Chapter One: Birth of a Hatred
The cheery call of a whippoorwill, a warbler’s tune, leaves rustling in the near-silent breeze – it was a fine spring day in the woods of the Northern Mountains. The sun shone down from its blue bed, filtering through the thin green leaves of the treetops and turning everything warm with green and gold light.
There was a flash of red-brown in the limbs of a thick oak as the tops of the branches swayed with the passing of a young squirrel. She stopped abruptly and doubled back, creeping along one sturdy branch on tip-paw, her rust-gold tail flicking about for balance. Once on the immobile trunk, the fox squirrel took off at top speed.
She nearly fell out of the oak as a footpaw was thrust before her, and a tall, grinning squirrel stepped into sight from behind a branch. “You’re still too noisy, Riala,” the muscular squirrel reprimanded, leaning against a branch casually. A broadsword was slung across his back in a rough leather sheath, with only the leather-wrapped hilt and green pommel visible where it protruded from the scabbard. His mottled green and brown tunic blended in with the leaves and trunk, and the squirrel’s walnut-brown fur aided in the camouflaging. It was no wonder the energetic youngster hadn’t seen him.
“I try to be quiet, Father…” Riala Goldentail protested, gold-brown eyes sincere as she hopped restlessly from footpaw to footpaw. Her tunic was the same as her father’s, and in her belt was a short, thick, dark brown hardwood stick. A long cord was attached to it and coiled on her belt for easy retrieval.
“It takes practice,” Rilar Battlecry agreed, ruffling the young squirrel’s fur. She scowled with all the self-consciousness of youth.
“Fa-ther…” she complained, ducking her head and scampering out of reach. “Quit it!”
He laughed and performed a flip with the grace and agility few creatures other than squirrels had, landing in front of Riala. “Come, come, Goldentail… Here, I’ve got something for you.” She followed her father as he moved silently down the tree, claws making barely a sound on the rough bark. The younger woodlander envied the adult squirrel’s ability to keep silent as he walked easily through the foliage to a small clearing. A wooden house had been built at the fringe of the trees and disguised beneath a sprawling pine.
“Drey, sweet drey,” Rilar said with a lopsided grin, ducking into the house. Riala followed, curious, tail twitching. The warrior strode to the cabinet that held items from his days as a soldier, reached in, and pulled something out. When he turned, the squirrelmaid could see that he held in his paws a naked dagger. Its hilt was plain wood, darkened to a fine sheen with use, but the blade was sharp and well-kempt.
“It’s a good knife – don’t let its looks deceive you,” the squirrel told his daughter, handing the dagger to her hilt-first. She took hold of it carefully, testing the balance- which was quite good- and then accepted the sheath her father handed to her. She tucked the dagger inside the sheath, and then hooked the sheath on her belt.
“But… why give this to me now?” the young squirrel asked in confusion.
A shadow crossed Rilar’s face, his mouth pressed into a grim, tight line. He turned and walked slowly to a chair, stared at it for a moment, and then sat down slowly. His brow was furrowed in a frown, his face pained, as he tried to decide whether or not to tell his young daughter of the danger that marched through the forest, of the poisonous shadow that stole through the trees even as they spoke.
The forest fell silent, hushed by the shadowy bringers-of-death that stole through the woods on silent paws. Here the sunlight, filtering through the leaves, flashed on a drawn sword; there it gleamed off of the red-brown eye of a weasel. The drey was not difficult for the expert band of assassins to find. Weasel, ferret, and fox archers melted into the undergrowth around the home, while only a single ferret, dressed in a dark green cloak fixed by a mouse’s skull, strode near the side of a tall, lithe wolverine.
Flat, red-irised eyes looked over the hidden drey with a chilling mixture of anticipation and hatred, their depths not concealing a hunger for blood. Long, white, sharpened claws – overly long, even for a wolverine – tipped callused paws, one of which rested on a curved scimitar. The other fingered a bone whistle that hung around the wolverine’s neck, the slender leather cord invisible under a mane of thick black fur.
The vermin chief rubbed his claws on the soft black cloth of his tunic, watching the drey. Rilar was sure to have seen him by now. Soon the vile wolverine would issue his challenge.
Rilar ran a nervous paw through his fur, not quite sure how to start. He decided on a simple sentence, voice flat and angry- not at Riala, but at the vermin who had caused him so much grief.
“Nightdeath Longclaws is in Mossflower.”
The squirrelmaid fingered her stick, the weapon she called a roce, as she tried to put a face with the name Longclaws. Finally she shrugged, light-brown eyes still bewildered. “Who’s that?”
“The most evil vermin to set paw on goodbeast soil,” Rilar growled, fist clenched. “He killed somebeast- very dear to me.”
“So why don’t we just stay hidden?” his daughter inquired, all childlike innocence.
The squirrel regarded the youngster, sadness and wistfulness and guilt a maelstrom of emotions within him. He could scarcely remember when he’d been without the hardness to vermin screams and pain and blood- could barely recollect being without the fierce drive to kill that came with vengeance. He could barely remember being innocent- and young. The warrior looked down at his callused paws, soaked with the blood of so many lives. When had the pity and guilt been replaced by hard unfeeling?
When his family had been killed by the wolverine.
That was it, surely. His reluctance to slay had been fading even before, but what innocence there was had been torn away when the Longclaws killed his family and took many of his tribe as slaves. That innocence was replaced by a burning hatred and an all-consuming desire for revenge. It was a desire that only his love for his now-deceased wife, and then his golden-tailed daughter, had softened… but now, with the reemergence of Nightdeath Longclaws, that vengeance-lust had flared back up in full fury.
“Because I cannot let him kill any others,” Rilar said finally, “and I cannot let him go unpunished for what he did.”
The young squirrel nodded slowly, still not sure that she understood. “So you’ll fight him.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence from Riala. “And you’ll win?”
It was half statement, half fearful question. “I don’t know, Ria.” He shook his head, paws clenched. If he lost, Riala would be without anybeast to protect her. Was it selfish of him to fight the Longclaws, and maybe die?
“You’ll win.” It had the assurance of a child’s unwavering belief in her father, but the squirrelmaid was fast approaching the end of her childhood. Her eyes held fear for the warrior.
A sharp shout from outside the drey brought Rilar to his footpaws, one paw going to the hilt of his broadsword, strapped across his back.
“Rilar Battlecry! I challenge you to a duel!”
The squirrel warrior’s eyes narrowed as he walked to the window and saw the wolverine as he took off his glove and slowly, deliberately tossed it to the ground in a gesture of challenge. “Longclaws,” Rilar growled.
He turned to Riala. “Go up- out the ceiling exit. Hide yourself in the trees and whatever happens, don’t let him know you’re there! Go!”
Fear and worry was plain on the young squirrel’s face, but she complied, scampering up the walls of the drey and out through a trap door in the ceiling. Rilar waited until her golden tail was no longer visible, then stepped outside, battlelight in his eyes. The wolverine smiled- a poisonous, wicked smirk of anticipation- as he saw Rilar walk out of the drey, pushing the low pine branches out of his path.
The squirrel’s sword slid from its sheath with the ominous hiss of steel on leather, and he flipped the glove into the air, catching it contemptuously. “I accept your challenge, Longclaws,” the warrior said quietly, sliding into a fighting stance, blade held steady before him.
The wolverine chuckled, drawing his black-hilted scimitar. “Are you ready to die like your family died, Battlecry? Or should I take you as a slave like I did your friends?”
Rilar’s teeth bared in fury, and he tensed to spring, but then relaxed, shaking his head with a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Anger never won any fights, softclaws. Shall we fight or throw insults?”
“By all means- fight!” the wolverine hissed, darting forward with a sharp slice of his scimitar. Quick as sunlight, the squirrel’s sword whirled up to block it, steel on steel filling the clearing with its bell-like clang.
In the tall pine, Riala Goldentail watched nervously, worried and yet caught up in the blur of flashing swords. Neither squirrel nor wolverine could seem to get the better of the other. They were very evenly matched, and both were soon sweating heavily from the furious fight. Suddenly Rilar tripped, nearly falling to the ground, and Nightdeath sliced in with a cruel smile on his face. The squirrel rolled, driving upward with his blade, slicing into the wolverine’s left thigh and then springing up with all the speed and agility of his species. He closed in again, hacking and slicing into the wolverine’s flesh. The Longclaws blocked a side thrust from the squirrel, then twisted, his sword biting into Rilar’s arm. They traded blow for blow after that, but it was becoming clear that the warrior squirrel was winning the battle.
Nightdeath growled three short times, and his ferret guard blew on a bone whistle. It was obviously a signal. Riala froze, frightened, as Nightdeath and Rilar stood watching each other. The Longclaws was smiling triumphantly, while the squirrel was crouched in a wary stance.
“Game over, Battlecry,” the wolverine said smugly.
There was the twang of bowstrings from all around the clearing, and Rilar jerked from the blows of so many black fletched arrows.
Someone was screaming, yelling denial, shrieking the word “No!” over and over. Riala realized it was she as a hoarse shout rose from the dying, arrow-riddled squirrel on the ground. “Riala! Run!” Somehow he could still yell with arrows protruding from his body. She tried to run, but her numb limbs wouldn’t obey. The clearing fell absolutely silent, every head turned toward the pine Riala hid in. It was so quiet that the squirrelmaid could hear the rattling exhale of her father, could see his eyes glaze over as he breathed his last.
The cold, triumphant smile was still on Nightdeath’s face. He motioned toward the tree. “Fire.”
Riala ran as the hiss and whistle of passing arrows rang in her ears.
It was three days before Riala could bring herself to return to the clearing. Her father’s body still lay on the ground, flies buzzing over the odorous corpse. The squirrelmaid shouted to drive them off, running over to him and sending the insects flying. She blanched at the sight of the stiffened corpse that was once her father, rage growing in her heart as she stared. Her heart was empty; she felt that a part of her had died with her father, leaving her dry of tears.
She remembered her father’s words as she stood there, anger burning in her heart and soul and mind, misting her eyes red. “I cannot let him go unpunished for what he did.” She hadn’t understood then- hadn’t known the fires of revenge that burned within and killed care and innocence and fueled a hatred towards the one who had taken her father’s life. She hadn’t known the broiling hatred toward the one who’d taken away her father and her joy and childhood and carefree happiness.
Nightdeath Longclaws would pay.
Riala stood just outside a ring of sand and stones, watching the lumber from her dismantled drey burn in the center with her father’s body. She repositioned the pack on her shoulder, staring at the embers of the pyre as it burned to ash. The squirrelmaid pushed sand over the fire, and then stacked stones until they covered the sand and ash. Her father’s grave.
Anger flashed again- she was growing used to the fierce fury, even welcoming it. She fueled the hatred with thoughts of Nightdeath’s treachery, Rilar’s unnecessary death, the cruelty and evil of the Longclaws. The fury and anger and hatred rose, her breathing growing faster and faster with the intense bloodlust, and she suddenly pulled her stick from her belt.
“RILAAAAAAR!” she screamed, throwing the weapon end-over-end with anger-driven force. The stick hit a slender tree with a loud thunk that echoed throughout the clearing. A sharp jerk on the cord attached to the weapon sent it flying back toward her.
“I’m ready,
Longclaws,” Riala growled, catching the roce with the ease of practice. “Do not
rest. I will slay you!”
“RIIILAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!”
The next day, the squirrel was walking slowly down a wide, much-used path, following the tracks of the Longclaws’ band, vengeance the one thing on her mind. She was not filled with the bloodwrath, however, and her senses were alert.
Riala’s keen ears swiveled at the rustle of leaves in the woods nearby, and she tensed, roce in paw immediately. Light brown eyes, just recently carefree with a childlike innocence, now hard and calculating, searched the trees. She heard the twang of a bowstring and threw herself sideways to the ground, hearing the whistle of an arrow passing by just where she’d been standing. Her searching gaze caught movement in the brush, and she threw her stick. It struck the archer with a solid thunk, and there was the snap of bones and a scream of pain. She’d hit his arm. Smiling thinly, the squirrel retrieved her roce and dashed into the woods, searching for the archer. Out of the shadows, a dagger sliced her throwing paw, though not deeply. She hissed in pain, whirling with her roce, but it struck nothing but air. A weasel grinned at her through the shadows, a knife in his paw. One arm hung limply at his side.
“You’ll pay for that, missy,” the vermin snarled. Riala blocked the dagger thrust with her stick, the blade making barely a mark on the hard wood. She drew her own knife, driving it into the weasel’s stomach and upward into his chest. He stared at her, blood spurting from his wound, the expression on his face the picture of disbelief. Then he gurgled from the blood coming up his throat and fell, lifeless, as the horrified squirrelmaid unsheathed her dagger from his heart. Blood drenched her paws and dagger, and flecks of it were on her tunic. She stared, stunned, at the bloody corpse at her feet.
“What did I do?” she whispered.
I killed. He was living, breathing, thinking… and I killed him. But then her shocked thoughts went to her father, and then to Nightdeath, and her paw tightened on the dagger. Can’t trust vermin. Longclaws killed Father… and so there’s no reason not to kill murderers. It’s justice. So reconciled, Riala hardened herself against the grisly sight of the dead weasel. Whatever shreds of childhood innocence or tenderness that might have still clung to her heart now stripped away, she moved on.
Chapter Two: The North Caves
Season followed season. Riala stayed on the trail of the Longclaws’ horde the entire time, helping goodbeasts and fighting vermin. As she gained more experience, her skill with her roce and dagger grew. The squirrel had followed Nightdeath west through the cold, thinly forested northern sector of Mossflower, and was gaining quite the reputation in that area.
The warrioress was traveling at a brisk pace through the treetops, hearing but not really noticing the noise of forest life. She suddenly halted, motionless, ears straining for a noise as the heavy silence fell upon her awareness. There was no sound save the wind rustling dry autumn leaves. Something was wrong. Something had frightened the birds and the insects into rare silence… Riala realized what it was when a harsh, whining voice grated against her ears.
“Gimme that food blinkeye!”
Her gold-brown eyes darkened, and she crept silently through the trees, dropping lightly to the ground in order to walk more quietly. She eased her stick out of her belt and grasped the coil of rope in her free paw. A mole’s rustic accent drifted to her tufted ears, and she followed the sounds of the argument to a mound of earth with a door at one end. Nearby, a brook gurgled on its merry way to larger bodies of water, silvery forms flashing within its depths.
“Good decision, mole,” a weasel’s nasal voice sneered. “Now stand right quiet so’s we c’n put these chains on you four.”
Slavers! Riala’s eyes narrowed dangerously as she ran a short circuit around the clearing’s edge to check for hidden guards. She found none, and she turned her attention back to the mole home. It was not large- no more than two or three vermin could fit in with a mole family. Slavers were rarely expert fighters. She could take them without too much trouble if she had the element of surprise…
The squirrel paused, thinking on her options, and then took up a position outside the door. When they came out, she’d be waiting. There was the clink of chains, and the swish-thwack of a whip. A mole grunted in pain, and Riala’s paw tightened on her roce, jaw set. Vermin, she growled mentally, all her hatred packed into that one word.
“Move on, let’s go, outside!” the weasel ordered. Another whiplash, and this time it was the scream of a dibbun that reached the waiting squirrel’s ears. Her muscles tensed, quivering with fury at the cruelty of the slavers. The door opened, and a weasel calmly strode out, his whip twitching like a live snake from his paw.
Riala’s paw shot out, and she grabbed his muzzle, pulling him back. Her dagger slit his throat, and he died without a sound. A chained adult mole came through the door, and he stifled a cry of shock and fright when he saw the squirrel. Her teeth were bared, her eyes misted in red, and blood dripped from her dagger. The dead weasel was slumped on the ground, shoved out of the way.
“Move,” the squirrel hissed. “Stay quiet!” He nodded shakily, walking forward.
Swish-thwack! A whip snaked out, striking a struggling molebabe across the shoulders. She shrieked, back arced in pain. The lash struck the father mole across the face as he turned to help his daughter.
It was too much for Riala, who was already teetering on the verge of bloodwrath. “Rilaaaar!” The battle-cry ripped from her throat, and she raced into the hut, leaping over the heads of the mole family and striking the slaver in the chest with her footpaws. His breath left him with an audible whoosh of air as he fell, and the enraged squirrel raised her roce to strike.
“Mercy! Don’t kill me!” the weasel yelped, fear widening his eyes and strangling his voice to a squeak.
“Not in fron’ of th’ dibbuns, please, miz!” the molewife pleaded.
Slowly the warrior’s muscles relaxed and the red mist of near-berserk fury faded from her eyes. “Ye’re right,” Riala hissed to the weasel, her normally imperceptible northern accent growing stronger with her fury. “Death’s tae good for ye. I should chain ye oop an’ use yon lash on ye until ye’ve noo a scrap o’ fur on your back. Then-“
“No, please! I won’t never go near a whip agin!” he squealed.
“Like I believe that!” Riala growled scornfully, her rage and accent beginning to abate. “Where’s your keys?”
A little later, the weasel was in chains and the mole family was freed. The molewife, whose name was Soilfree, worked at bandaging the wounds of her husband and dibbuns. Riala set to work cleaning and honing her dagger, sending occasionally dark looks at the quivering weasel.
“Thankee koindly, miz,” Durtfloyer, the father, said to the squirrel.
“Riala Goldentail,” the warrior told him, not looking up from her blade.
“Then… thankee, miz Ri’la,” the mole corrected himself.
Their whip wounds bandaged, the two molebabes, Soilfloyer and Durtfree, came up to the squirrel and gazed at her with curiosity.
“Yurr, ‘ow’d you’m get so gudd at foightin’, miz?” Durtfree inquired.
“Hurr! You’m taked yon vurmint oot wunnerfully!” Soilfloyer added, wonder on her face.
Riala sheathed her dagger and dropped her whetstone in the pouch at her side that had long replaced the cumbersome backpack. She leaned forward, looking at the two seriously. “I became a fighter through practice and necessity. It’s not a bad idea to learn how to fight, but take my advice- don’t be a warrior for a living. Grow up, raise a family, live a life of peace… but fight only when you have to. A warrior’s life is not as glamorous as some say.”
“Then whoi do you be a wurryer, miz Ri’la?” Durtfree asked, confusion plain on his young features.
The squirrel looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.” Her voice was flat, her expression hard as stone as she spoke her reply.
“Mebbe we would,” the molebabes’ mother objected quietly. “Whoi do you be a wurrior?
“Because I have to!” The four words exploded from her mouth, almost a cry against the question and the memories it brought to the surface. She stood and walked swiftly away, gold-brown eyes holding grief though her face was stone.
Soilfree was a perceptive mole, and she saw the shadows in Riala’s eyes. She gathered her children to her. “Burr, toime for bed, dibbuns,” she said, hustling them away. “Cumm yurr!”
She returned minutes later to find Riala savagely sharpening her dagger. “Miz Ri’la?” The squirrel did not answer, did not seem to hear anything besides the fey voices of her past. The molewife placed a comforting digging claw on the warrior’s shoulder. Wiry muscles tensed, then relaxed as Riala sheathed her dagger.
“Yes, Soilfree?” the squirrel asked.
“Somethin’ bothers ye,” the mole said. “Whoi are you’m a wurrior?”
The squirrel rose with a sigh, walking over to the wall where the weasel huddled, footpaws making no sound on the earthen floor. “A wolverine, Nightdeath Longclaws by name, killed my father,” she said finally, flatly. “Four seasons back. They were dueling, and my father was winning… until the Longclaws signaled with three short growls. His ferret, fox… and weasel archers shot from the bushes. Nobeast can dodge that many arrows.”
She glared down at the quivering slaver coldly. “I vowed revenge.”
“I didn’t kill y’r pater!” the weasel whimpered in protest.
“No,” Riala growled. “You just flog dibbuns.” She touched the weasel’s whip that was coiled in her belt, lowering her voice so that her hissed words reached only his ears. “When we’re beyond earshot of this place, I’m going to use this!”
The squirrel turned to Soilfree as the slaver fainted dead away. “It’s time for me to leave.”
The molewife nodded. “Would you’m loike summ vittlers?”
The warrior shook her head. “I can get all the food I need from the woods.” She turned to the weasel again and dragged at his chains, pulling him upright and forcing him to consciousness. “Let’s go,” she growled. The slaver whimpered, but had no choice other than to obey.
They were soon out of earshot of the mole home. Riala slowly uncoiled the whip, face expressionless. “You’ll tell me what I need to know,” she told him. “And if I think you’re lying, I’ll give you a few lashings to get the truth out of you. If I find you’ve played me false, you’ll feel my dagger in your gut.”
He gulped, eyes wide with fear. “I – I thought woodlanders ‘ave honor!” the slaver protested.
She smiled, but the expression was a cold one, with hatred blazing behind it. “What honor I had was killed with my father seasons ago,” the squirrel replied harshly. “Now get moving towards your slaver camp.”
Uncertainty flickered in the weasel’s eyes, but he soon replied. “Don’t ‘ave one.”
Swish! Thwack! The whip fell across his back with all of Riala’s force behind it. He arched his back and screamed in pain, but the squirrel’s face might have been stone for all the expression it showed. “I wasn’t bluffing, slaver,” she hissed. “Where’s your camp?”
He gulped air with the beginnings of a sob in his throat. “I said – I don’t ‘ave one!”
The whip fell twice; the weasel shrieked twice. “Don’t lie to me!” the squirrel snarled. “You were taking the moles as slaves. Slave bands have more than two slavers, and more than a few slaves!” He hesitated, balking, and then arched his back again with the lash of the whip. Riala held his neck chain taught to keep him from collapsing.
“I’ll tell!” the vermin choked out past the confining iron. “I’ll tell!”
The warrior dropped the chain and he fell to the ground, sobbing for breath, gagging on his own phlegm. “You’d better, vermin,” she growled, hatred thick in her tone. “By Dark Forest’s gates – you’d better!”
With the threat of the lash behind him, the weasel- whose name was Darkeye- wasted no time in showing Riala the location of his band. They were on a small ridge overlooking a cliff riddled with caves. The squirrel remembered tales of the caves, once the Caves of Luke, as that was the mouse leader at one time… but that was long ago. Now they were simply named the North Caves.
She looked at the weasel and deliberately slid her knife out of its sheath, steel scraping on scabbard with an ominous hiss. “Tell them to drop their weapons,” she said, referring to the four vermin lounging about a campfire. “And try to sound natural.”
Darkeye swallowed hard as the newly sharpened dagger pricked his jugular. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a call that easily reached the slavers’ ears. “Hallo the camp! What’re you doin’ loungin’ about?”
