He was only a young mouse, but of strong build, with a glint in his eye that proclaimed him a born fighter. A creature of few words who never chattered needlessly. The early summer sun of the Eastern Coast beat down pitilessly on his unprotected head as he carried and stacked chunks of rock beside the masons who would shape it into blocks that would enlarge Fort Marshank.
A weasel Captain named Hisk swaggered up, cracking his long whip threateningly, looking for an excuse to cut loose on the slaves who toiled in the dusty heat around him. His eye settled on the young mouse.
“You there, liven yourself up! Come on, stir yer stumps. Lord Badrang will be round for an inspection soon. Get movin’ or y’ll taste my whip!”
The mouse dropped the rock he was carrying and stood staring levelly at the bullying weasel. Hisk cracked the lash viciously, the tip flicking the air a fraction from his victim’s face. The young mouse did not move. His eyes hooded over as he stood in silent defiance.
The weasel Captain drew the lash back to strike, but the bold, angry eyes of the young slave seemed to challenge him. Like all bullies, the weasel was a coward at heart. Averting his gaze from the piercing stare, Hisk snapped his whip in the direction of some more timid creatures.
“C’mon, you worthless idlers, no work, no food. Move your carcasses. ’Ere comes Lord Badrang!”
Flanked by his aides, Gurrad the rat and Skalrag the fox, Badrang the Tyrant strode imperiously onto the site. He waited while two hedgehogs hurriedly built him a makeshift seat from stone blocks. Skalrag swiftly covered it with a velvet cloak. Badrang sat, gazing at the work going on around him.
The stoat Lord addressed Hisk: “Will my fortress be finished before summer is out?”
Hisk waved his coiled whip about at the slaves. “Lord, if the weather was cooler an’ we ’ad more creatures . . .”
Badrang moved swiftly in his anger. Seizing a pebble, he hurled it, striking Hisk on the jaw. The weasel Captain stood dumbly, blood trickling from his lip as the Tyrant berated him.
“Excuses! I don’t want to hear complaints or excuses, d’you hear me? What I need is a fortress built before autumn. Well, don’t stand there snivelling, get on with it!”
Immediately, Hisk got to work, flaying about with the whip as he passed on his master’s bad mood.
“Move, you useless lumps! You heard Lord Badrang, Marshank must be ready before the season’s out! It’ll be double the work an’ half rations from now on. Move!”
An old squirrel was staggering by, bent double under the burden of a large rock. Hisk lashed out at him. The whip curled around the aged creature’s footpaws, tripping him as he dropped the rock. The weasel began laying into his victim, striking indiscriminately at the old one’s frail body.
“You worthless layabout, I’ll strip the mis’rable hide off yer!”
The lash rose and fell as Hisk flogged away at the unprotected creature on the ground.
“I’ll teach yer a lesson yer won’t ferget. . .”
Suddenly the whip stopped in midswing. It went taut as Hisk pulled on the handle. He tugged at it but was yanked backwards. The young mouse had the end of the whip coiled around his paw.
Hisk’s eyes bulged with temper as he shouted at the intruder, “Leggo my whip, mouse, or I’ll gut yer!”
The weasel reached for the dagger at his waist, but he was not fast enough. The mouse hurled himself upon Hisk. Wrapping the whiplash round the Captain’s neck, he heaved hard. Hisk thrashed furiously about in the dust, choking and slobbering as the lash tightened. Gurrad blew a hasty alarm on a bone whistle he carried slung about his neck.
In a trice the mouse was set upon by the nearest six guards. He disappeared beneath a jumble of ferrets, weasels and rats as they pounded him mercilessly, stamping upon his paws and breaking his hold on the whip. They continued relentlessly beating him with spearhandles, rods and whips until Badrang intervened.
“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.