Doomwyte

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The warm days are past, the dry dust has settled, those long-dead summers, a dim memory, small birds have flown south, cold east wind is dreary, so come ye and sit by the fireside with me. Let’s add a good log, stir up the pale ashes, ’til they glow crimson gold, twixt the grey and the black, I’ll recall to you my adventurous young seasons; together, my friend, we’ll go journeying back. Meet my comrades long gone, whom I’ll always remember, I hope when I’ve joined them, you’ve learned what it means, that a story passed down can live on forever. I’m the Teller of Tales, and the Weaver of Dreams….

BOOK ONE

The Raven

They danced and twinkled in the woodlands at night…those little lights.

1

Blustery and wild were the days of late spring, wet and windy, with little sign of more placid weather. Thus it was that night, when Griv sought shelter from battering rain and buffeting winds out of the east. Redwall Abbey was the perfect place. Tossed about on the dark skies, like a scrap of black-and-white rag, the magpie caught sight of the imposing building as she was swept high over the swaying green of Mossflower woodlands. Skilfully she went into a steep dive, tacking and sidesweeping on drenched wings. Homing in on the Abbey’s west face, Griv sought shelter on the leeside, out of the gale.

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