The slavers leapt up hastily, guilt clear on their grimy faces. “Erm, er, nothin’ sir!” one weasel stammered.
Another elbowed him sharply. “Wot Ragfur means, sir, is that we was guardin’ th’ camp!”
A third nodded eagerly. “Wot Thintail said!”
Darkeye grimaced. “Drop yore weapons,” he ordered. “Throw ‘em my way, but don’t hit me.”
Several assorted weapons landed in the dust before the squirrel and her prisoner with a metallic clatter. Darkeye stared at the equipment in mingled disbelief and disgust. “Surely yore smarter’n t’throw yore weapons away!” the weasel muttered, momentarily forgetting his predicament in his disgust.
“Enough banter,” Riala hissed, her dagger still touching his neck. “Step into view. Slowly.”
The slavers gaped in shock when their leader walked forwards, chained and bleeding from several whip-marks. Their eyes went from the weasel to the golden-tailed squirrel that held him captive, widening in surprise and shocked recognition. They’d heard the tales of the merciless squirrel and her hunger for vermin lives…
“Goldentail!”
Thintail gasped. “Here?”
“Quit your whining and free the slaves, or your leader dies,” Riala growled, ignoring their shock. They nodded as one and hurriedly unchained the ten wretched slaves, some with broken spirits, others with hearts filled with hatred for the slavers, and some just glad to be free. Slowly the slaves walked towards the squirrel, their freedom still not quite sinking in.
“Pick up a weapon, each of you, and check the slavers for hidden weapons and keys,” Riala told them. “Chain them up so they can’t escape.”
Faces grim, the ex-slaves followed her orders eagerly, being none too gentle in their handling of those who were once their masters. A young hedgehog, barely older than the molebabes Riala had recently aided, looked at Darkeye’s bleeding back with cold brown eyes.
“You did that to him?” he asked. She nodded silently. The hedgehog’s face was stone as his gaze went from the squirrel to the weasel. “Good,” he said flatly.
And I
thought warriors grew up quickly, the squirrel thought, watching the
ex-slave. Slaves grow up faster, and turn out harder…
Soon the slavers were chained securely. Riala tossed her borrowed whip to the ground. “Are all of you staying here?” she asked.
They looked from the whip to the slavers. One ex-slave, a half-grown badger, stepped forwards and picked up the lash. “We’ve unfinished business,” he rumbled. “The slavers would capture more if we let them live.”
The squirrel nodded, no expression on her scarred features. “I understand.” She turned and walked down towards the North Caves, the screams of slavers getting their due echoing in her ears.
The caves seemed empty, but on closer scrutiny it was obvious that somebeasts had left in a hurry. Sand had been tossed over still-warm embers, and scraps of cloth could be found on the rocks. Riala’s paw tightened on her roce as she looked at the signs of a hasty exit, and then glanced about the rocks.
Ssss-thunk!
A gray-fletched arrow landed at her footpaws, and the squirrel jumped, twisting backwards and landing behind a large rock. “I thought goodbeasts inhabited these caves!” she shouted angrily.
“They do,” a voice said mildly behind her. The warrior whirled, releasing her short throwing club from instinct and reflex, but jerking on the cord as she saw that the speaker was a dark brown mouse. The stick halted in mid-air and fell back towards Riala from the yank on its cord that had jerked it short.
“Don’t do that!” the squirrel gasped, picking up the weapon and coiling the rope. “I could have killed you!”
He was slightly shaken, but concealed his shock quickly. “You’re right, treejumper. I shouldn’t sneak up on warriors. I ought to know that, being one myself.” The stocky, muscular mouse stuck out a callused paw. “Welcome to the North Caves. I’m Mark the Warrior. I apologize for the hostility, but vermin were sighted nearby earlier today, and we can’t be too careful.”
She nodded and shook the proffered paw, noting the strong grip of a swordsbeast. “I’m Riala Goldentail – not ‘treejumper,’” the squirrel said mildly.
The mouse arched one eyebrow. “My apologies, Goldentail.”
Gold-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you try to annoy otherbeasts? I dislike formalities, Mark – can I call you Mark? Or would you prefer Warrior?”
“All right, all right, you’ve made your point!” Mark raised his paws in mock surrender. “Riala, then? Is that better?”
She glared at him a moment longer, but had to laugh at the good-natured mouse’s actions. “Much.”
Dinner was a leisurely affair. The group of North Cave warriors laughed and chatted as they ate the seafood that made up most of their diet. When the meal dwindled to crumbs and the clatter of wood utensils on shell bowls subsided, they began to tell stories. One told of the time he’d infiltrated a ship disguised as a searat. Another told of how he’d tricked two rats into fighting one another. Riala noted that all the tales were humorous ones of trickery and wit, none of war and death and losing friends or family. All the warriors skirted that subject carefully, none wanting to spoil the good mood.
Finally one warriormaid, a wiry black mouse, turned to the golden-tailed squirrel. “And what of you, Riala Goldentail?” she called. “Does the traveler have a tale to tell?”
The squirrel’s face hardened, and when she again spoke, her voice carried the frost of the harsh northern winters in its chilling tone. “I’m afraid you’d find none of my stories very humorous.”
The collected warriorbeasts- all scarred, fit, competent creatures- wore grim faces of understanding. “No need to worry,” a burly otter rumbled. “We’ve used up all our light stories by now. Might as well learn a bit about a newcomer.”
Riala nodded and slowly stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor. Her voice rose and fell as she told her story; her eyes filled with pain and then hardened with cold hatred as the tale progressed. She told of her father, the Longclaws’ treachery, her first kill. She spoke of following Nightdeath, helping the mole family, and freeing the slaves.
“…and now my journey leads here,” she ended. Suddenly very tired from the emotional draining of her tale and the physical stress she’d been through in the past day, the squirrel sank wearily into her seat. The warriors were silent for a few moments as they digested the story- silent until Mark stood and nodded grimly to Riala.
“A tale that mirrors the ones many of us have,” he said, jaw tight with a still-painful memory. “Yet it’s better not to dwell on such things … It’s getting late. We’d best turn in.”
A murmur of “ayes” swept through the room, and there was a noisy clatter as the group pushed back their chairs and rose from their seats. Chatter gradually filled the air, replacing the stifling, uncomfortable silence. Mark turned to Riala, studying her for a moment as if deciding whether or not she should hear what he had to say. Finally he gave an almost imperceptible nod. “The wolverine you seek has passed by here, but as he did not interfere with us, we did not bother him. He went south and west.”
The squirrel’s grim features remained immobile, but the gratitude in gold-brown eyes was enough for the northern warrior. He nodded to her again and turned, starting for the door, only to be intercepted by an out-of-breath scout bursting through the entrance.
“Searats! It’s the Blacktooth, sir! They’re comin’ to attack!” he gasped, a paw pressed to his heaving side as he tried to regain his wind.
Dismay mingled with a harsh anger in Mark’s face. It was an ever-present hatred that Riala recognized all too well – one she saw every time she looked into a mirror. “The Blacktooth! Are you certain? Captain Deathclaw’s ship?” When he spoke the name Deathclaw, Mark’s fury seemed to intensify, causing the messenger to flinch away from the naked hatred in the mouse leader’s dark brown eyes.
“Yessir! I recognized the black sails at once,” the scout replied, no hint of uncertainty in his clear voice.
Mark slammed his fist down on the heavy table’s wood, causing dishes to rattle startlingly. “I knew this would happen!” His words might lead one to believe the warrior to be afraid or reluctant to fight the wavevermin, but his harsh tone and the battlelight in his eyes spoke differently. “Which direction is it coming from?”
“West, sir.”
The mouse’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, and suddenly he seemed far older than his seasons. “West… by the fur… Most likely he came from Tefkar’ palace. He’ll have double the army…” At that moment, Riala saw with a sudden strange insight how hard it must be to command warriors. How hard it would be to have to deal with the guilt and the grief whenever a soldier died. A leader was responsible for the creatures that followed him. The squirrel felt sympathy for the mouse warrior, but knew with a certainty that cut clear through her that she would never want to lead creatures into war, however glamorous the tales made it seem.
Mark straightened then, face set in stony determination, though grief flickered as dark shadows in his brown eyes. “Catapult! Reysa! Quickblade! Fildo! Callot!” His voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the background noise of the room like a finely honed sword, all his earlier hesitation gone. Riala realized, though, that his unswerving decision was only an act, put on for the benefit of the North Cave warriors and their morale.
The five named goodbeasts hurried over to Mark. One was a burly gray squirrel; one was a wiry mouse; one a dark-colored badger; the fourth an otter; and the last was a lanky hare. “Yessir?” they asked in near-unison.
“Fildo, take the non-combatants and children to the clifftop,” Mark commanded, snapping out orders with rapid-fire speed. “Cellot, take a fourth of the army, half missilebeasts and half paw-to-paw fighters, to Deathclaw’s left flank. Nifo, take another fourth to his right. Reysa, take a fourth around to his back and wait in the rocks. When I blow the trumpet, fire as many times as you can. On the second blast, send in the paw-to-paw fighters. Go!” The four warriors saluted, faces grim, and jogged off as they called out orders. “Catapult, take one of your rock-throwers and three fighters to the ridge. Wait until the oarslaves are out, then destroy the Blacktooth.” The squirrel nodded and bounded away. “Isran!”
A burly mouse ran up. “Sir?”
“Take a score of warriors in the longboats around the rocks as the Blacktooth comes in. Stay out of sight and board the ship after the main vermin force leaves. Free the oarslaves and get out fast. Catapult is on the ridge, so you’ll have to hurry,” Mark warned. Isran nodded his understanding and dashed away, calling out the names of his chosen fighters.
“I’ll fight, too,” Riala offered.
Mark shook his head. “No, Riala. This is the problem of my warriors and myself. You go on your way.”
The squirrel laughed, a sound filled with false mirth that sounded hollow to her ears. “Your fight? You mean you’re not going to share?” Her expression turned grim, uncompromising, and all the lightness was gone from her tone with her next words. “I must repay you, Mark.”
He glared at her, the tension in the air between them almost palpable. “I can see you will fight no matter what I say,” he growled, paw clenched on his sword’s hilt. “Very well, but Deathclaw is mine!” He spun on his heel and stalked outside to gather his section of warriors. Riala watched him go, wondering what had provoked his display of hostility. Nerves, stretched tight by the upcoming battle? Fear, that the squirrel would rob him of revenge? The warrior wasn’t sure- but it didn’t matter. Roce in paw, she followed the Warrior.
To battle.
The only members of the North Cave warriors visible to the sea were those of the small section that Mark commanded. The beach was as quiet as the forest after first frost while the ship lowered anchor, and Riala felt that a pass with her dagger through the air would snap the tension with one touch when more than two hundred searats boated ashore, unaware of the hidden warriors.
From their hiding spot in the wave-worn beachside rocks, Isran and his crew rowed out silently to the ship, their oars making almost no sound as they entered and exited the seawater. The lookouts died silently, slumping onto the wooden deck with only a harsh death rattle from a punctured long or slashed throat. A few tense minutes passed, and then Isran’s team reappeared with several bedraggled slaves. No sooner were their boats away from the ship than Catapult’s crew had cut loose a stone with a wild yell.
In shock and surprise, the searats just then reaching the beach twisted around in their longboats and stared at the huge boulder. The stone seemed to hang in the air as it lazily reached its apex, and then began to fall. It struck the Blacktooth amidships, ripping into the hull with a sickening thud. The torn ship was taking on water fast, but still rested on the surface. A second stone remedied that, the sound of splintering wood drowning out the outraged yells of the on looking vermin and the dying shrieks of beams shifting beyond their ability to bend.
The wavevermin reached the shore and poured out, yelling their wild rage. “Maaaaaaark!” one rat shouted, a yell that was almost a scream. “You’ll pay for what you did to my ship, you coward!” The rat towered a full head over the rest of the searats, his scimitar glinting in the pale light of the full moon.
Mark raised his trumpet, a ram’s discarded horn, and the blast cut across the searats’ yells. Arrows sliced into the tight pack of vermin, easy targets on the open beach. Screams rent the air as they fell, but Deathclaw pressed his vermin on, rage contorting his already twisted features. The enraged crew of the sunken Blacktooth obeyed, charging the rocks where the North Cave warriors were hidden. Mark hastily blew a second blast on the ram’s horn, signaling the charge. The North Cave warriors, along with Riala, raced forwards with a combined shout of mingled war cries and fell upon the wavescum.
The fighting was a maelstrom of yells and screams and blood and death. Riala was used to a more guerilla style of warfare- not this all-out bloodfest. Even so, she was accustomed to killing, and a tight-packed horde only made it easier to take vermin life. Her roce whirled, cracking skulls, breaking arms, splitting faces. Its dark brown surface was soon soaked with blood. Her dagger thrust where her short club would not work, and the brown and forest green tunic was soon darkened with red-black liquid, both vermin blood and the squirrel’s own.
Caught up in the vicious, unthinking, unfeeling, whirling intensity of the battle, Riala’s eyes became veiled with the red of bloodwrath. The adrenaline pumping through her veins, the pain of her wounds, the sight of dying goodbeasts- it all combined to driver past thinking and past feeling into the berserker rage that drove away all reason. Several of the North Cave warriors were the same way as they hacked through the seavermin, heedless of wounds.
A sudden lack of targets gave the squirrel pause, and the red began to fade from her gold-brown eyes. She was on the fringe of the battle, outside the tight-packed fight where her deadly roce had carried her. Yet it wasn’t only she who stood on the outside- two vermin had also broken free of the turmoil of battle. The two rats saw her at the same moment that she noticed them. The three fighters abruptly crouched, each bleeding heavily from various wounds, their weapons ready.
Riala smiled, more of a baring of teeth than an actual grin. Her eyes were beginning to redden again. “Come to fight or run, wavescum?” she rasped in a voice raw from yelling.
They looked at each other, and then at the red-brown squirrel. Two of them and one of her. They advanced, grinning, and she waited, roce in one paw, bloodied dagger on the other. They were a paws-length away from her and slashing with blood-stained cutlasses and…
…she wasn’t there. Riala had dodged away and raced behind them with the speed and agility that is the trademark of a squirrel. Her dagger flashed in the moonlight and buried itself in one rat’s back. He gasped, the last breath he’d ever take, and fell heavily to the ground. The second searat stared from Riala to his comrade and back again.
“Naow it be ye an’ me,” the warrioress said with a grin, a macabre expression of death’s advance. Her normally imperceptible northern accent was much more marked- the signal that she was at her most dangerous.
The rat snarled and charged, slashing wildly. Riala blocked with her roce, and the hard wood was barely nicked from the cutlass’ bite. She swung the stick while the wavescum was still confused, cracking his head with intense force and sending him crumpling in a heap.
The battle was dying down, the North Cave warriors emerging triumphant- but at a terrible cost. Almost as many goodbeasts lay dead as vermin. Riala looked about for an enemy, and finding none, her wounds began to make themselves felt with a vengeance. She swayed on her feet, and then crumpled with a groan of pain, the ground meeting her along with painless unconsciousness.
“Good, thou art awakening at last.”
Riala groaned as the voice pounded through her tufted ears to her head, sending pain shooting through her skull and then her entire body. A cold beaker was placed to her lips. “Drink!” somebeast ordered. Riala didn’t have the strength to resist, but she gagged on the vile medicine as it went down. It certainly brought her around quickly enough, feeling like fire in her empty stomach.
“Yaaagh! What’re you trying to do, kill me? I’d rather death by a vermin blade than by drinking that stuff!” she spluttered as soon as she’d finished coughing. The squirrel opened her eyes at last, glaring at the mouse that had fed her the potion – poison, Riala corrected herself, grimacing at the vile aftertaste.
“It gives ye strength,” the dark brown mouse told her, “and ye need strength to heal thyself.”
The golden-tailed squirrel blinked, clearing the last clouds of sleep from her eyes. “But does it have to taste so horrible?”
“Aye,” the healer replied calmly, “for ‘tis sore harmful to the body when taken overmuch, and if it held a sweet taste, thou would want much of it, would ye not?”
Riala grimaced and inspected her wounds, which were healing fairly well. “I suppose you know what you’re doing,” she said dubiously, rewrapping the bandages she’d removed. The squirrel huddled in her sheets and looked about the infirmary cave for her tunic. The white shift she’d been placed in wasn’t exactly warm, nor fit for travel use. “Where’s my tunic, healer?”
“My name be Sablepaw,” the mouse told her, “not ‘healer.’ And ye are not yet healed enough to be wandering again.”
“It’s good enough,” Riala groused, swinging her footpaws carefully over the side of the bed and standing up gingerly. She ached all over, and the wound in her throwing arm throbbed painfully. With Sablepaw looking on disapprovingly, Riala hobbled over to a mirror and peered into it.
The squirrel in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. Her ear had been sliced nearly in half, but stitched back together. A white bandage was wrapped around her head to cover a nastily deep cut on her cheek. Her left eye was discolored from a blow in the battle. A long gash, slowly healing, ran from her shoulder to her elbow, and a second gash was across her right thigh. Riala grimaced and prodded her nose with one scarred paw. “What a sight,” she commented wryly. “Any vermin who sees this face won’t wait to fight- he’ll probably just take off screaming.”
“An’ it please thee, squirrel,” the healer said, sarcasm heavy in her archaic formality, “thou shalt surely see now why ye cannot leave yet. Thou art far too weak still.”
“Ah, give the squirrel a break, Sable,” an otter on another bed called. “T’aint goin’ ter kill ‘er t’start travelin’ agin.”
Sablepaw shot the heavily bandaged otter a frosty glare. “T’will not, ye say, Swiftrudd?” she snapped. “Wilt thou stake this squirrel’s life on it? And if she encounters vermin as she wanders, as she surely shalt? What then? Wilt she not be defeated in her weakened condition?”
“That’s fightin’, matey, not travelin’,” the otter objected.
“And shall she be any less dead, any farther from the gates of Dark Forest? Nay, Swiftrudd,” the healer said coldly, answering her own question, “nay, she shall not. I firmly advise her not to travel unhealed!”
Riala groaned inwardly. “Enough, Sablepaw! I’ll stay, don’t worry!” The mouse was right- she couldn’t travel until she was better. But as the squirrel warrioress laid back down on her bed, she bit her bottom lip in frustration. Every day in bed was another day that the Longclaws traveled, another day farther away from her. Another day for the trail to get cold…
Chapter 3: Salamandastron
It was a
full month after that day in the infirmary of the
“Riala!”
The squirrel paused, barely ten lengths from the caves, then turned. “What is it, Mark?”
The warrior walked up to her and handed her a parchment. “I had my trackers look for the Longclaws’ trail,” he told her. “They asked various goodbeasts if they’d seen the wolverine, and mapped his trail as far as Salamandastron. You’ll have to find it on your own once you get to that point.”
Riala looked at the parchment, a map of the area between the Caves and Salamandastron, with the Longclaws’ trail shown as a dotted line. She nodded gratefully to the mouse warrior. “Thank you,” the squirrel said honestly. “I really appreciate this.”
Mark smiled slightly. “I understand.” He gazed off into the distance, over the sea, and a shadow darkened his eyes and clouded his face. “Would you take a bit of advice from an old warrior, squirrel?”
She glanced at him in surprise. His voice had sounded as old as he’d said, as if he were positively ancient, aged beyond his years. Something had changed since the battle, and Riala had only just noticed it. Perhaps this was the first time Mark had let this… agedness show, or perhaps it was only now that she had noticed it. “Of course,” she agreed.
The mouse watched her in silence for a long moment, growing older and more wearied in Riala’s eyes. Weary of battle… weary of… of life? “Don’t let your hatred for the wolverine consume you,” he said quietly, almost whispering it. “Don’t let it take over your life.” He laughed suddenly, but it sounded forced. “Listen to me, sounding like a feeble pawed elderbeast. Good luck in your hunt, Riala. Just remember what I said.”
Riala gazed at Mark levelly as he pulled himself together, hiding the weariness once more, but she could still see a shadow of it in his eyes now that she knew where to look. What happened to him? she thought, but nodded. “I will, and thank you again, Mark.” She still didn’t quite understand, but she realized it was important to him that she consent. “Farewell.”
“Seasons bless,” Mark returned, watching with a shadow lurking in his gaze as the warrioress headed south to Salamandastron.
Riala set a hard pace for herself, wearing off the flab gathered from a month of bedrest. She didn’t follow the Longclaws’ somewhat meandering trail, instead taking as straight of a path as possible. Hopefully she could catch up without too much trouble…
She traveled hard for nearly a month, going due south the entire time, getting closer and closer to Salamandastron. The squirrel avoided trouble when she could- fights would only slow her down, and she wasn’t yet as fit as she could be. Her slowed reflexes would be a strong disadvantage.
It was in
the
Her instincts turned out to be right. She heard footsteps that were not her own slapping on the dunes and shifting the sand. Riala whirled, roce out and read in her throwing paw as she searched for the other walker. Gold-brown eyes met only sand and rocks and sunlight. Slowly she turned in a complete circle, every sense she had straining to detect another creature.
The sun abruptly went behind a cloud, a shadow falling across her body- but the sky was cloudless. Riala leapt to the side, out of the sudden shade, rolling when she hit the sand and rising back to her footpaws in one smooth motion as a net fell on the spot she’d just left. She flicked her mobile golden tail free of the entangling net and threw her stick at the top of a dune. It struck the warty toad on his wedge-shaped snout and sent him tumbling backwards off of the sand dune.
The
squirrel retrieved her roce quickly, tensed in a fighter’s crouch, eyes darting
back and forth for more opponents. She
groaned inwardly as a full
Riala bounded up the slippery side of the nearest sand dune on all fours, paws never touching the sliding ground for more than a moment. Upon reaching the peak, she parried a trident thrust from the toad standing there and sliced his net in two with her dagger. A hard downward swing with her roce cracked the ugly creature’s flimsy skull and sent him tumbling.
The rest of the toads realized that they had lost the high ground, but it didn’t matter to them. Forty toads against one squirrel were easy odds. The warrioress knew it as well. There was no way she could fight all of the ugly amphibians off on her own. She could try to run… but the dunes went on for miles, she was almost out of water, and she wasn’t built for running on shifting sand. Besides, these toads were between here and Salamandastron.
So it came down to two choices. Fight and most likely die or be captured, or run and most likely die from dehydration and starvation. Riala shuddered inwardly at the thought. She’d take her chances with the toads.
“C’mon, ya warty cowards!” she shouted at the wary dunebeasts. “Ugly hellspawn! Bloody web-footed wart-faced whining wimps!”
