Ætharr of Calador

I don't own Redwall

Book 1: the rise of Calador Prologue

Ætharr the weasel waited.

The adder was coming towards him, slithering, hissing.

Ætharr was a formidable weasel, half-grown as he was. Tall, muscular, swift. Many weasels in the clan claimed he would become double what his father was.

The adder rose higher, dwarfing the young weasel. It attempted to hypnotize Ætharr, but strong will power was protecting him.

He was armed with two long single-bladed battleaxes, along with a number of small throwing hatchets. He fancied he could fight alongside a few of his father's best fighters.

Ætharr waited, seeking the chance that he would use against the snake.

The adder's chance came first. It lunged with breathtaking speed, aiming for the weasel's neck.

The bite never landed. Ætharr writhed out of the way with speed he always underestimated. Drawing out a hatchet, he buried it in the body, nearly severing the head.

"Well done."

Ætharr spun round.

Ferric, the youngest and most trusted of Ætharr's father's captains, or theigns, lounged near a tree, fingering an arrow on his longbow. Ferric was a weasel like Ætharr. The whole Calador tribe were weasels.

Ætharr liked Ferric. He was an expert shot, but could also wield a sword as good as anyone.

Ætharr's father, Ællear, was the chief of the Calador tribe, one of several different tribes in the area. The Caladors were an all weasel force that focused on survival. To do that, they needed an army that was always ready to defend their land. Ætharr's far ancestor, Æja, realised he needed warriors. So he began welding together a clan that was not like other vermin. Deserters, thieves, and other sorts of crimes were severely punished, desertion being the highest punishment, which was death. Officers and soldiers alike were made to march long miles while carrying huge haversacks full of equipment. Reforms and improvements were made over the seasons, and by the reign of Æja's grandson, the Calador army, or the fyrd, possessed a soldiering drill that rivalled the fighting hares of Salamandastron themselves.

Now, many years later, Ællear commanded a clan that had been hardened by heavy drill and border wars. As a result of these factors, the Caladors were bigger and stronger than most weasels. However, the biggest difference was that they were true fighters. They were not cowardly bullies, they were warriors who gave no quarter and would rather die than surrender.

Ferric and Ætharr headed back to Æthelly, the biggest settlement in Calador. It was a large fort, with bastions and walls of stone and timber. And it was also a city, home to tenth of the Calador tribe. The rest were spread into walled villages, minor forts, and a few remote towns in the hills. All settlements had a beacon, which they lit if an invasion force was coming.

Ætharr bade Ferric farewell, and headed to the hall. It was the most important part of the fort; the place of feasting, council, and it signified that the lord was a great one.

Ealdor Ællear was a weasel still in his prime, but with greying fur. He had countless scars on his body from battles fought against other clans, otters and squirrels, and even the Gousim, the Guerrilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. He was his son's hero, and tutor.

"Ah, my son. Back so soon?" Ællear nodded gruffly at the young weasel.

Ætharr nodded, "I have slain an adder, as you said was part of my training."

Ællear nodded solemnly, "I would not have assigned it to you if I thought you couldn't do it.' He beckoned to a table upon which lay a roast bird and a flagon of cool spring water.

Ætharr, after he had eaten his fill, went looking for his closest friends.

They were in a tavern, sipping at fresh cordial. They laughed when Ætharr sat down.

Horal was a heavy-set weasel, a few seasons older than Ætharr. Many would underestimate him due to his appearance, yet he was the fastest sword beast that Ætharr knew.

Ædall was Ætharr's cousin, and in many ways, his twin brother. They had been born in the same hour; they resembled each other perfectly, and fought with the same weapons.

Jinn was the youngest, and slyest of them all. He could detect anything in any situation. On top of that, he was a skilled shot, preferring knife throwing, but could also hit a moth in flight with his shaft.

The three of them jeered at the story of his slaying the adder, and offered up a toast in cheering of the deed.

Jinn smiled at his friend, "So, what's next on yer agenda?"

Ætharr shrugged, whereupon Ædall questioned, "Maybe it's cos yore done."

Horal waved a contemptuous paw, "Aw, 'e's only beginning. Mark my words, he'll have to actually be in a fight."

Ætharr anticipated that: to actually fight in a battle. He had long admired the scarred fighters who earned their glory and honour in war. He was determined to get his chance.

Horal went to his hovel on the north side of Æthelly, which was where many soldiers had their homes. That left the remaining three to enjoy the few hours left before the sunset.

Ætharr did not go with the rest when they went off for their homes. He stayed at the tavern, purchasing a room from the weasel in charge.

He rested his head on the cheap straw bed. He had grown used to a rough surface. His own quarters were barely better. It was not due to a shortage of wealth- most of the Calador population had grown wealthy, due to plunder and trade- it was so none grew accustomed to a soft living. That was very important, as without their toughness, they were doomed to destruction.

