[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain by Brian Jacques

all odds. Formidable, yet with the light of kindness radiating from his eyes. Martin stood holding his great sword, which had been forged from a piece of a fallen star in the mountain fortress of Salamandastron, home of the mighty Badger Lords. Above the tapestry, lying on two wallspikes, the actual sword was displayed. It was nothing elaborate—a real warrior’s blade, perfectly balanced, as deadly as chain lightning in a winterstorm, its point as keen as an ice needle. Tiria instinctively touched the only weapon she had ever known, the sling she had named Wuppit, belted about her waist, with its stone pouch attached.
    She stared at Martin and his sword, softly reciting a phrase her father had often repeated. “ ‘Any weapon is the best weapon, as long as ye can use it skilfully and with honour.’ ”
    Tiria blinked, peering at the likeness of Martin. Had he nodded at her, as if in agreement with her father’s words? She yawned, unaccountably overcome by tiredness. Perhaps it was just a draught stirring the tapestry. Her yawns echoed around the time-mellowed hall as she stole off to her bed.

    The land of dreams is an odd realm, sometimes nightmarish, other times peaceful. Tiria found herself wandering along the still shores of a vast sunlit lake; she felt happy in its silent tranquillity.
    From afar, two creatures floated toward her in a nimbus of golden light. As they drew close, Tiria recognised one as Martin the Warrior. Smiling at her, he indicated his companion. Tiria felt her heart jump. The other creature was a tall, stately otter lady, obviously older than she but a mirror image of herself in features, build and height. On her brow rested a slim gold circlet, with a large, round emerald at its centre. The otter lady wore a short, dark-green cloak, richly embroidered about the hem. From neck to waist she was covered by a metal breastplate, silver with a gold star radiating from its centre. What really intrigued Tiria was that the otter lady carried a sling and a stone pouch, belted about her middle, the same way in which Tiria carried hers.
    The ottermaid felt an immediate trust of and kinship to the lithe, regal apparition. She stood staring at her in the sunny dream landscape, not knowing what to say but yearning to talk to the otter lady. Turning to Martin, she found herself equally dumbfounded. Though Martin the Warrior had no need of speech, his kind eyes widened expressively. He merely smiled at Tiria, pointing to the otter as an indication that she should listen to what the strange vision had to say. Then, in clear, measured tones, the otter lady spoke:
    â€œLike the sun, High Rhulain will rise anew,
to set the downtrodden free.
A warriormaid with Wildlough blood
must cross the Western Sea.
She who looks ever through windows
at the signs which feathers make,
seek the Green Isle through her knowledge,
for all thy kinbeasts’ sake.”
    Then both Martin and his companion glided on past Tiria. She yearned to follow them but felt rooted to the spot. As the bright noon of her dreams darkened, desolation overcame the ottermaid. She felt them fade into the mists, and she was left alone, standing on the deserted lakeshore amid the sighing breeze, with the otter’s words echoing throughout the corridors of her mind. Tiria did not sleep peacefully for the remainder of that night. She tossed and turned fitfully, imbued with a restless energy.

5

    Tiria was up with the dawn the next morning with a sense of unfulfilled purpose that she could not name. Dressing hastily, she hurried downstairs. Her normally healthy appetite usually took her to the kitchens; instead, she avoided them and went straight outdoors. It was a fresh summer morn, the grass underpaw heavy with dew. Lawn borders were patches of pastel colours, with daisy, milkwort, rockrose and pasque flower in profusion. She paused at the northwest Abbey gable, catching the sweet chirrup of ascending larksong from the flatlands