The toads croaked and gurgled indignantly, then charged her in a massive attack. Riala smiled thinly, humorlessly, and let out three lengths of cord. “Come to die,” she whispered, and gripped the cord tied to her roce with one firm paw. The squirrel whirled in a circle as the toads reached her, the stick flying outwards with centrifugal force, smacking soundly on the sides of amphibian skulls. “Riiilaaaaaar!” she yelled, working herself into a berserker rage- into the red-misted, unfeeling, unthinking state of bloodwrath. She came out of her spin and reversed directions, eliminating the vertigo. The toads fell back, croaking uncertainly, not wanting to be the next to fall to the whirling stick.
Riala yanked on the cord, and the stick flew towards her. She caught it and bared her teeth at the watching toads. “Any more of ye wishin’ tae die?” she shouted, her usually near-imperceptible northern accent becoming much more pronounced with adrenaline.
An annoyed croak came from somewhere near the back of the toads as nobeast advanced. “Catcha bushytail, grroik!” he croaked. “Catchanow, cowardbeasts! Grroik!”
Spurred on by the words of their king, the toads advanced on the squirrel with ready tridents. She was breathing heavily from exertion and bloodwrath, but not about to give up, although they came at her from all sides. “Riiiiilaaaaaar!” she roared, and dove into the ranks, bashing with her roce-paw and slicing with her dagger paw. No time for feints and parries- all she could do was act, all she could do was attack with all the ferocious strength she possessed.
A net fell
on top of her- she slashed at it with her dagger and struggled free, only to be
entangled by another net. Encouraged by
the faltering squirrel, the toads all tossed their nets and threw themselves on
top of her to force her to stop moving. Idiots,
the warrioress thought with a soundless snarl, slashing bellies and throats
with her dagger. She didn’t have to
mobility to use her roce, but a bladed weapon was certainly of use in quarters
as close as this. More toads piled on
her, however, and the bodies of the dead kept her from reaching the live ones. She was being crushed under the weight; she
couldn’t move- couldn’t breathe…
And then the toads moved off of her. She couldn’t see much as her vision was obscured by blackness from the lack of air, but she drew in life-giving breaths as she was wrapped tightly in the nets. Her dagger was prized from her paw, and she was lifted by several ugly amphibians.
Captured. Blood and bones, this was annoying!
Riala’s vision finally cleared in time to see the ground rushing up to meet her when the toads dropped her. Even wrapped in nets, she could still move somewhat. She ducked her shoulder and curled into a roll, using her own momentum to bring herself to her footpaws. In front of her was a massive, warty toad with a comical tin crown on his head. King Croakweb, she guessed.
Her assumption turned out to be correct. “King Croakweb is I,” the toadking croaked. “Bushytail is catched. Bushytail bowking!”
The squirrel shot “King Croakweb” a withering look of utter disgust. “Kroakweb is legless tadpole,” she told him, trying to guess what would be insulting to a toad. “Nono, Croakweb not slimetoad! Croakweb is flyhatchling!”
The king’s eyes bulged with comical fury. “Bushytail foolbeast!” he gurgled indignantly. “Bushytail will bow! Croakweb toadking, not flybabe!” A toad behind Riala struk her in the knees and then the head with the butt of his trident, driving her to the ground in what looked like a low genuflection. Stars burst across her vision from the blow to her head, and she fought unconsciousness as Croakweb gurgle-laughed scornfully.
“See bushytail? Bushytail bow like cowardbeast!” he said. “Bushytail foolbeast, foodbeast! Now take bushytail…”
“Eulaliaaaaa!” It was a deafening shout, echoing over the dunes and sending the toads into a frenzy of fear.
“Longears!” King Croakweb croaked hoarsely. “Run now! Leave bushytail! Guard king! Help kiiiiing!” His last word faded into a panicked, drawn out scream as the press of panicked toads abandoned all thought for loyalty to their grossly fat monarch, thinking only of their own safety as they tried to escape, trampling Croakweb underfoot.
Riala curled into a ball of net and squirrel as the toads raced away in a panic. She could almost feel the bruises forming as yet another warty amphibian trod upon her in its rush to escape. The solid thwack of wood hitting skulls sounded like music to the squirrel’s tufted ears, and then finally the frantic croaking receded into the distance. She uncurled with a groan and opened her eyes.
A light sand-colored hare was standing over the squirrel with a concerned expression etched on her features. On seeing Riala’s eyes open, she waggled her ears in relief. “I say, wot’re ya doin’ on th’ flippin’ ground, treejumper?” she asked.
The squirrel grimaced. “What does it look like?” she groused. “Mind cutting me free?”
The hare shrugged and dipped her lance almost casually to Riala’s red-brown fur. With a few seemingly careless swipes, during which the wide-eyed squirrel scarcely dared to breathe for fear of the hare misjudging the slice, she cut the nets into shreds. Riala climbed to her footpaws carefully, wincing as a few ribs complained with a wave of pain. “Thanks, I think,” she said to the hare fem.
“Wot about us?” another voice protested merrily. Four sand-furred hares, each wearing tunics colored the same dusty shade as the dunes, much like the one the female hare wore, jogged easily back from where they’d been encouraging toads to run a bit faster.
Riala grinned at the one who had spoken, a large hare with one entirely black ear. “Thank you too,” she told him, addressing the other three hares as well. “I’d probably be toad dinner by now if you five hadn’t helped out.”
The black-eared hare looked around at the bodies of dead toads that littered the dunes. “I don’t know ‘bout that, treejumper,” he said dryly. “Y’seem t’have been doin’ rather well on y’own, doncher know.”
“Aye, very well,” Riala agreed sarcastically. “Tangled in a net and lying on the ground before a warty toad who insists on being called king.” She shrugged. “No matter. Thanks for saving me and kindly accept my gratitude. The name’s Riala.” She began winding the cord of her roce into a manageable coil as she spoke, untangling the occasional knot.
“Top o’ th’ morn’ t’you, Riala,” the black-eared hare greeted her. “I’m Sarrock, th’ sergeant of this spiffin’ Long Patrol that y’claim saved y’skin. Th’ friendly gel there’s Lera…”
“An’ he never gets th’ entire name right,” the light-furred haremaid groused, “so I think I’ll keep th’ chap from manglin’ it all over again. Th’ name’s Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye, or Lera, y’see. Simple, wot?”
Sarrock rolled his eyes and motioned to the previous silent hares behind him. They were tossing a lance back and forth between them at blinding speed. “Th’ small chap there, that’s Recar. He’s th’ champion runner in th’ Long Patrol, though I don’t bally well believe th’ chap is done growin’ yet!” Recar was indeed small, not long an adult, but his lean physique and the long muscles of a runner on his legs gave testament to Sarrock’s description. He didn’t look over as his name was mentioned, but remained intent on the whirling lance. “Th’ ol’ graybeard’s Tion,” he added with a grin. “A spiffin’ warrior, but don’t tell th’ feeblepaws I swaid that!” Tion was graying a little around his ears and whiskers, but he was muscular and fit, his eyes hard and flat, fixed on the lance. It whizzed point first for his shoulder, and he moved in a blue, stepping aside and snatching it out of the air with one nimble paw. He turned it over and threw it back in the same smooth motion. No, Tion was definitely not feeling his years.
Riala watched, alarmed and tense as the deadly lance flew back and forth. Sarrock ignored the potential peril faced by his patrol members and continued introducing them instead. “Th’ clown an’ th’ last bally chap of th’ group has t’be Nuron, doncher know! Nobeast else left t’be him, y’see. Don’t see why anybeast else would want t’be ‘im, though!”
Nuron was indeed a jester. He stared at the lance with a dumbfounded expression as it flew back and forth between Tion and Recar. Abruptly Tion threw the weapon at Nuron, whose ears shot up in surprise as he fell back onto the sand. His hind legs shot up and grabbed the lance in mid-air, and he kicked out. Straight as an arrow, the weapon whistled in Recar’s direction, striking him directly in the chest. The squirrel yelped in shock as the young hare fell onto his back with a whoosh of expelled air, and then rolled over onto all fours, coughing. The lance, entirely bloodless, lay on the ground beside him.
Nuron waggled his long ears at Riala with a laughing grin at her confused expression. “Cloth tip, y’see,” he explained, bounding upright. “Silly Recar. Never let y’r guard down, doncher know! Tsk. Still ‘aven’t learned the basics, wot?”
The young hare scowled and pulled himself up, using the javelin as a staff, rubbing his ribs ruefully. “Th’ ol’ thing may ‘ave a cloth tip, but it still leaves a bally bruise, y’know!”
“An’ mayhap that bruise’ll make y’pay attention next time, wot?” It was the quiet Tion that spoke this time, and then his light brown gaze flickered over to RIala. “I say, wotcha doin’, treejumper?”
“Looking for my dagger,” she replied, kicking a toad’s carcass over to his back. The glint of the harsh southern sun on blood-wet steel caught her eye, and she bent down over the body of a toad whose webbed hand clutched the bloodied dagger. Riala pulled her blade out of its hand and pushed it into the earth to clean it.
“So y’keep y’r dagger clean an’ forget about y’self, m’gel?” Lera grinned at her, gesturing with a paw at the squirrel’s blood-stained tunic. Her red-brown fur and rust-gold tail had been turned almost black, and slick with the blood of toads, as well as some of the squirrel’s blood. “Let’s get t’the ol’ fire mountain, an’ y’can wash all that off. How’s that sound, ol’ thing?”
Riala nodded in relieved agreement. “Sounds bally good, ol’ gel!”
Sarrock laughed at her attempt to speak in the hare manner. “Enough jawin’ then. Let’s get runnin’, chaps’n’chapesses.”
Riala had heard that Salamandastron was huge,
but she was struck by the sheer enormity of the extinct volcano. It towered
above the sea like a stalwart sentinel, never sleeping, unmovable and
unconquerable. The setting sun turned its rocky face a rich gold riddled with
shadows. For a long moment, the squirrel could do little but stare up at the
towering mountainous fortress, craning her neck to see the top.
A calloused paw pushed her head down to a more comfortable position.
“Goin’ t’get y’head stuck like that, treejumper,” Lera told her with a laugh.
“Y’ll see th’ top soon enough, an’ from a better spot too, wot!”
“’Allo th’ bally mountain thingummy!” Nuron shouted irreverently. “Care
t’let a tired patrol inside?”
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and a huge dark form stood in the shadows
of the entryway for a brief moment. Then he stepped forward into the light, a
tall badger dressed in a heavy smith’s apron stained with the black soot of the
forge fires. His eyes were the red-brown of a mustelid, and he leaned casually
on a massive hammer. “Nuron, you’re as respectful as ever, I see,” he said with
a rumbling bass laugh.
“Aye, y’old stripemutt,” the hare returned, an irrepressible grin
creasing his sandy face. “Wot’s f’r dinner?”
“Th’ cook hinted at th’ possibility of hare-tongue stew,” the lord of
Salamandastron replied casually. “Sounds good t’me.”
Nuron’s ears stood straight up, quivering with indignation. “Bad form,
ol’ thing, hintin’ at usin’ a chap’s taster f’r dinner! I wouldn’t be able
t’taste th’ bally stew, y’know! Jolly bad form, Fire-me-sight!”
The badger chuckled, looking past Nuron to the squirrel behind him. “Ah,
a guest! I hope you’ll excuse my poor manners and those of th’ walking stomach
here. I’m Firesight, Badger Lord of Salamandastron.”
“We found Riala ‘ere tryin’ t’knock out Croakwotsit’s entire frog army
with a flippin’ stick an’ dagger,” Sarrock explained before the squirrel could
return the introduction.
“An’ I’m thinkin’ she’s wantin’ a good bath afore she eats’n’chats,
y’see,” Lera added, grinning at Riala apologetically.
“Aye,” she agreed, mock aggravation coloring her tone. “The longears
promised a bath, but I didn’t think they meant a dust bath!”
Firesight laughed at the exchange and shouldered his massive hammer as
if it weighed nothing. “Welcome, then, to the mountain of the fire lizards.
Lera’ll show you to th’ baths. I’ve got t’get back to the forge, myself. I’ll
see you at dinner.” With a silent grace that seemed contradictory to his
striped bulk, the badger melted into the caverns of Salamandastron, leaving the
door cracked open for the small group.
“Y’heard th’ stripedog, Lilyrun Eulalia Racelong Archereye,” Recar said,
not stumbling once over the convoluted excuse for a name. “Get movin’, wot?”
“Move y’self, y’overgrown roadrunner,” Lera shot back good-naturedly.
She winked at Riala. “If yore finished with y’spiffin’ dust bath, m’gel, I’ll
show y’where t’wash th’ dust out of yore fur!”
It was nearly an hour before Riala finally decided she passed as
reasonably clean. She’d not had a good bath in at least a week’s time, having
either been in too much of a hurry for one or not near enough water. It had
taken several tubfuls of forge-heated water to eliminate the mess of blood,
sand, and sweat caked on her red-brown fur in a dark crust.
She stepped out of the tub, water dripping to the stone floor and
running down the almost imperceptible slope to the drain at the far end of the
room. The clear liquid poured down in a waterfall as the squirrel wrung out her
rust-gold tail with both scarred paws, and then shook herself like a dog might,
sending droplets flying every which way. A towel hung by the door next to the
short, thick, dark brown stick she called her roce and her plain but
serviceable dagger. As she briskly toweled herself dry, two tunics that lay on
the floor next to the doorway caught her gold-brown gaze. One was a dune-brown
Salamandastron tunic., and she pulled it on before picking up her usual
tattered, worn, forest-hued garb. She looked at the mottled cloth in disgust.
“I’m going to have to get a new one made,” Riala muttered.
A paw rapped on the bath-chamber door. “I say, ol’ thing, didja drown in
there?”
The squirrel recognized the voice as Lera’s. “Aye, I jolly well did,”
she said, mimicking the hare accent. “Wot else would I be doin’ in ‘ere?”
“Yore accent’s flippin’ ‘orrible,” Lera informed her as Riala opened the
door, coiling her roce cord over one arm. The hare immediately did a
double-take, staring at the squirrel’s rust-gold tail. “Golden tail?” she
exclaimed.
“That is my name…” Riala said, giving Lera an odd look. By the
expression on the hare’s face, one would have thought she’d just spotted the
gates of Dark Forest.
“No, treejumper! Yore tail! Y’didn’t tell us yore name was Riala
Goldentail!” Her tone was almost accusatory.
The squirrel was getting more and more confused. “Is it important?”
Lera’s mouth opened wide for an outburst, then closed with a sigh. “Aye, bally
well important. Ah, well, jes’ goes t’show y’can’t thwart fate anymore’n y’can
stop th’ seasons. Let’s go t’get some tucker. How’s that sound, chappess?”
“Spiffin’!” Riala said, forcing a grin and pushing aside her discomfort
over Lera’s odd reaction to the sight of her rust-gold tail.
The Salamandastron fare was excellent, Riala decided as she sat down
beside Lera at a long table laden with food. “It looks delicious!” she
exclaimed.
“It is,” Lera agreed, loading her plate with fresh green salad. The
squirrel followed suit, dumping shredded cheese liberally on her own. Hare and
squirrel dug in simultaneously with the other hares in the mountain hall.
All sound abruptly ceased as the door in the back of the cavern creaked
open. The powerfully built badger walked into the room from the forge and
looked disapprovingly at the filled plates and sheepish-faced hares. “Starting
without me?” he rumbled, wiping his forge-stained paws on his thick leather
blacksmith’s tunic.
“Well, we were hungry! M’poor tum was growlin’ loud as you in
bloodwrath!” Nuron called. “And y’were busy with yore fire’n’rocks!”
“Metal, longears,” Firesight said calmly, walking over to the chair at
the head of the long table. “Not rocks.”
“An’ metal is rock, s’cuse th’ correction, Lord Firesight,” a hare Riala
hadn’t yet met pointed out.
The badger glared at the grinning creature, then turned back to the rest
of the Salamandastron hares. “You can all go back to eating now, not that I
need to tell you,” he told them, sinking down into the huge, ornately carved
chair. As he reached for a platter of fresh-baked bread, his red-brown gaze
fell on Riala. Shock sparked in his eyes for a brief moment, and he stood
quickly, wasting no time. “Sarrock, Duneswift, Starsong! I’m holding a council
of war, now! Everybeast else, begin preparations for defense against an
attacking horde. You, squirrel!”
Stunned and confused by the sudden announcement of war, the red-brown
squirrel could do little but stare at Firesight for several long moments before
finally realizing that he was speaking to her. “Sir?” she asked uncertainly as
the hall fell silent, every eye focused on the badger lord.
“If you’re in any sort of a hurry, you’d better leave now,” he told her,
deep voice grim. “There’ll be a battle soon, and I’ve no idea how long it’ll
take.”
Riala gaped at the badger, astonished. “How can you know that?”
“Your tail’s gold,” he replied, as if that explained everything. “If you
must stay, Recar’ll show you what t’do. It’s your choice.” With that, Firesight
looked out over the silent hall of hares impatiently, one massive paw tapping
the dark wood of the table. “Well?” he demanded. “We’ve not much time until
Zarok an’ his horde reach th’ mountain. Move!”
He turned and left the room at a trot as the hares exploded into a
flurry of motion. A paw grabbed her arm on passing, and the squirrel’s gaze
focused on Recar’s face. The young Runner tugged her arm insistently, urgently.
“We’ve got t’take up positions in th’ ol’ fire mountain. D’ya know how t’shoot
an arrow or sling or th’ like?”
“I can use a bow well enough,” she replied.
“Bally good,” the hare said. “C’mon, treebusher, let’s find ya a bow.”
Riala grimaced, standing and stretching her cramping legs. One footpaw
was numb and began to tingle with the renewed blood flow. She gazed out the
narrow arrow slit at the campfires below, a hundred tiny stars embedded in the
beach. “What are they waiting for?” she muttered irritably. “Why are they just
sitting there?”
Tion was an old veteran at pitched battle, and understood the tactics of
war far better than the squirrel, whose main experience had been as a lone
fighter. He leaned against the wall
next to the arrow slit, working steadily on fletching arrow shafts. “Could be
several things,” he replied in his quiet voice. “Might be they’re tryin’
t’scare us, impress us with numbers. Won’t work, y’know. Small group compared
t’most we’ve fought.” He held an arrow up to the torchlight, examining his
fletching job, and then tied off the string and reached for another wooden
shaft and more feathers. “’Nother reason might be th’ vermin’re simply takin’ a
rest afore battle, seein’ as they’ve been marchin’ f’r so long. Likely, though,
s’not th’ case, doncherknow.” His light brown eyes narrowed, paws stilling on
the arrow as he gazed at the distant fires. “Most like, they aren’t there at
all. Jes’ th’ fires, makin’ us think they’re there. Seein’ how t’ leader,
Zarok, is a fox, I’d say they’re comin’ up th’ mountain right ‘bout now.”
The squirrel gaped at the calm manner in which he told her this last,
unhurriedly tying off the fletching of his arrow. “Then why are we just sitting
here?” she asked incredulously.
The grizzled warrior inspected his fletching critically, setting it
aside before answering. “Because Firesight’s planned f’r this. He’s got hares
hidden down there, waitin’ t’scout out th’ camp. Th’ moment th’ vermin leave,
we’ll know. You’ll hear a loud whistle relayed from th’ scouts to here.”
“Huh.” Riala watched the vermin camp thoughtfully, fingering the
seasoned wood of her roce. “So what are we going to do? Wait?”
Tion nodded minutely, beginning work on yet another arrow. “Best
advantage is t’ambush th’ ambushers. They’ll try t’attack uss, but we’ll be
waitin’ with hot oil, boulders, arrows, slingstones, javelins, an’ th’ like.
Many of ‘em’ll die without a single loss of one of ours. Then we attack head-on
later, ‘cos we’ve not enough food t’last out a siege. Battle’ll end at sunrise,
‘cept f’r cleanup work.” The last sentence was added almost reluctantly, a
brief sadness flickering across the veteran’s scarred features, gone so quickly
that Riala wondered if she’d imagined it. Then there was no time left to ponder
it, for a piercing whistle split the air, assaulting her sensitive ears, and
Tion set an arrow to his bow. The squirrel followed suit a moment later, not
yet drawing it, gold-brown eyes probing the shadows for any sign of vermin.
The hare cursed softly, muttering something about being a fool, and
turned from Riala’s view. She blinked rapidly as the torch behind her hissed
and flickered out, blanketing both warriors in darkness. Clothing rustled
softly as Tion returned to his position at the arrow slit. She realized his
reason for extinguishing the torch as her eyes gradually became accustomed to
the blackness, able to see outside more clearly than before.
Shadowed forms could be glimpsed down the rocks, creeping up the mountain like
a steadily rising flood of darkness. Riala’s bow creaked as she pulled back the
arrow, taking careful aim. Tion’s paw lashed out, grasping the taut bowstring,
and he shook his head. “Wait,” he mouthed silently, barely visible in the dim
light of the moon. The ground rumbled beneath their footpaws as the vermin
crept ever closer, and huge boulders careened past the arrow slit in a blue or
movement. Vermin screams of panic were
cut short, yet those not fortunate enough to die still screamed…
Shouts spurred the living relentlessly onward, and finally Tion drew his
bow. The arrow whistled past and down to the remaining vermin, and Riala pulled
back an arrow of her own. The string hummed as an arrow flew from its grasp,
whistling a death song. Not waiting to see if her aim had been true, the
squirrel reached for another arrow and set it to her bow.
Time stretched on and the vermin kept coming. Riala felt the quiver for
another arrow and found it empty. She cursed under her breath. “No arrows
left!”
The hare pressed another quiver into her paw. “Y’get remark’bly focused when
y’shoot,” he said. “Runner came by an’ dropped more off. Didn’tcha notice?”
She shrugged, rust-gold tail twitching as she took an arrow from the proffered
quiver and loosed it into the steadily shrinking horde.
More shouts from below, sharp and commanding. The vermin stopped,
turned, and began to recede like the tide pulled back by an insistent moon.
Riala relaxed her bow in relief, setting down the weapon and unclasping cramped
paws. She worked them open and closed, grimacing at newly formed blisters where
she’d pulled the string back repeatedly. “I’m not used to using a bow so much,”
she said, pressing her chafed paws to the cool stone.
“Y’may need t’use it more soon,” Tion said grimly, watching the vermin
retreat. “Zarok’s slyer’n I thought. Made fewer fires than he had soldiers. Fooled
us t’thinkin’ there were less of ‘em than there were, y’see. We hurt ‘em, but
not too much… only enough t’make it so’s we might win in a pitched battle.
Which is goin’ ter be necessary, seein’ as we can’t last out a siege.”