He closed his eyes. He had been scared of the adder, but he had desperately concealed that fear. That was what a good fighter did; learn to stop fear from overwhelming you. The best warriors were either very calm in battle, or they were possessed of a battle fury. Both ways were the ways a fighter survived fights.

Ætharr suddenly felt triumphant. He had successfully put it out of the way.

In this thrill, he knew that there was still much to learn.

The next day, it was a blood-red sun that crept onto a pink sky. The clouds were laced with a tinge of gold. The trees were still dark, yet the tops were beginning to brighten with the day.

Ætharr watched it all with foreboding. Red sun rises. Blood will be spilt.

Ædall and his father, Ælfer, came looking for Ætharr. Ætharr did not like his uncle Ælfer; he looked far too sly, as though he was always hiding a deep secret.

Ælfer spoke to him now, "Your father wants to see you. You and he are going to the Millar territory."

Ætharr was surprised, but not shocked. The Millar clan was the Calador's bitterest enemy, and Ællear had gone to raid them many times. Perhaps this was no different.

So it was that Ætharr, Ællear, Ferric, and fourteen others headed for the territory of the Millar vermin.

The Millar consisted of rats and stoats. A rabble compared to the might of the Caladors, yet they fought savagely enough.

Ællear motioned at his son, "You will not fight. You will observe, watch the warriors fight."

Ætharr felt bitter, but relented. He was not as experienced as Ferric and the fighters.

They neared the end of their territory. Ællear smiled, drew his sword, and announced quietly, "This is it. Where the Calador ends, and the Millar begins. Let us go in fast and co-"

He said no more, for an arrow filled his mouth, and two more entered his chest.

Ætharr screamed, and was hit with an arrow in the side. Ferric, an arrow in his paw, pulled the heir to Ealdor Ællear to the ground. Many others were not as rapid. They were hit with arrows, and those wounded turned to see a yelling horde of savage Millar clan beasts.

Only Ferric, Ætharr, and four others managed to duck the arrows, and they slowly crept away. Their companions died, and they survived.

Crouching in the brush, each one of them terrified of discovery, they listened to the jeers and laughter of the stoats and rats as they plundered the bodies of the Ealdor, and his retainers, oblivious of the six survivors inching away to escape.

Ætharr wept as he crawled. His father was dead; he would never rest in peace, and he was an orphan. His mother had died long ago, taken in a border raid. Ællear, from that day, had insisted to lead each and every one of the raids the Caladors committed. It was now his own undoing.

When they had crawled far enough away, Ferric and a weasel named Burg bandaged everyone.

Ætharr, tears still coursing down his cheeks, glared at Ferric, "I'm going back to pay them hell twice over!"

Ferric sighed, "Ealdor, it's too risky."

Ætharr almost sobbed, "Y-you called me Ealdor."

Ferric looked at him, and slowly kneeling, he and the four others knelt and declared their allegiance to the new Ealdor.

Ætharr wiped his eyes, and he seemed to look older, more mature, calm. He drew one of his axes, which he had been able to wield for only a season now, and drew his paw across the sharp edge, "The Millar clan has started a blood feud with the Caladors this day! I will live to see them hunted down and stamped out of existence. I promise so with my oath!"

Ferric and the others did not doubt it.

They spent another two days there, waiting for wounds to heal, and to plan to get out of the danger of the raiders.

One night, Ætharr woke to shouts. Recognizing a voice, he bellowed at all creatures to halt.

When they had lit torches, Ætharr could see his three friends at the head of thirty-six soldiers and their families.

Ædall looked really grim, "Ætharr, where is your father?"

Ætharr paused, and shook his head, "We were ambushed."

Ædall threw down his sword in bitterness, "Damn it to hell gates!" he sat down with his head in his paws.

Jinn's face was even grimmer than Ædall's as he explained, "Your uncle made a deal with the Millar. He would deliver the position and forces of your father to them, and they would kill him. He's claimed the Ealdorship as his own."

Ætharr felt a sudden grief and anger, and he howled his misery to the heavens. His own uncle! The Ealdor's brother! He should have paid heed to the signs of the red sun. He should have said something.

Horal dug his spear butt in the ground, "We are sworn to you Ealdor Ætharr!"
The entire gathering pledged themselves to serve the real Ealdor, and no other.

Ætharr scanned the group. Excluding himself, his friends, the families, and Ferric, he commanded forty Caladors. There was also Tran, the teacher of Ætharr.

Ferric gestured at the old teacher, "Ealdor, if you are to secure your position, you must complete your lessons. The ability to read and write is essential to the Ealdor. Also, I will train you to fight, as will we all."

Ætharr nodded, "We will build a fort in the swamp east of here. We'll be undetected for longer time." To stay in a village is too dangerous. Ælfer will have spies, and Millars rampaging freely across the land.

