself and honor 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."