Pawsteps sounded in the stone halls behind the two, and a young hare
dashed up with a torch in one paw. “S’cuse me, but Lord Firesight wants
everybeast in th’ bally ol’ mess hall, doncherknow.” She nodded again, a
nervous gesture that the dust-brown hare fem probably wasn’t even aware of
making. She hurried down the hall to the next arrow slit, and squirrel and hare
turned wordlessly, starting down the winding tunnel at a quick jog.
The massive dining hall was eerily silent despite the gathering of so many hares. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, dampened somewhat by the grim solemnity in the light-brown gaze of each dun colored hare. Firesight’s broad-striped face held resignation, but his light brown eyes showed fierce anticipation and the reddish glint of bloodlust.
“I’m going to challenge Zarok the Black to a duel.” The badger’s voice was quiet, but his bass rumble reached everybeast’s ears without difficulty. “I’ve no illusions about vermin being honorable; I know that even if I kill the fox, his horde will still attack. But we match them in numbers, if not even outnumber them, and without their leader they’ll be less cohesive a fighting force. I want the patrols to take up positions among the boulders near the mountain’s base, and under the sand. Watch for treachery. Attack at the first sign of trouble. We cannot afford a siege.”
A darker colored hare than most raised a hefty paw. “Wot about th’ chaps an’ chapesses not on patrols?”
“Their job is to lay down a heavy covering fire when the vermin attack, then stop once the enemy reaches the hidden patrols. If the patrols are taking heavy casualties, then the reserves will attack,” Firesight said, his voice grim. “Do all of you know what to do?” A chorus of “ayes” was his answer, and the badger lord nodded grimly. “Right. Take up your positions quickly and quietly, as you have been trained.” He turned to leave, rumbling a last command. “Dismissed!”
The pale light of the false dawn was turning the sky a dark gray when Riala returned to her post. Below the arrow slit she was stationed at, she could barely make out several hares, their dun fur almost invisible against the sand as they stole away silently from the mountain and buried themselves beneath a layer of pale earth. Nothing stirred in the vermin camp, nor from the mountain once the patrols had hidden themselves. The only sound in the still air was that of waves gently lapping the wet sand, thickening the air with the tang of salt.
The deceptive peace of the dawn was shattered with a thunderous roar that echoed across the beach, sending chills up the spine of anybeast within earshot. “EULALIAAAAAAAAAA!” The warcry of the fire mountain bellowed from a single cavernous chest was both challenge and proclamation of fierce defiance. Out of the darkness of the mountain’s interior strode a powerful figure, polished armor gleaming in the first rays of the sun, eyes glinting the red of flame – the red of blood. In the silence that followed the battle cry, the shing of a greatsword leaving its sheath was chillingly audible. Firesight stood between the vermin camp and Salamandastron like a figure out of legend, undefeatable, impassable, power wrapped into each taut muscle and sinew.
“Zarok!” Hatred was packed into each
thunderous syllable of the harsh name, and the badger lifted his blade as if to
cleave the very skies asunder. “I am Firesight, Badger Lord of
Salamandastron, friend to Starsong, the hare you so bravely killed!”
Sarcasm hung heavy on those last three words, and his gauntleted fist shook
with rage. “If you be not a coward, fox…” and the sword slashed down to
the ground, gleaming red in the blood-touched light of the sunrise, “…then
fight me! To the death, to settle this
NOW!”
The echoes of the badger lord’s challenge died into silence, the vermin camp remaining motionless. Then a living shadow stepped through the lines of tents into the growing light to reveal a night-black fox, flat golden eyes expressionless as his footpaws crunched on the sand.
“Zarok,” Firesight said with grim satisfaction.
The fox answered not a word, gaze never wavering from the massive badger. He wore mail, fine linked chain almost as heavy as the badger’s plate armor, yet the black fox moved as if it weighed nothing. He was tall for his species, almost at a height with Firesight, though with a build more wiry than thickly muscled. He held a glaive, the curved blade at the end of the long staff gleaming wickedly, and his paws gripped it with the light ease of expert use.
“You named me a coward, badger,” the black fox said quietly, voice devoid of inflection. “Yet even such a vermin as I am not without honor.” He smiled thinly, humorlessly. “If I die, my army will leave in peace. If you die, we will take over your mountain and execute everybeast within. Warriors make poor slaves.” The humorless smile gained a wry twist. “But what will you care? You’ll be dead.” Flat amber eyes watched with droll amusement as Firesight’s paw clenched on the hilt of his greatsword, and then the smile vanished. “If we both die… then my army will attack yours, and to the victor go the spoils. Are these acceptable terms, badger?”
Firesight nodded firmly, eyes flashing his anger. “Agreed.”
Zarok bowed once over his glaive. “Then… let us fight!”
With seemingly impossible speed, the bladed staff lashed up and out at the badger’s unprotected footpaws, but Firesight was not easily taken by surprise. A flick of one massive paw sent the greatsword down to block the slash, and then up again as the fox sought for Firesight’s arm. The long polearm was skillfully deflected at every slash and thrust, and then it was the badger’s turn to attack. His muscles bulged as he feinted and thrust, slashed and cut, seeking an opening in Zarok’s defense. The greatsword lanced towards the fox’s midriff, but he stepped aside and turned the blade with the pole of his glaive. Firesight attempted a thrust to his opponent’s chest, but wood again met the flat of the blade. Neither could seem to touch the other as they danced death across the shifting sands.
From her vantage point within the mountain, Riala shook her head in amazement, even as she tensed with concern for the powerful badger. “I’ve seen bladework like this only once before,” she murmured to nobeast in particular, gold-brown eyes fixed on the deadly match below.
“Aye, an’ few times will y’see it again, chapess,” a rough voice said from the shadows.
The squirrel jumped at the unexpected noise and whirled, dagger instantly at paw. A low chuckle met her straining ears, and a graying hare stepped out of the darkness. He had been dark brown once, if the sable interspersed with the gray was any indication, but now he was a grizzled elder who still moved with a warrior’s fluid grace.
“Y’can put that up, m’gel,” the hare said with a grin, nodding to her dagger. She looked at the blade curiously, unable to recall drawing it, and returned it to its sheath slowly.
“Sorry about that, Elder,” Riala apologized. “I suppose its reflexes…” She turned to the arrow slit, gazing down at the battle below.
“Th’ name’s Loamleg, treebusher, not Elder,” the hare said frostily, peering over her shoulder at the duel. “An’ that is quite a battle, wot?”
“Aye,” Riala agreed, watching. “But nobeast’s even drawn blood yet…”
“An’ evenly matched as those two are, t’will take a while. Y’see, if’n Firesight c’n break th’ fox’s lame s’cuse f’r a spear, he’d win. But that Zarok chap is careful t’only meet th’ flat of th’ blade, an’ he’s fast enough that Firesight can’t press him hard as he needs ter. An’ with ‘em both armored, t’will be a time ‘till it’s over… unless one can get through a gap in th’ mail’r plaates. ‘Course, if Firesight uses his sword as a club, he c’n break some bones in th’ fox, doncherknow. But th’ fox is too skilled f’r that.”
Riala was fascinated. She’d known much of what Loamleg had said on a subconscious level, but she’d never thought much about the strategy of dueling. She had always just fought unthinkingly, letting bloodwrath control her motions. “Then how will it end, if they’re so evenly matched?”
The grizzled veteran shook his head slowly. “They’ll tire an’ start makin’ mistakes eventually. Maybe it’ll end with one blow; maybe they’ll chip away at each other ‘till one … loses. Hard t’tell yet, y’see.” His pale brown eyes narrowed abruptly. “Aha! They’re tirin’ now, both of ‘em. It’ll be over soon…”
An angered roar split the air as Zarok’s glaive drew first blood through a chink in the armor at the badger’s shoulder. Only a shallow cut, it was still enough to provoke Firesight’s rage. Without warning, his greatsword crashed down on the fox, who almost didn’t get his glaive up in time. The huge blade glanced off of the long polearm and screeched down the finely meshed chainmail, drawing a hiss of pain from the fox. Zarok slashed inward, turning his glaive at the last minute to catch on the badger’s ear and helmet, ripping off the steel head covering and flicking it to the ground. Blood trickled into Firesight’s eyes, and he lashed out blindly, roaring his defiance. The fox ducked nimbly under the sweeping blade and made a single deft cut at the badger lord’s throat.
Firesight’s battle cry died as a throaty gurgle, and he dropped his greatsword as it became too heavy to lift. Then his red-misted eyes, already fogging in death, fixed on his lifelong enemy, and he found strength from an upwelling of hatred. Forcing a last battlecry from his ravaged throat, he stumbled inside the long polearm’s reach and grasped Zarok the Black in a spine-crushing embrace of death as he screamed his final challenge to all who would hear:
“EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Riala leaned against the chilled stone, stunned, gold-brown eyes wide with what she’d seen. “He’s dead…”
Loamleg
closed his eyes, paws curled into tight fists at his sides. “Aye…” he
whispered, rough voice thick with grief and tears. “An’ he knew he’d be dyin’,
too. ‘The day a squirrel with golden
tail into the mountain comes, the fox shall find the end of the badger’s
trail. They both shall die ‘neath the
rising sun.’”
The squirrel glanced sharply at him. “What’s that from?”
“Th’ prophecy on th’ bally wall in th’ chamber of th’ badger lords,” the hare said, gazing at the two bodies below.
“A squirrel with a golden tail…” Riala shook her head slowly as the reaction of the hares and badger to her appearance suddenly became clear. “That’s me, isn’t it?”
Loamleg drew in a slow breath, and his minute nod was all the answer she needed. She stared out the arrow slit blankly, feeling somehow responsible for Firesight’s death. At her nearly inaudible sigh, the hare placed a reassuring paw on her shoulder. “There now, m’gel, t’wasn’t y’r fault. Y’can’t outsmart fate. Y’were just th’ warnin’.”
The sun was nearly full above the horizon, and the red of sunrise was beginning to fade to daylight blue. A warm breeze had picked up, carrying the permeating ocean scent and taste of salt to the waiting defenders. “Going to storm,” Riala said quietly, not replying to the hare’s words. She lowered her gaze to the vermin camp, which was finally showing signs of motion in the opening of tent flaps and the occasional wisp of campfire smoke. She strung her bow with growing ease, stretching muscles stiff from the previous night’s battle. “S’pose we’d best get ready to fight…”
The ranks of vermin lined up in formation, every eye fixed on the two bodies in the sands. They stood there for several long moments, the breeze picking up to a stronger and colder wind, before a tall ferret in a captain’s uniform strode out to the broken body of her leader. She kneeled beside him, examining the body silently, but looked up at the hiss of sand as a black-eared hare materialized from the earth, javelin in paw.
The ferret smiled thinly at the sight. “We’ve lost enough of our own t’yer hares,” she said simply, before the Salamandastron sergeant could throw his weapon. “Th’ fox paid us well enough, but he’s dead. We’ll be leavin’ this place.” She nodded respectfully to the bodies of the two opponents and turned to go. “They was warriors through an’ through, an’ we won’t see their like again. We’ve both paid enough t’hate.” With those last quiet words, the ferret turned and walked away from Salamandastron, and the vermin army followed.
Riala gaped at the sight. “These… are vermin? They don’t act like the ones I’ve fought…”
Loamleg was just as surprise, light brown eyes wide. “I’ve never seen th’ like! Honorable vermin… bally shocker, wot?”
The sunset’s amber fires stretched across the sky, painting the fleeing gray clouds a rich gold. In the sand below, a squirrel’s rust-gold tail paled in comparison with the flaming heavens, one scarred paw lifted to the sun-touched mountain behind her in a silent salute. A long moment passed with the waves lapping gently at the sandy shores of Salamandastron, and the squirrel turned south as the hares’ thunderous farewell echoed in her ears, the ghost of a mighty warrior lending his roar to their warcry:
“EULALIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”
Chapter 4: Mossflower
Darkness,
and cold… the perpetual frigid night of the Northlands in winter.
Father…
A young
squirrelmaid’s questioning call as the pale moon hides its face behind a cloud,
blanketing the drey in darkness.
It’s cold… dark…
Faint
fear in a child’s voice.
I’ll light the fire, Ria.
Reassuring,
comforting, a strong and beloved voice, and then flames flare up, driving back
the shadows… but what meets the child’s eyes is not her father’s smiling gaze,
loving and familiar, but a death’s-head snarl, an empty skull burning in a
deadly pyre.
Father!
Embers
flare and then fade to blackness, fur of night around red eyes, white fangs
exposed in a sneer at the squirrelmaid’s grief and fear, a cold triumphant
smile baring white fangs…
Game over, Battlecry.
A smug
and hated voice, the whistle of arrows…
No! Fatheeeeeeeer!
Gold-brown eyes snapped open to daylight, the agonized cry of loss dying on frost-chafed lips. The only sound was the faint song of early winter’s sole remaining birds, feathers fluffed against the bitter cold and the early snows. The only sight was that of naked trees, leaves stripped by the autumn, mingled with dark pine, their ever-green boughs weighted down with snow. Softly falling flakes hissed gently on the dying embers of the previous night’s campfire, a sordid reminder of her nightmare.
Riala Goldentail wrinkled her nose as a large flake landed on it, sending a chill across her face. She shook herself thoroughly, rust-gold tail puffing out with the vigorous motion, snow cascading off red-brown fur. A shiver ran through the wiry squirrel as a gust of frigid winter wind tossed powdery snow into the air.
“Should’ve taken that mouse’s offer of a winter coat,” she muttered past chattering teeth, tufted ears laying flat against her head in a vain attempt to warm them. “Never thought it could be this cold this far south…”
Another flurry of snowflakes hissed against the embers that still clung vainly to a semblance of life, and Riala kicked snow over the dying fire. Stamping scarred footpaws on the cold ground, she brushed off the dune-brown tunic from Salamandastron and picked up her dagger and roce from their places by the remains of the fire. A frown played across her face as she tucked them into her fraying belt. She still hadn’t gotten a new forest-shaded tunic, not that it would do much good for camouflage in the wintertime, and she had no other clothing besides her sleeveless tunic. If she got into a fight, she’d have some trouble winning… Her rust-gold tail flicked from side to side in another attempt to keep warm as she began to walk further down the north path, footpaws dragging slightly in the snow.
“No food in the woods… foolish counting on that, it’s winter after all…” The squirrel’s rough voice matched the wind in its hoarseness, grating on the winter air falteringly, her stomach riding with an answering rumble. “Snow covering the Longclaws’ trail…” The rasp thickened to a growl as she spoke the name, a spark of renewed life flaring red in gold-brown eyes, then fading in disgust. “And now I’m talking to myself.”
“’Ey, go on an’ keep talking, bushyfool,” a nasal voice said, a sneer obvious in the tone. Riala whirled to see a scrawny rat fem, a curved saber at her side and a thin and much-patched cloak over her grimy fur. She smirked at the squirrel’s skeptical appraisal, taking it for apprehension. “Th’ name’s Bluddfang, an’ I’m th’ greatest swordsrat this side o’ th’ Broadstream.”
“An’ I’m Muddclaw, ‘er mate an’ th’ best beast wi’ a whip an’ chain in Mossflower!” A nondescript rat with mud-brown fur and a mess of scars about his face stepped out of the scant brush with a toothy grin, a length of chain rattling from one paw and a whip cracking and whirling like a live thing from the other.
The squirrel watched both filthy rats warily, noting with a sinking feeling that both seemed well fed and well-rested despite their seedy appearances, and that they moved with a graceful ease that supported their boasts. She could probably match either one of them, and perhaps even defeat both without too much pain on her part… if she were as rested and well fed as they. As it was, though…
She shook her head minutely, pushing aside the doubts. There were only three options open to her: bluff her way out, flee, or fight. Riala smiled wryly at the thought. She’d never been able to bluff convincingly, and she hadn’t run from a battle in her life. It was really no choice at all… “What do you want?” she asked, one paw straying to her roce as she slowly backed away to place her back against a massive oak.
“Wot d’you think? Yore vittles an’ yore weapons o’course!” the female said.
“And what makes you think I have food, wormtail?” She smirked slightly, insolently, her other paw creeping for her dagger, only her lashing tail betraying her tension.
“Uh…” This question seemed to confuse the male, and his red-brown eyes swung to his mate.
“Don’t matter,” she replied with a sneer. “Ya’ve got weapons. Hand ‘em over or else we eats squirrel f’r dinner!”
Riala’s mouth creased into a thin line, a parody of a smile. “Afraid I can’t do that, mangyfur.”
The rat fem snarled, drawing her sword in a single fluid movement and leaping at the squirrel. “Then die, fool!”
Riala had been expecting the attack, twisting away at the last moment and drawing her dagger, slicing across the rat’s leg. Chain clinked behind her and she whirled, jerking her roce free from her belt in time to catch the chain around the stick and the whip across her face. It just missed her eye, slashing fire over her muzzle and drawing a hiss of pain from her throat. The male weasel grinned, freeing his chain from her weapon with a yank and lashing out, and above the whirling iron his eyes flicked beyond her head to something behind her. She didn’t think, didn’t have time to think – she just reacted and turned and leapt, racing partway up the oak’s trunk. The male’s chain thudded into the thick wood, followed by the thunk of a steel blade.
The squirrel hung onto the trunk with three paws, her dagger held in the fourth, her roce dangling by its cord. Her starving muscles quivered with exertion, a miserable sensation she’d rarely felt, and her frosted lungs burned with the constant contact of the cold winter air. She stared down at the two rats below her, their weapons ready as they grinned up at the warrioress.
I could
run… they can’t catch me in the trees…
The thought was a traitorous thread of weakness in her cold-dulled mind, and she dismissed it immediately. Have to take one out quickly, before they can team up on me again. Without warning, she leapt from the tree onto the rat fem, dagger glinting in the fading sunlight… but the rat’s boasts hadn’t been idle. The swordsrat reacted with barely a second of hesitation, her blade flashing upwards as Riala’s dagger sliced down.
Pain slashed through her, engulfing her senses in fire spreading outward from her chest, barely hearing the agonized scream of a soul being torn asunder. “Bluddfaaaaaang!” The name ended in a strangled sob, and the male rat shoved the squirrel carelessly off of his fallen mate, sending waves of flame through her bleeding body. Darkness crept about her vision, but she fought unconsciousness, knowing it meant her death. The pain-ravaged face of the rat spoke her fate clearly, and he turned that face her way, tear-wet eyes smoldering with grieving fury. “Y’killed me Bluddfang!” he sobbed, paws closing about his two weapons. The rattle of chain and the hiss of the whip wove a song of death in Riala’s ears.
Father…
I’m sorry.
She could do nothing but curl into a fast-weakening ball, rust-gold tail wrapped over her bleeding muzzle in a vain attempt at protection from the biting whip and bone-shattering chain.
I
failed…
The chain crashed down, and the snapping of bone hurtled her into darkness.
Darkness... emptiness...
Spinning, circling in a void, nothingness stretching on forever, seeing
nothing, feeling nothing.
Is this death?
A dim light ahead, like the palest glimmer of sunlight through the thick
canopy of a dense forest...
Dark Forest.
Heavy gates, dark and deadly, holding back the souls of all time, closed
on life... now swinging open on silent hinges to welcome the weary soul.
Death... peace?
Obsidian, shadowed, cold, inviting. Opened gates giving a glimpse of a
forest, ancient and silent, unchanging.
So easy to just accept it...
A tired spirit, hardened and aged by battle and hate, driven forward by
sheer will and a fierce desire for vengeance. To this worn-out soul, the
temptation to accept the final rest offered by the gates of Dark Forest was an
almost physical pull, nigh on irresistable.
Too easy.
Balking, not trusting the ease of death, long experience speaking
against taking the easiest road. Ease led to false security, which led to
death...
But I'm already dying. Why not give in?
Teetering on the edge of a blade, blindfolded, unable to see on which
side lay disaster, where to step next, guided by the inexhorable pull of the
open gates of death. Almost giving in, and then...
I can't die yet.
Remembering a face that haunted every night, hate flaring up at the
memory of flat dark eyes and a taunting voice, a bloodied scimitar in a
long-clawed paw. Remembering the thud of so many arrows, a child's scream, a
wolverine's command. Remembering an oath made before a funeral pyre.
I have not yet taken revenge.
Seeing a long-lost, much-loved face, waiting between twin gates, and
almost succumbing despite having made a decision. Saluting, respect and
farewell and promise in the military gesture, turning away as it is returned.
I cannot die yet!
Hate and regret clashing, giving way to unreasoning fury and a fierce
desire to live, if only to complete a self-assigned task, born of the
vengeance-lust that dictated the soul's path. Shee force of an adominable will
surging against the allure of death, away from the obsidian gates, falling into
the black nothingness of dreamless sleep.
She opened her eyes to firelight and pain. For a single panicky moment
she thought the forest had caught aflame, that she was burning alive - but the
light was cast by a single source, and there were blankets covering her. She
was indoors... beyond that, she knew nothing.
Dark Forest would have made a more comfortable bed. It was a wry thought that
held not a trace of sincerity. She had amade her decision and there was no
looking back on what might have been. She had to look to the now, and that
meant finding out where she was and what she was to do about it.
The squirrel's gaze moved to the side, but it was all that could move.
An attempt to turn her head to follow sent stars bursting across her vision,
sucking air from battered lungs with a gasp of pain. She held still for several
long moments, eyes closed tight, waiting for the waves of pain to retreat far
enough for reasonable thought. Finally her lids cracked open again and she took
in the stark surroundings.
She was in a bed, the mattress firm, the blankets heavy. The walls were
red sandstone, but those could scarcely be seen for all the shelves of jars and
hanging herbs. The sharp tang of medicine permeated the air, tickling Riala's
nose. An infirmary then, part of a large sandstone building. Her nose twitched
again, but the room was devoid of the musky scent that accompanied most vermin.
A goodbeast's place? Perhaps...
Across her mind's eye, without warning, flashed the vision of a whirling
chain and a cracking whip. Her scarred and bruised hide shuddered with painful
memory. The weasel had the look of death in his gaze when he fell upon her; he
would not have stopped until he knew she was dead. Somebeast had stopped him
then, likely permanently. That same somebeast had probably brought her to this
place... wherever it was.
The faint creak of a door swinging open on its hinges caused Riala's
muscles to tense, one paw twitching towards her waist, but even that slight
motion set fire to her nerves, immobilizing her. A soft swear escaped her
chapped lips. She would have to face whatever came unarmed and helpless; she
had to trust her captors or hosts or whichever they were. Trust... not
something she was used to.
"So, our wintertime visitor is awake, hm?"