They headed for the swamp the next morning, arriving in the afternoon. The swamp was covered in a mist, which would be perfect camouflage. On a piece of firm ground, a wooden palisade was built, which was reinforced with stones. A little hall was built, and a barracks. Several small houses were made.

He went to Ædall one day, "Why did you come to me instead of becoming your father's heir?"

Ædall looked at him for a minute, "Because it wouldn't have been right. Your father was the Ealdor, and yore the Ealdor now."

That was how Ætharr of Calador became the Ealdor in exile.

1

7 Seasons Later,

Extracts from Brother Gores, Redwall Abbey Recorder,

The seasons seem to fly especially fast in your elder years. And I am now quite old! The seasons are now too many to count. It has been a long and good life, though. Seeing Raga, our Abbey Warrior, grow from a mischievous Dibbun into a mature and responsible leader of the peace. There is also an old friend of mine, Abbot Varrus, who has been the otter to become an Abbot in the history of Redwall, not counting Abbess Mhera. Between the three of us and Mother Sara, our Mother Badger, we form the core of the Abbey Council. And our Abbey is a positively booming beehive! There is always someone to turn to for a job. Ah, yes, that was it! I have forgotten that it is my turn to watch over the Dibbuns. Such youngsters truly burst with energy, but it is worth seeing them laugh and play.

Brother Gores went up from his writings, and headed down to Cavern Hole, the dining area and meeting spot for Redwallers.

Mother Sara was there with some thirty babes, or Dibbuns, as they were called in Redwall. There was an assortment of otters, mice, moles, squirrels, and hedgehogs, with a pair of vole twins.

Sara was an old female badger, but it did not stop her being as feared as she was loved by the Dibbuns. She was a strong creature, but also had a big heart.

"Finally, you're here. These young rips are just getting more restless by the minute." Sara chuckled, and went off to her duties.

Brother Gores bent down to talk to the Dibbuns, "I suppose you all know the rules when going berry picking?"

The Dibbuns cheered back, "We do, Bruvver Goes!"

Jul, a baby mouse, jumped up and down, "We go berry pickin! We go berry pickin!

Brother Gores smiled at the Dibbun talk, "Well, let's get going, then!"

The cheering Dibbuns ceased to stop cheering as they went out the door. Brother Gores led them in a song as they walked.

Oh Daisy was a lonely fly

She buzzed around for friends

But who out there would ever want

To make a fly their friend?

So Daisy stayed a lonely fly

And buzzed her life away,

So heed this song if ever,

A fly comes buzzing your way!

The Dibbuns laughed at the last line, especially as the vole twins were busy swatting at the pestering bugs.

At the berry patch, the Dibbuns scattered among the bushes. Soon, their faces were purple, red, and blue from the colourful berries.

Brother Gores smiled, and started filling baskets.

One of the Dibbuns came running up, "Bruvva Goes! Ninia is stug!"

Brother Gores jumped up, "Ninia's been stung?"

The Dibbun nodded furiously and led him to where Ninia, a baby mole, was clutching her paw, sobbing.

Brother Gores was used to this, and took some salve from the pouch he always wore round his waist.

When Ninia was treated, Brother Gores went back to the baskets to find them gone.

Utterly surprised, Gores could only gape in astonishment. Surely the Dibbuns could not have done this! He had seen each and every one of them round Ninia.

Suddenly a giggle erupted from the treetop the Recorder mouse was standing under. Looking up, Brother Gores guessed who it was, "Jander, you impudent rogue, if you wish to fool me, you should never make it obvious to me that you are hiding nearby."

He held out his paws as two stacked baskets fell down. Laughing, Brother Gores set them down. Also laughing, a big squirrel dressed in a deep brown tunic jumped out of the tree, balancing two half-filled baskets.

Jander was a wanderer of Mossflower. He knew every scrap of news that travelled through the forest, as he often delivered it firsthand. He had grown up in Redwall, and held it in his heart to visit the place many times.

Brother Gores smiled up at the tough looking squirrel, "How goes it with your wanderings, Jander?"

Jander smiled, "Oh, I've been round. Ran into the Gousim a few times, and they're all good fellows. Was about to go to Redwall, when I saw you and them nippers."
Remembering the Dibbuns, Brother Gores turned to take a head count. Instead of thirty-two Dibbuns, there were only thirty Dibbuns.

Ashen-faced, he turned to Jander, "Two are missing!"

Jander's face lost all its mirth. Like an arrow, he was up the tree, scanning the landscape. "I don't see them yet."

Brother Gores rounded up the rest of the Dibbuns and take them back. Jander continued to search for them.

Leaping from tree to tree, the strong, agile squirrel's eyes were barely on what he was doing. He had become so used to it that he had no more need to give his full attention to climbing.

Jander scanned the land, picking up as much movement as possible. And then he saw them: the two missing youngsters.

'Judos and Mellor again.' Jander smiled. They were always wandering off. He smiled and swung towards them.