Konungr Cluny II - Redwall

Rock and pyre rained down upon the walls of Redwall Abbey, wreaking havoc on its abandoned districts. Beneath the city streets, innocent Redwallers huddled in silence, flinching with every tremor as the bunker’s ceiling shuddered under the relentless barrage of the Rat Horde’s catapults. Above ground, the Abbey Guards stood firm—not afforded the same shelter—enduring the terror of crashing projectiles from both sky and earth.

On the outskirts, the Rat Horde stood poised for war. The banner of the Fang flew high above their ranks—the same serpent-sigiled flag once carried by Cluny the Scourge. Now, his great-grandson, Konungr Cluny II, had arrived on the scene, clad in the regal armour of a warrior-king. To the beleaguered Abbey Guards, it was as if the past had returned to life, but now, so it seems, there'd be no Matthias to deliver their grace.

Rat sergeant: "Horde! Stand ready for his majesty, the Konungr of Ironwharf Hollow!"

Cried out a Rat sergeant, upon the sight of his lord. Cluny II pulled the reins of his cat—a gruelsome mount, said to swallow rodents whole. How such a beast had been tamed by these vermins will forever remain a mystery, perhaps known only to God. Yet the creature, as dangerous as it seems, obeyed with a guttural meow, clawing the grassy gorge as it slowed to a halt. It terrified most who saw it, but not him. Calmly, Cluny II stroked the beast’s fur beneath its barding, pacifying any hints of agitation.

He paused only when the galloping of hooves signaled the approach of his squire—a frail ferret, no older than twenty-two, clutching two empty scrolls and a freshly-inked quill in either paw. Cluny leaned down from his towering mount, issuing his command with a chilling voice.

Cluny II: “Write to my brother, Pruce, that he may command the voulgiers to flank from the sewers in phalanx formation. And to my sister, Shirleigh, that she may supervise the construction of siege towers. At once.”

The squire responded not with words, but swift obedience—scribbling the orders and galloping off toward the other Scourges. Such blind and silent obedience is exactly why Cluny II favored him as a squire. The ferret never questioned, never delayed, nor has he ever frolicked. To the Konungr's knowledge, at least, who firmly believes there to be few things more wasteful than idle talk—Mice, of course, tops over his hierarchy of hatred, but time, above all, is a delicate asset. He intends to master it by launching the ultimate assault under the cover of night.

It's a decisive plan that came out of the blue, like whispers in the wind, yet nothing felt more right. Rotten moralities aside, Cluny II had earned a fearsome reputation for his unmatched brilliance, much so even many of the Redwallers begrudgingly admitted as much. One of the many thoughts that would often curve his whiskers to a smirk.

Snapping out of his ponders, the Konungr tied his mount to the nearest tree and dismounted, preferring to assess the field on his own terms—with feet on the ground, back uncramped by saddles, and eyes unclouded by distance.

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