The speaker was a mouse, her tone crisp and her manner plain, her light
brown gaze sharp and carrying a constant hint of disapproval. The squirrel
watched warily as the mouse stood over her, a skeptical light in her eyes.
"Hmph. Well I told that Brook you were a lost cause, more'n half dead, an'
I wouldn't be able to save you without help of a miracle. You're stronger'n I
thought, bushtail."
"What..." The attempt at a question scraped through Riala's
parched throat and came out as a nearly inaudable squeak, like the protesting
of cartwheels forced to turn on rusted axles.
The mouse raised a thin eyebrow and picked up a glass of water, holding
it carefully to her patient's lips as Riala swallowed, the cool liquid washing
away the cottony taste in her mouth. "Thanks," she whispered, finding
it somewhat easier to speak. "What... happened?" Her ribs protested
with the breath required to vocalize, but she forced the pain to the back of
her mind as she waited for the mouse to answer.
She smoothed her forest-green habit and watched the squirrel closely,
then nodded. "I don't rightly know what happened; Brook and Tamlin didn't
waste time telling me, but they came in with blood on their clothes and that
says 'battle' to my mind. You were covered in blood an' it was a pretty mess
cuttin' that tunic off, I'll tell you know. Big wound in your chest, just
missed the lung. Near all your ribs broken. Broken arm, broken wrist, broken
legs, just about everything broken. Whipmarks everywhere. Half dead from cold an'
hunger an' the blood loss should've finished the job." The healer tilted
her head, fixing the squirrel with a curious gaze. "Should've died despite
all the work I did on you - piecin' bones back together, bandaging wounds,
forcin' water'n food'n medicine down your throat. Never expected t'see you open
your eyes."
The calm, matter-of-fact listing of injuries wrapped about Riala's tired
mind like a blanket, dragging her back into unconsciousness. She fought it,
forcing out another question. "Will I... fight again?"
"Huh." The mouse rolled her eyes to the herb-hung ceiling in
mingled exasperation and disbelief. "Half dead an' the crazy beast wants
to know if she'll fight again! I tell you, warriors..." She shook her
head. "If I were you, I'd just be happy to be alive, I would."
"But... I'm alive... so I can fight..." Somehow it was
important, even vital to get out that truth. "The only reason... I didn't
enter... Dark Forest..."
Surprise faded into pity in the mouse healer's gaze. Pity for her
condition or for that which ruled her life... it was impossible to tell.
"I'd not be the one to be askin', warrior," she said quietly.
"After all, I was wrong about you livin'. If you've a strong enough will
to come back from Dark Forest, mayhap you've a strong enough will t'get better
again. But ... t'will be quite a time before you do."
Again the "thank you" formed on silent lips, and Riala let
darkness engulf her.
It was sunlight, rather than firelight, that illuminated the room when
next she awoke. A slight, wiry figure was silhouetted against the window,
facing away from Riala’s cot. At the
slight rustle of bed sheets, the creature turned and looked her over silently
before moving away from the window.
She was another mouse, but this one was a breed apart from the healer. A lean body and muscular build showed she
was trained in battle, and the relaxed posture with the readiness for action of
a coiled spring made it clear that this was no peaceful healer.
“Who are you?” The words came much easier this time; it didn’t take
nearly as much energy to speak.
“Brook, leader of the Wanderers of Mossflower.” The mouse’s reply was
delivered in a quiet, neutral voice that carried the hint of hidden steel. “And
you are?”
Gold-brown eyes studied light brown for one long moment before the
reply. “Riala Goldentail.”
“So… Goldentail. Squirrel,
warrior’s build and weapons, minimal supplies, laced with battle scars. I’d say you were an expert warrior and
woodsbeast if not for your situation,” Brook said evenly.
The squirrel grimaced, scars twisting the expression into something
grotesque. “What was my… situation when I was found?”
“You were unconscious in the snow next to a female rat’s body. A male rat, presumably the female’s mate,
was beating you with a whip and a heavy chain.
The otter Kaylen killed the rat and brought you to the Infirmary here at
Redwall.”
“Redwall!” The outburst left her lips before she had time to stop
it. “Redwall Abbey?”
“So you’ve heard of it.” The mouse warrior’s voice was dry, almost
sarcastic.
“Who hasn’t?” Riala said, looking at the sandstone walls with new
understanding.
“How did you come here?” Brook asked, deliberately pulling her attention
from the pale red bricks.
The abrupt change in subject gave the squirrel pause, and she gazed up
at and past the ceiling as she spoke. “I’m from the Northlands. I came here through Salamandastron following
an enemy of mine, a black wolverine named Nightdeath Longclaws.” Her gaze
sharpened, focusing on Brook. “Has he passed this way?”
Brook shook her head. “I’ve heard nothing of a wolverine. You could check Redwall’s records…” Her
voice trailed off and she looked uncertainly at Riala’s scarred and bandaged
body.
Gold-brown eyes narrowed at the silent implication. “I will fight
again.”
The mouse shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right, but… What were you doing in
winter Mossflower without supplies and wearing only a tunic?”
“I told you I’m from the Northlands,” she said wryly. “It doesn’t snow
nearly this much there… it’s too cold and there’s not enough moisture. After Salamandastron, I never expected it
could get this cold this far south, this fast.
And I expected to be able to find food…”
“I see.” Brook’s voice was carefully neutral. “And the rats?”
“Thieves.” A scowl flickered across her face. “If I hadn’t been half
starved, I could have killed them both.
As it was, I was only able to kill the female, and she stabbed me as I
did so. The male—her mate—pushed me off
of her and tore her sword from my chest and…” She shuddered involuntarily at
the memory of that bone-crushing chain. “Then he took revenge.”
“There was a long silence from the mouse, broken at last by the rustle
of cloth as she walked towards the door, stopped halfway there. “Redwall’s
records are stored in the gatehouse if you heal enough to walk—“
“When.”
Brook turned, faint amusement in light brown eyes at the squirrel’s
adamant interruption. “Optimistic, aren’t you?”
Riala’s wry grin twisted her scarred features into something closer to a
hideous grimace. “Not usually, but in this I have to be. If I can’t fight, then I can’t live.” She
spoke this last in the same matter-of-fact tone she might have said, “Dinner is
ready,” casual and completely serious.
Brook’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the squirrel’s words and
then the shock on her face subsided to something close to understanding. “When
you are healed enough, then. I hope to
see you around Mossflower, Riala Goldentail.”
With a nod of respect and farewell, the warrior mouse strode out of the
infirmary. Riala watched her leave with
narrowed eyes, turning the conversation over in her mind. Dibbun steps, one
at a time, more each day. I will stand
up tomorrow…
I will
fight again.
She stood the next day, but the act nearly ruined her legs for
life. Not yet mended, the weight of the
bandage-swathed squirrel on broken limbs jolted the bone apart, bound as it
was, sending her to unconsciousness with the black of pain. She received a sound scolding from the
healer, Sister Bria, and the admonition to take one extremely minute step at a
time. Her protest that she was taking
one step at a time made no difference.
“From nearly comatose to standing?
I do not agree, squirrel!
Warriors! How can
anybeast deal with the fools?”
So it was that Sister Bria laid down her own rehabilitation plan,
starting with bending every joint several times a day until Riala was
sufficiently limber. Riala was shocked
by how weak and stiff she’d become with only a couple weeks of bed rest, and
followed the healer’s regimen faithfully, spending all of her waking hours doing
leg lifts and knee bends, stretches, and anything else she could think of.
Winter passed into spring before Riala managed to get out of bed, and
even then her body screamed with pain and trembled with weakness. She held herself upright nonetheless, teeth
gritted against the fire that consumed her body, and remained standing until
she passed out.
The squirrel ignored the scolding from Sister Bria that assaulted her
ears the moment she awoke. “Foolish, I tell you! Absolutely foolish thickheadedness! Pain be the body’s way of tellin’ you somethin’s wrong, but do
you listen? Never! Not t’your own body, not to Sister Bria…”
Riala shut the mouse’s voice out, tufted ears pinned flat against her
head as she sat up with painful slowness and eased her legs over the edge of
the bed.
“An’ you don’t listen t’your experiences neither! Blackin’ out from pain an’ you want t’do it
again! Warriors!”
Her footpaws touched cold stone, and she hissed out a long breath from
between clenched death as pain shot up her legs, shaking from the exertion of
simply remaining upright. “I… will… do this!” she snarled to the pain
and her protesting body and the shadows creeping across her vision. “Ah’ll nae
be beaten by some wee pain! By a
fool rat wi’ a simple bit o’ iron!” Her voice grew stronger with the fuel of
anger that beat back threatening unconsciousness and brought out her normally
faint northland accent. “Ah’ll naught!”
Shocked into silence, Sister Bria watched with dropped jaw while her
patient’s gold-brown eyes misted with red as she fought a tremendous battle
against her own body. One scarred
footpaw inched forward, her weight shifted, and Riala brought the other paw
forward. She grinned savagely at the
mouse, a feral sort of triumph illuminating her face. “Dibbun steps, healer,”
she rasped, the parody of a grin twisting her scarred features into a macabre
mask. “One… wee… step… at… a… time…” The grin never leaving her face, she let
the pain consume her into darkness and crumpled to the floor.
After seeing her patient’s blind determination, Bria brought two
crutches to aid Riala in standing and walking about. The squirrel stood every day, teeth gritted as she went through
her physical rehabilitation regimen while upright. The weeks crawled by, spring giving way to the oppressive heat of
summer, and at last Riala was recovered enough to hobble about with the aid of
her crutches.
“You be a right stubborn fool an’ no mistake,” the healer mouse told her
when she clunked slowly to the stairwell. “Not ready for stairs yet. I should know, I’m the healer! But you won’t listen to me, oh no, not to
Sister Bria…”
Shutting out the incessant scolding was automatic now. Riala hobbled to the stairs and looked down
them with narrowed eyes. How to get
down without falling? She brought her
crutches forward, bending to set them on the first step, and then carefully
swung her legs down to join them. Grim
satisfaction etched a thin smile across her face, and she started down the next
step.
She was shaking with exertion by the time she reached the bottom, every
muscle protesting against her taking another step. Her knees gave way and she collapsed on the last stair, her head
falling into her paws.
Two seasons, and I can’t even walk down a single set of stairs without
collapsing!
“Ahoy there… somethin’ wrong, matey?”
Riala glanced up to see a seal brown otter, dark eyes curious and
friendly. “Nothing’s wrong,” the squirrel said with her usual brusqueness, but
she was unable to keep the edge of despair from her voice.
“Looks like somethin’ ter me,” the otter said with a smile. “Most folk
don’t look that blue ‘bout nothin’.”
She grimaced, not looking up. “I’m useless,” she said flatly.
White teeth flashed in a laughing grin, and the otter stuck out a
callused paw. “Glad t’meetcha, Useless.
Th’ name’s Kaylen.”
Despite her dark mood, a smile brushed fleeting wings along the
squirrel’s scarred features before disappearing. “Riala Goldentail, actually,”
she said, shaking the proffered paw.
“Aye?” She chuckled. “Don’t sound much like Useless t’me.”
“What use is a warrior who’ll never fight again?” Any hint of the
earlier smile disappeared with her bitter words, tasting foul as they left her
lips.
Surprise flickered across Kaylen’s face, and she sat down beside the
squirrel. “Redwall’s founder, Martin the Warrior… he laid down his blade an’
never fought again, an’ he helped t’build Redwall. ‘E still protects th’ abbey e’en now, after his death.” She
nodded towards a huge tapestry at the end of the vast hall that the stairs led
into.
The laugh that rasped from the squirrel’s throat was a shock to the
ears, scraping against the heart with its bitterness. “I’m no Martin,” she
spat. “A useless squirrel who can scarcely get down some stairs after
two seasons of bed rest, maybe, but no Martin!”
The otter blinked, staring at her with new recognition. “Yore that
squirrel I found! With the rats!”
“What?!”
“Two seasons ago… in the snow… with a rat beatin’ ye with a chain…”
“You were the one who brought me to Redwall?” Riala exclaimed.
“Aye. Didn’t think ye’d even be
wakin’ again, much less walkin’ down the stairs!”
The squirrel scowled and shoved at one of her crutches, sending it
clattering from the stair to the ground. “Aye, but it’s not with the use of my
own legs.”
A long silence from Kaylen enticed Riala to glance sidelong at the
otter’s face. She was staring at the
squirrel with an odd expression on her face, some strange mix of incredulity
and disgust. “Most creatures would be happy just ter be alive after somethin’
like that,” she growled. “Mayhap I should’ve left th’ rat ter kill ye!”
“Maybe you should have!” Riala snarled back. “I’m no use to anybeast like
I am! If I can’t fight, I’m nothing!”
Dark eyes met gold brown in an angry stare, locking gazes as if to break
away would be to lose a battle. The
fury faded slowly from Kaylen’s eyes as she watched the scarred squirrel’s
face, something akin to pity in her expression that only infuriated Riala all
the more. The otter shook her head.
“Maybe I should have,” she echoed quietly. “Maybe I should have.”
With a fluid motion that Riala could scarcely remember as once being
natural to her own body, Kaylen rose and strode calmly out of the abbey,
leaving the squirrel to contemplate the heated conversation in her own
unforgiving mind.
“Kaylen!”
It was nearly a week after her initial conversation with the otter. Riala had made several more trips up and
down the stairs and could at last get from one floor to the other without
having to sit down for several minutes to catch her breath and rest her aching
limbs. She had met many of the
Redwallers in her stay at the abbey, but had not seen Kaylen again–until now,
walking across the orchard to the Great Hall.
She turned at Riala’s call, light brown gaze flicking across the
grounds, then frowning at the sight of the injured squirrel. The otter turned away slightly as if not
noticing Riala.
“Kaylen, wait!” the squirrel shouted, thumping across the dry summer
grass, her crutches leaving round depressions in the soft earth. “I need to
talk to you...”
Kaylen sighed softly and stopped walking, turning towards Riala with a
slightly impatient look on her face. “What d’ye want?”
She flinched minutely at the clipped words, knowing it was her fault
that the friendly otter was so cold toward her. “I… came to say I’m sorry,” she
said quietly, the words forced past an unwilling tongue. Apologies were not something she was used to
making. “You were right. I’m ungrateful
and unappreciative of what I have… you saved me and I cursed you for it.”
The otter studied her scarred face, set in motionless stone, but the
squirrel’s gold-brown eyes were sincere.
At last she nodded. “S’all right.
I understand. I s’pose if I was
in th’ same position I’d be a bit angry at everythin’ ‘round me as well.” The
twinkle returned to her eye and she struck forth a paw in greeting, a grin
tugging at the corners of her lips. “What d’ye say we start over, matey? Th’ name’s Kaylen of Holt Telera, one of th’
Wanderers of Mossflower.”
Riala stared at the callused paw, uncomprehending and not quite
believing it, but then her own scarred paw reached out and took it as if
against her will. “Riala Goldentail,” she said, and the slightest hint of a
smile touched her face. “Thank you for helping me.”
Kaylen chuckled. “Don’t mention it.
Wot else is a Wanderer for?”
“I don’t know… I’ve no idea what a Wanderer is.”
“Y’don’t…” The otter blinked in surprise before laughing. “O’course ye
don’t know! Yore new ter Mossflower,
roight?” At Riala’s nod, Kaylen grinned and shook her head. “Silly of me ter assume
ye’d know ‘bout th’ Wanderers of Mossflower.
We’re a group of warriors led by Brook an’ Tamlin. Our mission’s t’protect Mossflower, Redwall,
an’ th’ like. We wander th’ forest –
‘tis where th’ name comes from, Wanderers, wander… We seek out vermin an’
report anythin’ odd ter headquarters.”
Tufted ears pricked forward with Riala’s sharpened interest. “Anything
odd? Have you ever heard reports of a
black wolverine leading a horde of weasels, foxes, and ferrets?”
The otter tilted her head slightly, pondering the question. “Can’t say I
‘ave, Riala. Y’might find somethin’
useful in Redwall’s records or th’ Wanderers’ records.”
“Where would those be?”
“Well, Redwall’s records’re in the gatehouse, an’ the Wanderers
records’re at headquarters… y’can’t get ter those yet, not on crutches.”
A scowl flickered across the squirrel’s face at the reminder of her
condition, but she nodded her acquiescence. “Thanks, Kaylen.”
“’Ey, I said don’t mention it, matey!” Kaylen grinned and lifted her paw
in a wave. “See you ‘round th’ woods?”
“Hopefully so,” Riala agreed, watching the otter walk away with the
fluid movement of her species and of a warrior. “Hopefully so…”
Riala scanned the musty scroll in her paws with a gradually deepening
scowl. A snarl escaped her throat and
the scroll rolled shut with a resounding crack! “Nothing! Still nothing! Nearly the entire gatehouse of records and nothing more useful
than herbal mixtures!”
“Oh dear oh dear oh dear…” The wizened old mouse scooped up the fallen
scroll with quivering gray paws, replacing it in its holder with tender
care. He glared at the squirrel from
beneath bushy brows. “These records are older than I, young ruffian!” he
complained as she yanked out another scroll and unrolled it roughly, eliciting
an indignant squeak from the mouse. “Be careful with that!”
“If they’re as old as you say, Josiah, they can take some rough
handling,” Riala retorted, glancing through the contents of the parchment. She let it snap back in disgust and shook it
at the aged recorder. “Bumblebees? Why
do none of these recorders and abbots and abbesses write about anything useful?”
“Give me that!” Josiah snatched the scroll from the squirrel’s waving
paw and inspected it carefully from behind his thick spectacles. Finding no damage to the aged parchment, he
replaced it almost reverently. “All of these records contain useful information
to different readers,” he told her in his precise manner. “Records on
bumblebees are useful to beekeepers.
Herbal records are useful to Infirmary workers. Simply because Redwall is not a fort for
battle…”
Riala snorted derisively and waved one paw outside at the thick
sandstone walls. “What do you call those, then – sunshades? They’ve held up against more attacks than I
can count. Half your records are about
battles between vermin hordes and this ‘peaceful’ abbey.” She reached for
another scroll, one of the few she had not yet looked through in nearly a
season of research.
A gray paw clamped down on her scarred arm, and the mouse’s pale brown
eyes locked with her gold-brown ones. “You will not look through any more
scrolls until you learn to treat them with respect!”
“Let go.”
Josiah blinked, taken aback at the sudden wintry steel in the squirrel’s
voice and gaze. “What?”
“Let go of me.”
He dropped her arm as if he’d just noticed that he held an angry adder,
staring blankly at her icy visage. “Is something…”
That gold-brown gaze intensified, hardened into deadly steel, and the
recorder could not look away. “I have spent my entire life looking for Nightdeath
Longclaws.” Her normally rough voice was an angry hiss, as cold as the blood of
a snake. “The quest for his blood is the sole reason I am still alive. I care little about what I have to do to
kill him. Believe me, mouse… you do not
want to hinder my search. Do you
understand?”
Josiah’s eyes widened at the implication of the squirrel’s words.
“Y-yes… I understand perfectly…” he stammered, backing away. “Just… please put
back the records… when you finish?”
A nod was his only answer, every muscle in Riala’s body tensed, her paws
curled into fists. With a barely
audible squeak, the elderly recorder fled the gatehouse for someplace less
stressful.
The door clicked shut, and Riala crumpled to the ground, staring at her
still-clenched paws. “What am I doing?” The question was spoken in a horrified
whisper, her eyes blank with shock. Threatening an infirm old mouse because
he blocked my way to some musty scrolls that probably won’t be much use anyway?
“And I would have hurt him…” A shudder rippled through her lean frame,
unstoppable even by the squirrel’s indomitable will. All to avenge my
father… all for the Longclaws’ death…
“Game over, Battlecry.”
The hated voice echoed through her mind, the memory sending red mist
across her vision. Her face settled into
emotionless stone, eyes hardening to steel.
One scarred paw reached out and purposefully took hold of the next
scroll.
“Rilaaaaaaar!”
Thunk!
Gold-brown eyes narrowed in grim satisfaction at the sound of wood
striking wood. One wrist flicked in a practiced
motion, the sharp tug on the braided nettle cord sending the thick length of
hardwood flying back into the squirrel’s callused paw. The stake embedded in the ground several
lengths away now lay in two halves, broken by the forceful throw.
The sound of clapping drew Riala’s attention from her target practice to
the sable otter behind her. “Ye’ve come a long way in a season,” Kaylen
congratulated her with a broad grin.
It was a difficult expression to resist. The squirrel’s scarred face creased in a return smile. “Thanks.”
The otter glanced at the once-broken legs, now straight and strong; the
extra fat collected over nearly three seasons of inactivity beginning to turn
back into flat, hard muscle; the once gaping wounds sealed over with scars
fading to skin visible as a white spiderweb through red-brown fur. “How’s the
ol’ body doin’, matey?”
“Still a little stiff, but better than last month.”
“Good – by winter maybe ye’ll be able ter join th’ Wanderers.”
Riala shook her head. “No, I can’t stay in Mossflower… I have to go
after the Longclaws.”
“When ye’ve no idea if th’ scum’s north, south, east’re west? Don’t be a foolbeast.” Kaylen chuckled.
“’Sides, ye know how y’are wi’ Mossflower’s winters!”
“I hope I’ve at least learned to wear a cloak in wintertime,” she
retorted with a rare twinkle in her eyes. “I won’t be so foolish again.”
“Aye, I s’pose ye won’t be, matey,” the otter said. “Care ter test yore
fightin’ skills on a pore ol’ ottermaid?”
The squirrel snorted at the thought. “IF you’re a poor ottermaid, I’m a
rat’s babe!”
Kaylen tilted her head and squinted at Riala thoughtfully. “Well, if’n
ye look careful-like, an’ ye shaved yore tail…”
“Shaved my tail?” Mock horror widened her eyes and flattened
tufted ears back against her skull. “I’ll give you shaved, waterdog!” She drew
her dagger with the hiss of finely honed steel escaping its sheath, and the
fluid motion was answered by the shing of Kaylen’s saber leaping into
her paw. Otter and squirrel circled,
each bent into a fighter’s crouch, ready to spring at any moment. Silence stifled the crisp autumn air, the
wind itself holding its breath as the two faced off.
They came together as if on cue, charging in and whirling and clashing
in a flurry of motion. Steel met wood
and was deflected, a dagger sought throat and was parried with the bell-like
clang of blade on blade. Back and forth
they sparred, a whirlwind of steel and wood and fur, neither scoring a mark on
the other.
“Ha!” Cold metal pricked Riala’s throat, and a rueful smile slashed a thin
line across her scarred visage. Kaylen
grinned back. “Yore right, yore stiff… but not by much, matey. Don’t know many who could beat ye.”
“You just did.”
The otter laughed. “Don’t know many outside the Wanderers who could beat
ye.”
“Aye, well, ‘tisn’t good enough,” the squirrel said, sheathing her
dagger and gathering up the long cord attached to her roce.
Kaylen knew Riala well enough not to argue the point, changing the
subject instead. “Yore actin’ almost cheerful today, treebusher. Wot’s the matter?”
“I have to have a reason to be cheerful?”
“Not mostbeasts, nay, but ye do.
Yore usually all serious an’ silent.
First time I’ve ever ‘eard ye laugh, today was.”
The squirrel shrugged. “I’m finally getting better, seeing progress…
that’s probably all it is.”
“Good thing, too! Any luck with
findin’ out about yore wolverine friend t’other day?”
“No.” The old shadows crept back into the gold-brown gaze at the thought
of the Longclaws and the earlier fiasco in the gatehouse. “None.”
Her flat tone earned her a sharp glance from Kaylen. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Riala turned away, and the otter could almost hear her emotional walls
click back into place. “Nay.”
“Easy mate, I won’t pry if ye don’t want ter talk.” Kaylen sighed
softly, shaking her head. “Well, I’ve got a mission ter do. Just some random scoutin’, reports of a
coupla stoats in th’ woods. Need ter
see if they’re hostile’re not.”
That elicited an odd glance from the squirrel. “If they’re hostile or
not?” she echoed. “Why not just kill them and be done with it?”
Kaylen blinked, returning the strange look with one of her own. “’Cos
they might be peaceful-like.”
“That’s foolishness,” Riala spat, venom thick in her rough voice.
“There’s no such thing as a peaceful vermin.”
The otter stared, taken aback by the hatred in her friend’s gaze. “Hey
now, matey, ye could offend somebeast talkin’ like that. We’ve a coupla those ‘vermin’ in th’
Wanderers.”
“You actually trust the scum?” Incredulity and disgust contorted
the squirrel’s scarred features into a dibbun’s nightmare. “You actually let
them join your ranks?!”
“Some o’ those scum’re me friends, an’ ‘ave saved me life more’n
once,” Kaylen said, anger flaring in her normally jovial face. “Talk ter th’
‘scum’ first afore ye judge, squirrel!” She whirled about, slamming her saber
into its sheath furiously, and stalked way, leaving Riala alone on the lawn
with mouth agape.
The headquarters of the Wanderers of Mossflower was well hidden, but not
too difficult for a woodwise squirrel to find.
She had traded in her usual forest-hued tunic for white and gray
breeches and a long-sleeved shirt the same hue, protection against the winter
chill. She was determined not to repeat
her mistake of a year earlier.
The Wanderers headquarters was a treehouse, cunningly disguised by woven
branches and deadfall. Spring would
have hidden the arboreal building more fully though, and Riala had little
trouble finding it. She leapt silently
to the entrance, a gap in the thick mesh of branches, and padded into the treehouse.
It was smaller than she’d expected.
An oil lamp sat unlit on a desk that took up one side of the sole room,
papers spilling over the edges of the cluttered table. The two adjacent walls held numerous scrolls
in ceiling-to-floor holders. Myriad
weapons hung on either side of the entrance.
A floorboard creaked as Riala crossed the tiny room. She froze for several long moments, tufted
ears turned in the direction of the doorway, but nobeast came to
investigate. Satisfied that she
remained undetected, the squirrel drew her dagger from its sheath and a block
of flint from her belt pouch, lighting the dry wick with ease. At last she could turn her attention to the
records that filled the room, illuminated now by the lamp’s soft glow.
The wick had burned low when the acrid scent of mustelid sent Riala’s
hackles on end. Fox…! Unrolling a scroll further with one paw,
she worked her dagger free with the other.
The same board that had startled her earlier creaked with a hesitant
weight. Her cue to act. She leapt out of the chair and whirled,
crossing the floor in a single bound and setting her blade against thick black
fur.
The touch of chill metal drew a sharp breath from the fox, slitted green
eyes widening. “How did you get in here, fox?” Riala’s rough voice was a
hiss.
“Used the ladder,” the black vixen said, mouth barely opening enough to
let the words out. “What are you doing here? You’re not a Wanderer…”
“And I suppose you are?”
The fox’s eyes narrowed at the implication. “Aye.”
“You’re a fox!” Disbelief was clear in the squirrel’s cold gaze.
“So you judge me by my race.” There was an anger in the fox’s soft
voice, and a sadness. “As close-minded as the reset of your kind.”
“I…” Talk ter th’ ‘scum’ first afore ye judge, squirrel! “I
don’t… Seasons!” She jerked her dagger away and thrust it into its sheath,
movements rough and furious. The vixen
didn’t move from her spot in the middle of the room, watching the squirrel with
a wary gaze. “There’s no such thing as a good vermin!” Riala said finally.
“You truly believe that?”
“Nobeast’s ever proved me wrong!”
A brief frown passed across the fox’s face. “It’s easier to believe
that, I suppose. Makes it really simple
knowing who to trust, doesn’t it? Foxes
are vermin, so they’re all evil. Squirrels
are goodbeasts, so they’re all good.
Right?”
“You make it sound as if I think all vermin are evil merely because it’s
easier,” Riala said.
“That might be part of it,” the vixen agreed, “but I’m sure much of it
comes from experience…”
“Aye, it does! I’ve seen the
worst sides of your kind, not just foxes but weasels and ferrets and
wolverines. I’ve hunted and killed your
type, killed the slavers and the murderers…”
“And yet you become a murderer yourself in the process.”
“I bring justice!”
“Your idea of justice.
Does that include mercy?”
Riala turned away from that unwavering gaze. “It did once. But vermin don’t respect mercy.”
“You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt by vermin?” A hint of
disgust colored the fox’s tone.
“I know I’m not. I’ve seen
slaves. I’ve seen creatures who have
lost all they loved to vermin. As did
I…”
“And as did I.”
Scorn laced the squirrel’s voice. “You’re vermin.”
“So I can’t love? I can’t
grieve? I can’t have a family, a
mother, brothers and sisters?” Her voice rose in volume with each word, choked
with threatening tears. “I can’t lose my family to a brood of my own kind?!”
Riala turned, slow and stunned, to stare at the black vixen’s
grief-ravaged face. That can’t be faked… I know that look too well. “Your
own kind…?”
“Aye, a brood of foxes. Like
killing like for no reason… none but that we would not join them. And I just a kit… Who do you trust when you
can’t even trust your own? It’s easy
for you. You can trust all goodbeasts,
distrust all vermin. I can’t even trust
goodbeasts. I can’t even hate vermin
because I am one and I know they’re not all evil!”
Shock froze her into eternity as lifelong beliefs crumbled around her,
fractured by the undeniable truth of the vixen’s words, backed by the
all-too-recognizable grief and pain in her voice. Distantly she realized that her head was swiveling from side to
side in slow denial, as if of its own will. “No… I…”
“Don’t.” Her green eyes hardened at the shadow of pity lurking behind
the shock in the squirrel’s gaze. “I don’t want your pity or anybeast
else’s. Just don’t judge so quickly.”
She turned to go.
“Wait,” Riala called, finding her voice at last. “What is your name?”
The fox stopped, silhouetted against the entrance. “Shadow de
Vulpes. And you?”
“Riala Goldential.”
“Well met, I hope.” And she was gone.
“So you wish to join the Wanderers.”
Riala met the mouse’s scrutinizing gaze levelly, unperturbed by the flat
tone. “Aye, I do.”
Brook’s eyes narrowed, never wavering from the squirrel’s face. “I was
told that you may have some problems with the race of certain Wanderers,” she
said.
“Ah… that’s been resolved,” Riala said quietly, looking to the
wood-planked floor of the Wanderers headquarters.
“Then you won’t be fighting our members every chance you get?”
She shook her head. “I’ll fight only those who show themselves to be
evil.”
“Good.” The mouse glanced over the form in her paws, filled out minutes
ago by Riala. “You’ve been a lone fighter most of your life… are you willing to
take orders?”
“Aye.”
“You would have to do whatever those above you in rank commanded you to
do,” Brook continued. “You’d start out at the lowest rank, a scout. You’d have to follow mission instructions to
the letter. Some missions will have you
scout out a situation or spy on some vermin and not harm them, only report back
your findings and nothing else. Are you
willing to do that?”
She hesitated for several moments, protests scampering through her mind
until her words betrayed her. “Aye.”
The mouse nodded, satisfied with the reluctant agreement. “How long are
you planning to stay?”
“I’m not certain,” Riala said, shadows turning gold-brown eyes dark.
“Only until I hear news of the Longclaws’ whereabouts.”
“Very well then.” Brook dipped a quill into the inkwell and jotted a few
notes onto the sheet. That done, she
reached into the desk and pulled out a small object, handing it to the
squirrel. “Your rank insigna,” she explained. “We don’t have uniforms since
most of the Wanderers prefer their own attire, but this will mark you as one of
us.”
It was a smooth circle, wooden so as not to catch an enemy’s eye with a
stray gleam of light. Riala clipped it
over the simple clasp of her pale cloak. “Thank you.”
Brook’s answer was a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Welcome to the Wanderers,
Riala Goldentail.”
Chapter 5: Wanderers of Mossflower
“Patrol… what fun…” Riala shook her head, leaping across branches to another tree. She moved without hurry, scarred paws beating a steady tattoo on the solid wood. Brook’s words marched through her mind, keeping time with the drum of her paws.
Patrol
duty is a regular job here. A network
of scouts throughout Mossflower lets us know when somebeast enters the woods,
who it is, what their intentions are, and we can take action before they do any
harm. Even when you’re not on duty,
keep your eyes open for suspicious types.
It was good
sense, a good system, but seasons! It
was boring!
Besides
that, it ought to help you learn your way about the woodlands. You might even chance upon one of the other
Wanderers while you’re patrolling. And…
Brook had paused, a tiny smile playing about her face, you might find news
of the wolverine while you’re at it.
It was a candied chestnut held just out of reach, temptation and bait for the trap. Riala knew the mouse’s words were meant to bring about willing cooperation, she knew she was being manipulated. She didn’t care. The mere thought of the Longclaws was enough to send hate flaring up full force; the slim chance of finding news of her enemy was enough to send her, docile and uncomplaining, to patrol.
How deeply I am controlled, she thought, wry and not quite sarcastic. Even she was unsure whether she referred to this patrol or the hatred that drove her. And again, with a callousness that once would have shocked her… she didn’t care.
Crack!
The
sound echoed through the forest, startling the squirrel into the air, and she
landed on a thicker branch with roce in paw, staring about wildly. Foolish,
lost in thought, spinning amidst the clouds like some wool-headed abbeybeast…
Idiot!
It wasn’t her perch that made the sound of a tree splitting in two. Nor was it any vermin she could see or sense. Tufted ears flicked back and forth, her nose twitched at a stray breeze, and her eyes widened at the rank scent of mustelid.
Ferret? No, this is stronger… badger?
The
breeze drifted, raised a tunnel of powdery snow, returned. Yes… definitely
badger.
Cautious now, attention fixed firmly in the present and on her surroundings, she made her way to the source of the noise. It wasn’t hard to find. She only needed to follow her nose and her ears, for more cracks soon followed the first.
It was a badger, huge and black, with a single white stripe running from nosetip to tail. He stood over a gigantic fallen tree, breaking off limb after limb with massive paws. It was the ease with which he tore apart branches almost as thick as his solidly muscular arms that caused Riala to stop and stare from her perch, fascinated.
The badger paused to shake snow from his coat and then stilled, rounded ears swiveling in the squirrel’s direction, nose testing the wind. He rounded on her with surprising speed, jerking a double-headed axe from the snow as he turned. The axe turned slowly to a position for attack as his dark brown eyes probed the treetops.
“Might as well come out,” he growled, a low rumble deep in his throat. “I can smell you, treebusher.” His gaze traveled across the motionless squirrel to the next tree, stopped, returned to set on her. “And see you.”
Wary but not too concerned that the badger was hostile, Riala dropped to the forest floor, not yet putting aside her throwing club. They stood there across the bark-littered ground, sharp gazes noting hard muscle and a fighter’s coiled readiness for action. Silence sparkled with the snow, drawn tight with the tension in the air until the badger saw the wooden circle on the squirrel’s cape and shattered the quiet with a word.
“Wanderer.” It was a grunt of acknowledgement, perhaps a greeting. “You new?”
“Aye.” Taut muscles loosened the slightest bit as Riala saw the symbol on the other’s collar, an oaken circle striped with red.
“Thought so. I’m Onestrype Durando.” With a curt nod, the badger returned to breaking up the fallen tree.
“Riala Goldentail,” she said, watching him. “What are you doing?”
He broke another limb in two before replying, “Getting firewood.” At her odd glance to the tree, he relented and let a few more carefully hoarded words break loose. “Tree’s been here a while now. Nobeast else is using it.”
“Oh.” Something was odd about that explanation, about the badger’s actions. “Why does one beast need so much wood?”
This time Onestrype actually stopped ripping apart the hapless tree to look at her, impatience kindling in dark brown eyes. “Most of us have dwellings in the woods. You should find one if you plan to spend much time here.” He turned back to his growing pile of firewood. “Wood’s hard to find this time of year. I’m stockpiling.”
Quiet
fellow, Riala thought as the taciturn badger moved down the tree to a lower
branch. Suppose I ought to leave him alone.
Onestrype ignored her farewell, never turning from his task as the squirrel took to the treetops once more.
The white-caped ground rolled steadily past beneath her footpaws as Riala resumed her patrol. A drey. It was an odd thing to think about. The last time she’d lived in a drey was… she’d lost track of the seasons. She’d been a wanderer ever since her father died, making only temporary camps, sometimes staying a while at somebeast’s dwelling, never at a drey of her own.
But it made sense… With no idea of how long she’d be staying in Mossflower, it was a bit silly to camp every day when a semi-permanent dwelling would work far better. Where, then, to make her drey? Not something she’d thought about much in her travels…
It had to be hidden, that was a must. In the trees if possible; not many save other squirrels could reach it then. Size didn’t matter, only that it was well concealed. A wide-trunked tree, probably an oak, build it up… Now to find a good tree.
She paused in the middle of the tree she’d been running along and blinked. “Well, well…” Widespread branches, thick and gnarled and sturdy, stretched out almost horizontal to touch the pines and firs surrounding the massive oak. Brambles snarled the dense brush below, far from any trail. A rare smile quirked at the corners of Riala’s mouth.
“Perfect.”
Nameday!
The word rustled through the trees along a messenger breeze, whispered with gleeful anticipation. The new spring leaves came alive with the excited rumor passed from woodlander to woodlander, and the Abbey bells tolled out the news, inviting all to come.
Nameday!
Nameday! they sang, ringing clear through Mossflower. Come and gather,
celebrate, feast! Nameday! Nameday!
Riala heard the bells as she scurried about her drey, pressing new-dug ivy into dirt-filled trenches about the place, coaxing them up around poles and lattices. Tufted ears pricked into the wind, and her paws stilled on a spade-leafed tendril. Spring Nameday… perhaps I ought to go this time. She’d been either stuck in bed or unwilling to take part in such a huge gathering the past few Namedays. Still, if she was going to be staying here very long…
Well, it wasn’t till tomorrow. Time enough to work on her drey some more.
Odd how much she enjoyed working on the place. There was a strange satisfaction in making something with her own paws, and she’d worked on the drey every chance she had. She’d woven branches together to make the walls and the roof, tried growing ivy to camouflage the dwelling, filled in the many chinks with moss. Riala hummed along with the ringing bells as she climbed a nearby branch and dropped through the opening in the drey’s roof.
Her mostly finished forest-hued tunic lay on the cot. She made a distasteful face at the sight of the garment. “I hate sewing,” the squirrel muttered, “but I’d better finish this before Nameday…”
A few stitches, a flip of the tunic to turn it right-side-out, and she shed her somewhat ragged and no-longer-white tunic, exchanging it for the green-brown-gray one. “Much better,” she said, then paused as the bells rang out again. “It’s been too long since I’ve visited Redwall… Why wait ‘till tomorrow?”
The massive gates of Redwall stood wide open for the visitors from Mossflower Country and beyond. Constant activity grew in and around that entrance, voices yelling greetings and introductions and orders, laughter bubbling with pure elation at the meeting of old friends long unseen, exclamations at changes and compliments on guest-brought food.
Riala hung back from the commotion on the dusty path and at the gate, standing in the greengold shadowlight of spring leaves and sun at the edge of the forest. Rustling in the brush behind her caused her to whirl about, roce in paw, crouching as if to fight. Then Kaylen stepped into sight, and she relaxed.
“Hello.”
The otter grinned as Riala returned the throwing club to her belt. “G’day, matey. Ye goin’ ter th’ Nameday feast t’morrow?”
“Aye.” The squirrel glanced at the flow of visitors to Redwall and shrugged. “Was thinking about visiting the abbey before it started but… it looks busy now.”
“Not too busy f’r anybeast,” the otter said. “Nobeast’ll protest yore comin’ ter Redwall.”
“I suppose…” Riala paused and looked at her otter friend, a thought occurring to her. “Why aren’t you at Redwall?”
“Patrol,” Kaylen explained. “Some of us Wanderers’re patrollin’ th’ woods while th’ gates’re open, makin’ sure no vermin types slip in.”
“Oh.” She frowned, gaze flicking to the gates again. “Am I supposed to be patrolling?”
“Nay, it’s shipshape. Only takes a fewbeasts.”
The squirrel nodded. “Who’s on patrol?”
“Onestrype, Kathryn, Selan, Tamlin, Bravestripe, meself…” Kaylen shrugged. “Not a huge group, ye see. But enow.”
“You’ll be coming tomorrow?”
“Aye, wouldn’t miss a Redwall feast f’r anythin’!” She grinned, white teeth flashing bright in the sable face. “Be there t’morrow. Ye go ‘ave fun, hear?”
She smiled despite herself. “Aye, matey.”
The otter snorted at the mimicry of her marine accent and gave Riala a small push in the direction of the abbey. “Get goin’!”
The next day’s feast was mind-boggling. Feasters of every size and shape and species filled the Great Hall to its maximum. Otter acrobats, hedgehog magicians, and hare jesters all conspired to make the abbey a cacophony of sound and whirling color. Trays and dishes, platters and bowls filled the air with an overwhelming orchestra of tantalizing scents, and many of the feasters made a game of trying to guess the contents.
“That must be deeper’n’ever pie – it’s large enough!”
“’Otroot soup, matey. C’n smell it from ‘ere!”
“I say, lids an’ such can’t fool a bally hare, wot! That’ll be leek’n’gravy pastries, doncherknow, an’ those ‘ave t’be cinnamon oatcakes!”
“Get you’m paws offer et, you’m walkin’ stomach. Oi baked et moiself. T’ain’t oatcakes et all, zurr.”
“First Redwall feast, brushtail?”
Riala blinked at the quiet voice and turned to see the nightblack form of Shadow de Vulpes. “That it is, fox,” she said, voice even and cool. “How did you get into the abbey?”
Slit green eyes narrowed at the implication. “Same way as you.”
A hare two seats from Riala waved his already laden fork to the empty spot next to the squirrel. “Hi Shadow, ‘ere’s a place! Join in, wot?”
“I don’t know…” She looked to Riala as she spoke, her gaze level and somewhat accusing. “I’m not sure if I’m welcome.”
“Nobeast’ll complain if you sit,” Riala said with a shrug, averting her gaze.
The vixen watched the squirrel’s tense form with still-narrowed gaze, then took a seat. She glanced at the hare’s fork and a faint smile touched her angular face. “Tsk, tsk, Taris. Snitching food already?”
“Snitching?” he exclaimed, ears standing up straight, quivering with indignation. “Bad form, ol’ gel, accusin’ a chap of stealin’! Jolly bad form!”
“What do you call that, then?” Shadow asked, nodding to the overloaded fork.
Taris eyed the morsel for a moment before shoving it into his mouth. “Call wot?” he asked past a full mouth, waving the empty fork under the fox’s nose.
Riala
watched the banter with mingled confusion and surprise. A hare and a fox,
joking about at a Redwall Nameday feast table… who would have thought it?
Abbess Rosemary stood at the table’s head, and silence dropped on the hall like a thick blanket. “Today is the first day of the Spring of Early Blooms,” the ancient albino mouse announced. “Let us thank the seasons for this rich bounty.”
“Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs,
mice,
Moles with fur like sable,
Gathered in good spirits all,
Round this festive table.
Sit we down to eat and drink.
Friends, before we do, lets think.
Fruit of forest, field and banks,
To the springtime we give thanks.”
With a clatter of plates and utensils, Redwallers and guests alike fell
to the feast, chatting about food and events.
Riala took a pastry and a slice of deeper’n’ever pie and tasted them,
blinking at the rich flavor. “S’good,” she murmured past a mouthful of beets
and potatoes.
“Aye, but ye’ve ‘ad nothin’ yet, matey!” Kaylen ladeled soup into the squirrel’s bowl, then filled her own bowl as she sat down on the opposite side of the table. “Otter specialty. Best stuff on th’ table.” She grinned over at Shadow as she spooned the soup into her mouth with relish. “’Allo, de Vulpes!”
Shadow nodded to the other Wanderer and watched Riala expectantly, mouth twitching as if to hold back laughter. The squirrel looked from otter to fox and back again, then at the reddish soup, suspicious. She shrugged, threw caution to the wind, downed a spoonful of the thick liquid…
…and dove immediately for the cherry cordial, gulping it down frantically. When the tears brought forth by the fiery concoction finally subsided enough to see clearly, Riala tried choking words past her burning tongue. “What is this stuff?”
Shadow no longer attempted to hold back peals of laughter, but Kaylen merely continued shoveling down soup with clear enjoyment. “’Otroot soup. Nothin’ ‘otter fer an otter! Needs more ‘otroot though.” She scooped up a bowl of red powder and shook it liberally into her soup. Riala watched aghast, a sympathetic burning flaring up on her tongue as the otter swallowed more hotroot soup. “Aye, that’s about right. Oh, ‘allo Oney.”
Onestrype nodded in return greeting, sinking into a spare seat and piling his plate high with all manner of fare. To Riala’s surprise, he also filled a large bowl with hotroot soup and downed it with as much relish as Kaylen.
The otter noticed Riala’s expression and chuckled. “Don’t worry yeself o’er it, bushbrush,” she said. “Many’s a beast that can’t eat ‘otroot. Takes an otter’r a badger’r th’ like.”
“Tell that to the mouse,” Shadow said, nodding to a slight young mouse drinking the spicy concoction straight out of his bowl.
“Good job there, matey!” Kaylen called to the youngling.
He grinned at the otter and refilled his bowl. “I’m gonna be as big as ye, waterdog!” he proclaimed.
“What, ye’re sayin’ I’m fat?”
Riala chuckled despite herself. The otter was solidly built, hard muscle through and through, not an ounce of fat on her—but she was certainly not small. Otters rarely were. “He’s saying you’re bigger than he is.”
“Aye, I should ‘ope so!” Kaylen winked at the mouse. “’E’s a twig! More ‘otroot f’r ye, shipmate. T’will put muscle on those bones o’ yores.”
Riala took a bite of her pastry as the banter flew thick and fast. Here in Redwall, among good friends and good food and good cheer, all thought of Nightdeath and battle faded beyond the sandstone walls that blocked off more than just vermin. Time blurred by, talk remained on inconsequentialities, and trials were forgotten for the remainder of the feast.
Mission by mission, day by day, Riala settled into Wanderer life. She gained rank steadily, from Scout to Traveler to Tracker. Spring waned to summer with rising temperatures and longer days. Rarely did the squirrel have to battle though. Many missions dealt with finding runaway dibbuns, or investigating odd happenings, or patrolling an area of Mossflower. Small jobs, dull and tedious. She began itching for action, and one day in late spring a slip of paper came to break the monotony.
“Another lost dibbun?” the squirrel asked, taking the mission explanation from Shadow. Time and association had worn the racial barrier between them to rubble, and she’d begun to see the vixen as a friend.
The fox shook her head. “Don’t think so. Where’d you find that one, anyway?”
“Locked himself in the food pantry, the little glutton.” She chuckled at the memory. “Got himself sick with candied chestnuts.” The seal broke with the flick of a claw and she scanned the words briefly.
Mission:
A small group of slavers has been seen near the North Path up by the ruins of
St. Ninian’s. Free the slaves and bring
them to Redwall.
A feral grin etched its way across Riala’s scarred visage. “Slaver group,” she said. “Finally some action!”
“Need some help?”
Riala glanced through the paper again. “Nay, ‘tis only a small group.” She checked her dagger and roce, then nodded farewell to Shadow. “Thanks—I’ll see you soon.” With that, she scurried up a nearby tree and headed north.
She found the slavers almost by accident. It seemed they knew of the Wanderers and were attempting silence. Only movement, the flicker of light on linked steel, the stench of mustelid on a shifting wind, alerted the squirrel to the vermin below.
Chain clinked and a youngling whimpered. The hiss of a whip provoked a scream, quickly muffled, and a curse. “Oy, scum-fer-brains, wot kinda idiot are yew?” The reprimand was issued in a harsh whisper followed by a solid slap that rang through the woods. “Ya wanna bring alla woodies in th’ forest down on our ‘eads? Keep ‘em quiet! No whips, else I’ll use th’ things on yew if we get outta ‘ere!”
Riala crept down the tree to a lower branch, peering through the leaves for a better view. Three slavers that she could see, maybe a fourth at the end of the ten-slave chain. A stoat, a rat, a weasel. The slaves were all woodlanders, most young, all worn and blank eyed, all with whip-scarred backs.
Her jaw tightened at the sight. Just the three of them… no difficulty. Her roce slid from the belt into her calloused paw and she threw. The heavy stick crashed into the weasel’s head, then a tug on the long cord sent it flying back into her paw.
“Wha…” The rat gaped at the fallen slaver, shocked. “Grulig!”
The stoat stared about, trying to figure out what killed his fellow slaver. The roce tumbled his way this time but he heard the rustle as it crashed through the leaves and ducked. Riala cursed, leapt to the ground, slinging her dagger as she landed. It buried itself to the hilt in the stoat’s chest. He looked at it, at her, then fell with a rattling gasp.
A tumbling roll ended with dagger and roce returned to calloused paws. The squirrel whirled to face the astonished rat only to catch a whip across her face, fire slashing from ear to chin. “Ye’ll die naow, rat,” she snarled, ignoring the blood dripping past her eyes.
Fear touched his ungroomed face but he shook out his whip and stood firm. The lash hissed and Riala struck out her arm. It curled about like a vine strangling a tree. She tensed, yanked, and the whip flew from the rat’s paws. A shake of her arm and it rattled free. Riala’s roce arm drew back…
“Look
out!”
A cry from one of the slaves, a flash of triumph on the rat’s face. She hit the earth, rolled, and an arrow thudded into the ground. When she returned to her footpaws, gathered her bearings, the rat stood with retrieved whip in paw. A ferret archer waited at the treeline, an arrow fixed on the squirrel’s throat. Brush rustled and out stepped a stoat, a long saber gleaming in one paw.
“Who’ll die t’day, brushtail?” The rat smirked, tapping his whip on his thigh. “Yew… or me?”
“Ye, I believe,” Riala said, and dove. An arrow whistled overhead, the stoat ran forward, but they were all too late… her dagger sliced past the flailing lash and slashed across the rat’s chest. He fell back, she dove again, the bow twanged…
“Hold!”
The shout froze all motion, turned every gaze to the slender black fox that held a slim knife to a young slave’s pale neck. “Don’t yew move, treejumper, or this brushtail dies.” The little squirrelmaid stared straight ahead, unblinking, unafraid. Her expression held only resigned acquiescence.
Riala gaped
at the sight of Shadow de Vulpes with a dagger to a youngling’s throat. Can’t
trust vermin… Her old adage, nearly discarded in the past season, rang
through her mind. Was I wrong to trust Shadow?
“’Ey, thanks vixen!” the rat said with a rasping laugh, holding one arm to the too-shallow gash across his chest. He advanced on the motionless squirrel as the stoat sheathed his blade and the ferret stowed her bow. Riala took a step back, gaze flicking to Shadow. The knife tightened on the squirrelmaid’s throat, the vixen’s eyes hardened to emerald.
“Stay right there, brushtail,” she hissed. “Less yew don’t care what ‘appens ter this mangypaws.”
I don’t care… She almost said it, would have been mostly truthful in the telling until she met the squirrelmaid’s gaze. Emptiness reigned in those brownblack eyes, the shadows of a soul near death, a darkness that mirrored the void in Riala’s own eyes. She stilled, kept her silence, locked by empathy to the nightoak gaze, unable to look away as all three slavers advanced.
Motion flickered, sunlight flashed on steel, and the ferret archer fell with a gurgling cry, a dagger in her throat. It broke the strange connection, gold-brown gaze following the gleam of the blade to its destination, confusion flicking shadow over the scarred face. Riala stared from ferret to fox, bewildered as the twin to the killing dagger appeared in Shadow’s paw. It too sliced through the air, digging its lifehungry length into the swordstoat’s ribs.
The squirrel didn’t wait to weigh Shadow’s actions in her mind. She whirled on the rat, hurling her roce into his skull. Already stunned by the surprise whirlwind of steel, he didn’t see the sturdy throwing club until it caved in his head. A yank of the cord returned the stick to her paw, and she turned to face Shadow de Vulpes.
They regarded each other over fallen bodies and huddled slaves. Silence stretched tense between squirrel and fox, words unspoken littering the air. Riala spoke first.
“I didn’t need any help.”
The triangular head tilted slightly, questioning. “Really. With an arrow aimed at your heart and a swordsbeast and whiprat on either side.”
A shrug. “Not a very good archer. Shot at me twice, missed both times.”
“She would have hit you eventually.”
“Would she?”
Shadow grimaced. “I’m no seer, but you looked like you needed help.”
“What if I’d killed you? I thought for sure you were vermin.” Riala stared down at the wet gleam of blood on the dagger in her paw, remembering the betrayal she’d felt. Even now it lingered, distrust a shadow nibbling at the fringes of her mind.
“It would have meant killing the squirrelmaid.”
The squirrel looked away to the woods, unable to meet the young slave’s gaze again. “I might have tried to kill you anyway,” she said, voice quiet. “Maybe I’d have killed you before you could kill the youngling.”
Again the questioning look, probing deep. “And maybe not.”
Silence. Riala ran one scarred paw along the dagger’s reddened length, cleaning off the blood, staining her paws with midnight fire. “That’s what scares me.” A tentative whisper, barely audible.
Shadowed gold-brown eyes met summer green. She couldn’t read the myriad emotions in the vixen’s gaze, wasn’t sure she wanted to. The fox looked away first, to the huddled slaves, took a deep breath. “We’d better bring them to Redwall.”
Riala nodded slowly, glancing at the young squirrelmaid who stared about as if seeing things for the first time. “Aye… let’s go.”
To watch the freed slaves enter Redwall was to watch a rebirth. Light sparked, flickered, caught in shadowed eyes; hunched backs straightened; drooping ears pricked with interest. The abbeybeasts fussed over each freed slave, bathed them, clothed them, fed them. Freedom was a healing draught first sipped tentatively, as if afraid it would be snatched away, then gulped down with relish and awe and celebration.
The young squirrelmaid apparently decided she had some sort of life debt to Riala. She latched onto the older squirrel, a ginger-red shadow that followed Riala’s every move, nightoak eyes wide and shining with hero worship. It was hard to ignore. Riala tried just that for nearly an hour until she turned and almost collided with the youngling.
“Would you please stop that!” she said, half shouting, exasperation pushing volume into her rough voice.
The squirrelmaid cringed, cowered, backed against the wall. A flicker of fear drew the shadows back into her gaze, a darkness that was slow to fade. Riala relented before the reversion to save mannerisms. “No… don’t do that. I didn’t mean it.” Her voice did not lend itself well to softness but she tried. The tensed starved limbs relaxed minutely but the dark brown eyes still held caution, uncertainty. Riala bent down to the youngling’s level, surprisingly not much lower than her own height—she was older than she appeared. “What is your name?”
Hesitation, a long glance at the ground. “I was… The slavers called me Scumbrush, ma’am. ‘Cos me tail were so dirty’n all.”
“Scumbrush?” Riala stared, shocked. After a bath and new clothes, the young squirrelmaid (she refused to think of her as … that degrading name) was actually quite pretty, her fur a fiery ginger red, her throat purest white.
The squirrelmaid swallowed, gaze fixed on her white-tipped paws. “Yes’m.”
Silence, her mind empty of words. She forced out a question, determined to find another name. “What was your name before the slavers?”
“Dunno, ma’am. Been a slave long’s I c’n ‘member.”
It’s not as if you haven’t seen lives like this before, she scolded herself, angry at the horror she felt at the youngling’s story. Another part of her argued that this was different… but how? No answer came from that silent voice, and she tried again. “What—what do you want to be called?”
The squirrelmaid lifted her head at last, and now there was a determined set to her chin, a spark of fire in the nightoak eyes. “Malaya, ma’am. One of t’others tol’ me it means freedom. An’ that’s what I be. Free. I won’t e’er go back t’bein’ a slave.” Passion gave her voice volume and emphasis; truth and conviction shone in her gaze. “I’ll die first.”
Riala nodded slowly, the squirrelmaid’s unbroken spirit striking a chord within her. “Malaya, then. A much nicer name than Scumbrush, and I think it fits you far better.” She smiled, placed a calloused paw on the bony shoulders. “Will you stay at Redwall?”
Uncertainty gave her pause as she stared at the sunrise walls, took in the smell of food and the sound of laughter, but her gaze returned to Riala and her voice held unerring decision. “No, ma’am. I wants t’join th’ Wanderers.”
“Really?” Odd that she should be surprised, but she was. “Why?”
“’Cos then I c’n help others get free. An’ I c’n help keep creatures stayin’ free.”
How she values her freedom… but she has been a slave so long that it must be more precious than life, now. “Aren’t you a bit young for the Wanderers?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head decisively. “I’s not a child, ma’am. I wants to be a Wanderer like you. C’n I stay with you?”
That unexpected question startled a laugh from the squirrel. She couldn’t refuse; somehow she’d accepted Malaya as her shadow already, even welcomed her. “Aye, you may. But Malaya… my name’s Riala, not ma’am.”
Elation lit up Malaya’s face and she smiled from ear to ear, belatedly remembering to answer. “Yes’m—er, yes, Riala!”
Another laugh bubbled up from her throat and she gave the young squirrelmaid a slight push towards the dinner table. “Go eat first,” she said with a grin. “You could use some meat on those bones. Maybe some hotroot soup will do you some good.”
Malaya wasted very little time settling into Riala’s drey. Though Riala had worried that the emaciated squirrelmaid wouldn’t be strong enough to travel the winding treetop pathways to the drey, Malaya proved her wrong by making several trips from Redwall to the drey and back in the ensuing days, lugging blankets and pillows along with her. She claimed it was all the work under the lash that made her strong, but that freedom gave her the will to labor and the endurance to continue.
Freedom. Her name, her heart, her spirit. The young squirrel drank deep of freedom and found it to be life; she named herself for it, she grew happy under it, she clung to it with all her heart. Riala knew Malaya would fight for freedom too, would give her life for it, and somehow that frightened Riala. If this embodiment of freedom and life died…
She frowned, looking down at the squirrelmaid’s sleeping form, all tired fragile innocence, shattered but beginning to mend. How had she gotten so attached so quickly? This wasn’t like her, not at all. It was dangerous, it was foolish, it was… it was impossible to change. Riala smiled slightly, sadly. Perhaps it was the helplessness; perhaps the way the youngling reminded her of herself; perhaps the fierce love of freedom; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps any number of things but it didn’t matter now; Malaya had wormed her way into Riala’s heart and there was no pushing her out.
The scarred squirrel stretched out on her pallet on the floor; Malaya had the cot and was welcome to it. Riala had patrol duty tomorrow. Maybe she’d bring Malaya along, even though the squirrelmaid wasn’t really a Wanderer yet. Too young, too new. Still, it was probably a bad idea to leave the youngling in the drey alone. Who knows what trouble a young squirrel can get into? Riala’s mouth twisted into a wry grin at the rambling pathways of her thoughts. Definitely tired… She closed her eyes, took a few even breaths, and drifted into a light sleep.
Malaya took the news with wide-eyed delight. “You mean I’m goin’ on
patrol?”
“What else would you do—stay here with idle paws?” A grin stretched
across Riala’s scarred face as she tucked her roce and dagger into her belt.
“You have a weapon, ‘Aya?”
The walnut brown eyes widened even further. “Ne’er touched one e’er,
ma’am—Riala. Am I gonna ‘ave one then?”
A chuckle escaped Riala’s throat. “Aye, you’ll have to,” she said. “That
can wait, though. For this patrol you’ll be fine so long as you keep to the
trees.” Her head tilted, gold-brown gaze scrutinizing the squirrelmaid’s thin
form. “Are you up to it? We’ll be out all day.”
“I’ll be fine! Promise!”
The eagerness in Malaya’s face tossed all reservations to the thorns
below the drey. Riala handed her a lumpy pouch. “Waybread. Not much by way of
taste, but it’ll keep your stomach filled. Let’s begin.”
They headed south above the dirt path, scanning the ground below for
anything out of the ordinary. “This is usually what it’s like,” Riala said at
the sound of Malaya’s restless sigh. “Uneventful. But necessary…” Her low
monotone drifted into silence as she dodged a mass of dead foliage, not slowing
her pace. A wry grin tugged at her mouth when the sound of crackling brush
erupted behind her. “Of course, it might be that you’re warning off all the
vermin with that racket.”
“I didn’t see it!”
Riala turned, watched the young squirrelmaid wrestle free of the leaves
and twigs, her ginger coat bringing most of the dry brush along. Malaya
scowled, tugging leaves and bark free from her tail. “It was right there,
mid-limb, in plain sight. Why didn’t you see it?” The youngling mumbled
something and Riala tilted her head, ears pricked to catch her grumbling.
“Well?”
“Was lookin’ at th’ ground.” Reluctant, irritated, then suddenly
defensive. “You tol’ me to!”
“I told you to keep an eye on the ground for vermin and the like,” Riala
said, voice mild, amusement gleaming in gold-brown eyes. “Not both eyes,
certainly not all your senses. I had my attention on the ground but I didn’t
run into the dead limb, did I?”
“But—“
Malaya’s protest was silenced by the sudden raising of Riala’s paw. The
older squirrel’s head tilted, tufted ears flicking one direction, then another,
searching for repetition of a noise heard only vaguely past the murmured
conversation.
There. The bell-clang
of steel on steel accompanying a rumbling growl, crackling on the wind like
lightning.
“What…?”
“Battle. Hurry.” Riala broke into a run, chasing the din through the
treetops. After a moment’s confused hesitation Malaya followed, claws clicking
on the bark.
The noise grew louder as the two squirrels drew nearer, battle-din
drumming in their ears, thrumming up the trees to beat a steady tattoo on
flying paws, singing in rushing blood. Closer still and the breeze carried the
smells of the duelers, rank musk. Mustelid—badger, and something else, a scent
half-recognized that boiled Riala’s mind with hate…
Wolverine!
“Ri-Riala?”
She whirled, impatient anger snapping from her throat in a growl. “What?”
Wide nightoak eyes met her temper, softening it to guilt. Malaya’s face
held fright and timidity, transformed in a single moment to her days as a
slave. Riala realized with a trickle of shame that it was she who had so
frightened the youngling, that the one whiff of wolverine had completely
altered Riala’s countenance to that of a demon: gold-brown eyes sparking hatred,
teeth bared with vicious fury, hackles lifted, crouched into a fighting stance.
She closed her eyes, forced her taut muscles to relax, breathed deep to
calm down. “I’m sorry, Aya… it’s not you. It’s…”
Steel clanged on steel, interrupting Riala’s broken explanation. She
tensed once more, motioned to Malaya. “I’ll explain later. Somebeast might need
help.”
The youngling nodded hastily and both squirrels raced once more to the
clash and clang of battle.
It was a wolverine, a lithesome female, all russet marbled with cream, a fluid whirlwind of savage death. Riala didn’t miss the flicker of admiration and awe that touched Malaya’s face at the sight. She turned her own gaze to the wolverine and spoke with a strange casualness to her tone, almost alien after her near rabid reaction to the creature’s scent. “E’er watched a thunderstorm? Beautiful in power. Lightnin’, thunder, dark clouds, roarin’ wind… Hard tae believe sometimes that the storm can kill ye an’ burn down all o’ Mossflower wi’ only a lightin’ bolt or two.”
Riala turned, studied the thoughtful look on the squirrelmaid’s face, noted the slight confusion lurking in the nightoak gaze. “What be beautiful be often deadly,” she said flatly, the steel beginning to show itself in her tone. “Storms, fire, swords—wolverines. That one be doin’ her best tae kill Onestrype.”
And Onestrype it was indeed. The massive badger was of a height with the wolverine, more muscular where she was more agile. He carried an axe, she wielded a saber. Both were evenly matched by all appearances in strength and agility.
“Ain’t we gonna ‘elp?”
Riala shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on the battle, on the deadly intensity of the fighters that blocked out all else save the whirling dance of blade and blood. “Nay… one distraction means the battle, now. If we tried tae help, we’d do more harm than good.”
Silence from Malaya. When Riala turned to see what brought on the
sudden still quiet, her gaze met incredulity, even a touch of shock. “How c’n
ya be so calm-like? Ent th’ badger yer friend?”
The older squirrel returned her
attention to the battle, breath hissing past clenched teeth to her lungs. “If
ye think I be calm, ye be a poorer judge o’ body language than I thought.” Hard
to believe anybeast could miss the tension in every line of her form; the hate
pounding at her skull, commanding her to let it free, let it take over and lead
her into the blind rage that knew nothing but the desire to kill…
“Riala? Riala!”
The squirrelmaid’s panicked call jerked Riala to sanity. She gripped a nearby branch, drew in a
shuddering breath. “I’m fine,” she said, voice harsh.
“Ya didn’t look fine,” Malaya said, staring, concern and fright
clear in her young face. “Ya looked like somethin’ was tearin’ ya apart. It was scary!”
“Sorry.” She had no words left to waste, not when every whiff of
wolverine eroded her control, not when every glimpse of long white claws sent
her paws twitching towards the weapons in her belt.
A hiss of pain drew her gaze to the battle below. Onestrype’s axe bit into the wolverine’s
paw, caught the blade between haft and head.
A mighty twist of massive paws sent the saber flying into the brush,
concealed immediately by thick greenery.
The wolverine didn’t waste time staring after the sword, didn’t try to
retrieve it. She darted in windswift,
catching the axe hilt with strong paws, claws digging into wood and flesh.
“She’s gonna lose,” Malaya whispered. “Nobeast’s strong’s a stripedog!”
“Nobeast but a wolverine,” Riala said, quiet and tense. “Naught be
certain naow…”
Badger and wolverine strained at the axe in an unmoving tug-of-war. White fangs gleamed in a feral grin and the
wolverine opened her claws, a child’s trick but effective. Onestrype stumbled back, caught off guard
and off balance and the wolverine was on him in that instant. Long claws deadly
as any dagger sank into the badger’s shoulders, the wolverine’s full weight
bearing him to the ground like a felled tree.
He swung with the axe but she was inside his reach, sinking her teeth
into his paw, forcing him to drop the weapon with a roar of fury and pain.
What had been a dance now became a browl, all finesse and thought and
skill thrown to the brush with the wolverine’s saber, replaced by brute force
and a savage single purpose: to kill.
The wolverine’s jaws snapped for Onestrype’s throat only to be
backhanded into the dirt. Long claws
dug deep into the badger’s chest and then were broken off, lodging there apart
from the paws as the wolverine was tossed to the side. Her fangs tore at Onestrype’s stomach, at
his shoulder, his leg, his arm only to be punched and clawed and swiped away,
time and time again.
He swung a huge paw at her head.
She backpedaled, fell as it grazed her skull, rolled and came up with
dirt. The badger roared, fury evident
in his blind swings, pawing at his dirt-veiled eyes. Triumph hissed from the wolverine’s mouth. She sprang, threw him
to the ground, closed bloodstained teeth on his throat.
“No…!”
A cry of denial, of protest, ripping from Malaya’s throat, eyes wide
with horror and shock. Despair that
came too early, for Onestrype fought through the pain and the lack of air, one
paw reaching—reaching—closing on the fallen axe.
The meaty thud of the blade slicing into the wolverine’s back announced
her death to all who could hear. Her
death—and the battle’s end.
Riala burst into motion, dropping to the ground the instant the axe
fell. She reached the two prone
combatants in a matter of moments, knelt at the badger’s head. The wolverine’s jaws were locked about
Onestrype’s throat even in death, choking off air. Riala grasped the deadly jaws, pulled with all her strength to
pry them open before time froze the joints to immobility.
“Care tae help, Aya?”
The squirrelmaid appeared almost as quickly, grasping the snout with
tentative paws. They pulled, the mouth
slid free, and Onestrype drew in a gasping breath. Riala shoved hard at the wolverine’s corpse, pushing it off of
the badger. One tug freed the axe,
exposing muscle and pale bone as the blood drained forth.
“Urk…” Malaya turned decidedly green at the sight. She stumbled into the brush just in time to
lose the waybread she’d eaten on the duller portion of the patrol.
Riala ignored the squirrelmaid’s plight, all her attention focused on
the badger, tallying wounds even as she tore her cloak into bandages. Ravaged
throat—she bound that first, expression growing grim as the cloth darkened to
black-red in seconds. Gashes in one
shoulder from wolverine claws. Bite
wound in one paw. Claws broken off in
the chest; huge gashes there. Stomach,
leg, arm, all torn by dagger-sharp fangs.
“Malaya.”
Her voice was quiet but held an urgency that brought the squirrelmaid to
her side in an instant, weaving on shaky paws, trying desperately to keep her
eyes off of the wolverine carcass. “Yes’m—Riala?”
“Can you climb?”
Malaya clutched her stomach, muzzle gaining a greenish tinge. “Climb?”
she said weakly.
Riala tore another strip off her cloak, bound the unconscious badger’s
shoulder wound. “Either run to Redwall and get a healer or bind wounds. Which one?”
“Er…” The squirrelmaid looked from badger to tree and back again and
blanched. “I’ll… climb.”
“Then go.”
Malaya lurched for the closest tree as Riala began extracting the broken
claws, expression grim. “Just a while longer, Oney,” she said under her breath,
setting the bloodstained claw on a nearby rock. “Hold on just a while longer…”
The short minutes’ wait for Malaya’s return seemed like ages. Riala busied herself with changing the
makeshift bandages and pulling out the remaining wolverine claws in Onestrype’s
chest. It was with relief that she
heard pawsteps on the path, saw Malaya pull Sister Bria into view.
The Infirmary sister spared the wolverine’s body barely a glance,
arrowing in on Onestrype. Her sharp gaze
took in the badger’s wounds, a brief flicker of concern flashing across her
angular face. “Hmph,” she said, and began untying bandages, sloshing water from
a hefty canteen over each gash. “You do this, brushtail?”
“Aye.”
“Hm.” Bria looked down at the bloody claws laid out on the rock. “Not
bad.” She spread some sort of paste on the badger’s throat, bound it up tight
with a clean white bandage, not even looking up at the sound of running
pawsteps up the road.
It was Kaylen. She slowed to a
halt at the sight of Onestrype’s prone from and the wolverine’s body, shock
overtaking her usually grinning face. “Onestrype?” Her gaze flicked to
Riala. “What ‘appened, matey?”
“I’m not sure… He fought that wolverine. Killed her.” She nodded to the corpse, images of Nightdeath
Longclaws flashing through her mind at the sight of the body. Her jaw clenched at the thought.
Kaylen’s expression grew grim and she crossed the road to Sister Bria
and Onestrype. “Will ‘e live?”
The mouse’s thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Can’t say. I might be wrong an’ then ye’ll strangle
this poor sister. I been wrong afore,
ye know.” She looked directly at Riala with this last, a slight smile quirking
at the corners of her mouth. “Depends on how much th’ stripedog wants t’live.”
Light pawsteps announced the arrival of yet another creature. It was Shadow this time. She stood just in view, taking in the scene.
“I heard Onestrype was wounded…”
Riala glanced from fox to otter and finally to Malaya. “Did you bring
all of Mossflower?”
“I was… kinda loud,” the squirrelmaid said with a sheepish smile.
“Tryin’ ta find a healer an’ all.”
“She came into the abbey yelling about a wolverine, Onestrype being
hurt, and demanding a healer.” Was that amusement in the vixen’s tone? “Is this
the squirrelmaid from the slaver mission, Riala?”
“Aye… Changed, isn’t she?” Riala said, but the grin in her voice didn’t
reach her eyes. Her gaze wandered to
Bria, still bent over Onestrype, and she pulled it away with difficulty. Worrying’s
not going to help…
Bria’s too-familiar scolding jerked her attention back to mouse and badger. “Ye’re doin’ me no good hoverin’ like that, waterdog! Not me or yer friend. I tell ye again—he’ll live if he wants t’live an’ bad enough. I’m doin’ what I can, an’ ye’re bein’ nothin’ but a pest, slowin’ down what I can do!” Get out of here! Make yeself useful—bring th’ Badger Mother an’ a cart. Mayhap some strong riverdogs too.” She glared when Kaylen didn’t move right away. “Well? Go on!” Her glare transferred to Riala and Malaya. “All of ye! Get out of here! I only need onebeast t’stay an’ make sure nobeast attacks or such. Not ye!” she growled as Kaylen stepped forth to volunteer. “Ye hover too much. Ye neither,” as Riala started to speak, “ye be too contrary. Th’ fox be quiet enow. The rest of ye, get! Shoo!”
Kaylen’s face contorted into a very odd expression indeed as the three woodlanders retreated to Redwall. The moment they were out of earshot she burst into helpless laughter, doubling over with the hilarity of it. “Didja ‘ear that, mates? I ‘over too much! Haha, an’ Riala, yore contrary? At least th’ crotchety mouse got somethin’ right…”
“And she’d rather a fox to guard against trouble than one of us.” Riala shook her head in disbelief. “I think poor Bria needs a healer—a mental one.”
Kaylen chuckled. “Ye may be right thar.” Then he sobered, looking over her shoulder the way they’d come. “…y’think he’ll be shipshape again, mateys?”
That wiped the grins from every face present. Riala’s gaze went to the ground rolling past beneath her feet, uncertain of what to say. “I hope so…”
A troubled silence draped about the three woodlanders, broken at last by Malaya’s quiet voice. “Who was th’ wolverine?”
“I don’t know.” Riala’s tone was troubled, uncertain. The sight of the wolverine… the scent, the sound—it had all brought back memories turned dusty and near-forgotten by her stay at the Wanderers. Redwall and Mossflower were somehow insulating, quieting, bringing out the better aspects of allbeasts within and suppressing the worser ones. She’d become almost relaxed, almost content—but now the old memories and hatreds stirred within, driving her to restlessness.
Malaya watched her closely, nightoak gaze curious and concerned. “Riala…?”
The older squirrel blinked, startled from her reverie. “Aye?”
“Why’d ya be so strange-like when ya saw th’ wolverine?”
Riala closed her eyes, drew in a long, slow breath. “You don’t want to hear that tale, Aya.”
“Mayhap we both do, Riala matey,” Kaylen said, watching her intently. “Ye’ve talked ‘bout a black wolverine but ye ‘aven’t said much else ‘sides that yore lookin’ for ‘im.”
“I wants t’hear it,” Malaya agreed.
Riala looked away from the expectant gazes. Her voice was hard when she finally spoke, eyes fixed to the ground. “A wolverine killed my father through treachery,” she said flatly. “Nightdeath Longclaws and her horde. I swore revenge.”
“…Oh.” Malaya withdrew into herself, pulled silence about her like a cloak.
Kaylen frowned. “When did this ‘appen?”
“I’ve lost count of the seasons…” Riala’s rough voice was abruptly quiet as she pondered. “I was young… maybe Malaya’s age. Maybe younger.”
“And ye’ve been huntin’ th’ wolverine all this time?”
“Aye.”
Another long silence from the otter, and then— “That’s a long time t’waste on ‘ate, Riala.”
Anger flared within, sudden and roaring hot. Riala’s paws curled into tight fists and she spoke past clenched teeth, deadly cold. “An’ we be wastin’ time chattin’ when we should be makin’ our way tae Redwall. I’ll be runnin’ on ahead.” She stalked to a nearby tree, broke into a run once in the treetops, unreasonable anger lending her paws furious speed and pinning her ears back against the startled cries to wait.
She has no RIGHT!
Kaylen’s face in her mind, incredulous and puzzled and pitying in turn.
No right to judge me…
Paws thrumming viciously on the treetop paths, heedless of caution.
No right to pity me…
Kaylen’s words in her mind: A lot of time to waste on hate, Riala.
It’s MY time! MY life! She has… no… RIGHT!
Teeth bared, ears pinned, tail lashing, paws pounding. Wind and branches
and leaves whipping past, barely noticed by narrowed gold-brown eyes.
She can’t understand! How can she judge what she hasn’t been through?!
Stop.
Riala ran out of trees, halted across the path from Redwall Abbey. She
drew in a deep breath, hissed it out past still clenched teeth, forced herself
to calm down. The squirrel dropped from the elm and walked up to the gates,
lingering tension clenching one paw open and closed.
“Sister Bria needs the Badger Mother, a cart, and a few strongbeasts to
help bring a wounded badger to Redwall,” she shouted to the walltop. “And
hurry!”
Hurry they did. Minutes later Riala was racing the wind through the
treetops once more, followed by a badger-pulled cart filled by two brawny otters.
“Ahoy th’ cart!”
The Badger Mother of Redwall dug in her heels, screeching to a stop next
to the otter and squirrel in the road. “You want something?” the badger said, a
growl rumbling in her words.
Kaylen nodded to the cart. “Just a ride t’Bria’n Onestrype, Beya.”
“Get in.”
The otter grinned, thanked the badger, and climbed into the cart,
extending a paw to Malaya. The squirrelmaid looked about reluctantly,
hopefully, then grasped the proffered paw with a disappointed sigh.
The cart tore off with a clatter and a pounding of heavy badger paws.
Riala followed in the trees, perverse pride keeping her hidden.
Onestrype was deathly still, only the slight rise and fall of his chest
showing that the badger remained alive. The hiss of a sharp intake of breath announced
Kaylen’s dismay at the sight. “What d’you want us t’do, sister?” she asked,
leaping down from the cart.
Bria poured the last of the water from the canteen onto her bloodstained
paws before nodding to Onestrype. “Beya, take th’ stripedog’s left. Skipper, ye
an’ t’other riverdog…” She looked at a lithe male otter wearing a Wanderer rank
insigna on his jerkin and twin scimitars at his waist.
“Drizzt,” the otter supplied.
“Aye. Ye two take t’other side. An’ you, Kaylen or whoever ye be… lift th’
badger’s legs, will ye?”
The badger and the three otters lifted Onestrype with care and some
difficulty. Bria hovered about them, rattling off constant warnings and
admonitions. “Be careful now… don’t ye jolt him. Watch that tree root… good,
now into the cart--gently, ye bumblin’ riverdogs! Easy, easy… there!”
The badger Beya lifted the cart shafts slowly and waited for Bria to
climb in next to Onestrype, breaking out her healer’s bag once more. Riala made
little sound as she slipped to the ground, padded up behind Kaylen and Malaya
while the cart rattled off with Skipper of Otters and Drizzt at point.
Kaylen’s senses were better trained than Malaya’s. She turned, blinked
in mild surprise at the sight of the squirrel. “Yore back.”
“Who’s back?” Malaya craned her neck around and yelped when she saw
Riala. The rest of her body followed her head in a clumsy turn, a grin
enveloping her angular features. “Riala! Where’d ya go? Ya left so sudden-like
an’ looked so angry…”
Riala’s indignation at Kaylen’s earlier words melted with the
squirrelmaid’s obvious delight at her return. “I just went to get the badger
mother,” she said, avoiding Kaylen’s sharp gaze. “Sorry if I worried you.”
Malaya bounced on her paws, grinning ear to ear. “S’okay! Yer back now.
Take me with ya next time? I c’n keep up!”
“I’ll try.”
“Aye, well, this be all well an’ good, but…” Kaylen nodded to the
wolverine’s body. “What d’we do with that?”
Riala spared the corpse barely a glance, expression turning impassive.
“Let it rot,” she said, voice harsh and cold.
“But…” Malaya’s ears flickered, uncertain. “Don’t she even deserve t’be
buried?”
“Not a wolverine.”
Disbelief and shock flashed across the squirrelmaid’s face to be
replaced by a stubborn set to her chin. “Should bury ‘er.”
Riala’s jaw took on the same hard line, eyes glinting unyielding steel.
“’Tis too good for the scum.”
“Hold ‘ard, mates!” Kaylen stepped between the two squirrels, blocking
the daggersharp glares. “Compromise, will ye? No rottin’, no buryin’—how’s
burnin’?”
Riala nodded slowly. “Fine.”
“Good ‘nuff,” Malaya said.
The otter grinned. “Well, that’s good then! Ye two go talk’n make up.
I’ll take care of this, mates.”
Malaya bounded for a nearby tree, calling over her shoulder, “Goin’
t’the drey, Ri! Catch me if ya can!”
Riala hung back, a rare concern flickering within. She looked close at
Kaylen before speaking. “I’m sorry about Onestrype… I know you were closer to
him than I.”
“Were?”
A shadow crossed the usually grinning face, and Kaylen’s paw tightened on the
dry firewood already collected for the makeshift pyre. “Yore talkin’ ‘bout him
like ‘e’s already dead. ‘E’s not.”
She winced at the harshness in the otter’s tone, backed off a step. “I’m
sorry,” she said again, helpless, sensing a chasm yawning between them,
breaking apart what was once friendship.
No answer. Kaylen turned away, jerked up another piece of wood with
sharp, tense movements.
Silent stillness, words tumbling incoherent about her mind, lodging in
her throat, unable to escape into the air. Riala’s mouth thinned into a tight
line, the mood shattered. Pride denied reconciliation and she whirled away
reaching a tree in three quick strides, vanished among the green in an
eyeblink.
Riala stopped by Wanderers headquarters on her way back to the drey and
came out with two cloth-wrapped bundles.
The unwieldy objects slowed her down somewhat, resulting in startouched
night by the time she reached the thorn-fenced drey.
She dropped into the drey on silent paws, glancing about for
Malaya. The young squirrel huddled on the
cot, tail held in one paw as if for comfort, a troubled cast to her face. Riala watched the sleeping squirrelmaid for
several long moments, an unreadable muddle of thought and emotion flicking
windquick across her scarred features.
Finally she leaned the bundles against the wall, changed into garments
free of blood, and started to climb into her own rumpled bed.
A soft whimper caused her to turn.
Malaya was curled into a tight ball, every muscle tensed, quivering
against the assault of nightmares. Riala
hesitated, unsure what to do, and then a soft cry against some dreamed or
remembered pain escaped the youngling’s mouth.
It broke the older squirrel’s reservations.
“Malaya… Aya, hush… shh…” One calloused paw touched the squirrelmaid’s
shoulder, shook her gently. “It’s over, it’s all right, just a dream…”
Maybe Malaya heard her or maybe the touch stirred her close enough to
consciousness to break free of the nightmare.
She stilled, sighed out a long breath, and relaxed.
Riala waited until the squirrelmaid’s breathing grew long and deep, the
sign she’d sunk into dreamless sleep.
Only then did she climb into her own blanket nest on the floor and let a
light sleep overtake her mind.
The creak of wood beneath light paws drew Riala to consciousness at
once. Her senses reached out, funneled
information into her waking mind. Sunlight,
birds—morning. No scent but
squirrel—Malaya. Awake? Slits of gold-brown peered out from
behind cracked lids to see shadows playing on the walls and a thin bush-tailed
form tip-pawing oto the bundles in the corners of the drey. Riala’s mouth quirked up in the barest hint
of a smile at the sight.
A gasp and the gleam of dawnlight on bared steel announced Malaya’s
discovery of one bundle’s contents.
Riala chuckled and sat up, chin on knees, watching with an amused glint
to her gaze. “Nosy, are we?”
The squirrelmaid yelped and nearly dropped the sword. Guilt flooded her face as she replaced the
weapon, turned to Riala with downcast eyes. “I, um… well…”
“You were curious. Nothing wrong
with that.” The older squirrel crossed the room in two short strides, unwrapped
the sword completely. “It’s a rapier,” she said, balancing it on both paws,
displaying the thin length and intricate basket hilt. “About the right length
for you… not excellent quality but it’ll do.
I can teach you to wield it properly and defend yourself well enough,
but the blade’s not my weapon—you’ll have to learn finesse from other Wanderers.”
Malaya’s eyes grew big as dinner plates. “It’s fer me?” she
squeaked.
“Aye. Here, put it on.” Riala
sheathed the rapier and handed the scabbard it hung on to the squirrelmaid.
“You ought to have a long range weapon as well, though. My roce’s my preferred weapon but my
dagger’s saved my life more than once.” She unwrapped the second bundle: a
short bow and a quiverful of green fletched arrows.
It didn’t seem possible that Malaya’s eyes could get any wider but
somehow they did, shining with delight as she stared from sword to bow to
quiver and back again. “I… it’s…” A grin split her face from ear to tufted ear.
“Thanks!”
A wry smile twisted its way across Riala’s features. “You won’t be
thanking me tonight. We’re going to work.”
“I don’t mind!”
“Good. Because the first lesson
is that you put that sword on wrong.”
Riala waited while Malaya sheepishly switched the scabbard around, then
handed her a stick carved to the same dimensions of the rapier. She took up her own practice sword and
nodded to the younger squirrel. “Let’s go.”
They trained until the squirrelmaid could barely hold the practice
sword, and then they trained some more. Malaya proved a quick learner,
uncomplaining and diligent through the ensuing days of constant activity.
Riala received no mission assignments save patrols, so she was able to devote
her time to teaching Malaya swordplay, archery, and woodlore. The poor
youngling fell into bed each night half dead from exhaustion but there was a
benefit to the hard work: there were no more nightmares.
Onestrype hung stubbornly to life. He remained in a perpetual
slumber, soup poured down his throat to keep him from starvation. It
became a constant question among the concerned Wanderers: “Any news of
Onestrype?”
Perhaps that was why Riala pushed Malaya so hard, why she wrapped herself
up in the role of trainer, avoiding Redwall at all costs, only checking in at
Wanderer headquarters when she had to. The physical rigmarole kept her
mind off of wounded Wanderers and broken friendships and wolverines.
Then the relative quiet ended with a single patrol.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”
Riala’s voice was deliberately, obnoxiously cheerful, one footpaw
prodding Malaya to reluctant consciousness. The squirrelmaid groaned,
pulled the blankets over her head only to have them yanked off.
“Patrol time, youngling. Up!”
Malaya groaned again and slumped back to a sitting position. “Yer a
torturer, Ri.”
“Torturer? Me?” Riala was all offended innocence. “I let you sleep
late, slugabed. It’s already dawn.”
The squirrelmaid favored Riala with a grumpy glare. “Yer ridiculous when
ya try t’be innocent.”
“Sorry.” Riala’s tone was anything but apologetic. “Come, get ready and
let’s go.”
Still grumbling, Malaya struggled into a tunic, buckled on her rapier,
and slung her bow and quiver across her back. “Where’re we goin’?”
“Usual patrol route,” Riala said, climbing out of the drey to the outer
limbs of the widespread oak. Malaya caught up with a burst of speed,
gradually waking to her normal energetic self.
“What ‘bout breakfast?”
“What about it?”
The squirrelmaid blinked. “Ain’t we gonna have it?”
“I already did. You slept in.” Riala grinned at the string of
protests that met that announcement. “You know some woodlore. Shouldn’t
be too hard to find your own.”
That drew a second protest and a groan. “Another test?” Riala
didn’t answer, leaving Malaya with no option but to sigh and start looking for
food among the late spring boughs.
The morning wore to noon with nothing out of the ordinary. The two
squirrels dropped by a few small woodland dwellings, asked if everything was
normal, nothing unusual or potentially dangerous.
“Oh, no, everything is perfectly fine,” the father of a rabbit family
said, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief.
“Yes dear, but do remember that stoat creature,” his wife reminded him.
Riala’s ears pricked with interest. “A stoat?”
“Oh yes, nasty creatures, those. A female, I believe, but ‘tis
hard to tell with vermin, you know. T’was a bit that way.” He
pointed down an overgrown path.
“Was she alone?” Riala asked, gaze intent. “Armed? Anything
unusual beyond that she was a stoat?”
The rabbit’s long ears flicked back as he thought on it. “Hm… had a
sword like your young friend there, she did.” He nodded to Malaya’s rapier.
“Alone, yes, I believe so. And, ah… hm… yes, odd clothing too. Very
dark.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Yes, of course.” He sniffed, dabbed at his nose once more. “Rather
dirty thing, t’was probably black once. The oddest part was the design on
the front, some sort of whitish symbol. It appeared to be claws, though
they were rather long… Oh dear, is something the matter?”
He stared in concern at Riala’s suddenly wide eyes, clenched paws, and
laid-back ears. “Longclaws…”
Malaya, silent till now, jerked at the name, mouth agape. The
rabbit was oblivious. “Yes, that is what I said—long claws.
Wait—where are you—“
“Thank you you were very helpful farewell!” Malaya gasped out as Riala
raced up a nearby tree without a word. The youngling charged up after the
older squirrel, leaving the two rabbits blinking in confusion.
“Rude,” the mother rabbit said.
“Quite,” the father agreed. “The silly beasts didn’t even stay for tea.”
“Riala, wait up!”
The older squirrel slowed in her breakneck dash through the treetops,
glaring at Malaya impatiently. “Keep it
down,” she growled.
Malaya didn’t even flinch. “Yer gonna do somethin’ crazy, aintcha?”
“I’m going to get some answers.” Riala turned and took off again. Malaya followed with an exasperated sigh.
“What are ya gonna do t’do that, huh?” she asked.
Riala’s face went cold and still and dark. “I’ll know when I find this
stoat.”
A shiver rippled through the squirrelmaid’s thin frame. “Ri, promise me
ya won’t do anything crazy. Like…
killin’ ‘er afore ya know if she’s good’re bad.”
Silence, winter frigid. “I can’t promise anything.”
A crackle in the brush below cut off any further argument. Riala stopped, stared intently at the
ground, gold-brown gaze seeking the sound’s source. A light pawstep and a stoat stepped into view. She wore a black tunic over ginger fur, both
stained brown with travel dust. A
finely crafted rapier hung at her side and she moved with the fluid ease of a
lifelong bladebeast, but exhaustion showed in hunched shoulders and drooping
ears.
“Malaya.”
Riala’s voice was barely audible even as close as she was to the
squirrelmaid. Malaya leaned in even
nearer, nightoak eyes questioning and concerned.
“Leave. Go back to the drey.”
“I wanna help—“
“I have to do this alone.”
The squirrel’s steel gaze and cold tone brooked no room for
argument. Malaya sighed, nodded
reluctant assent. “Be careful…” And she disappeared among the leaves.
Riala waited, working her roce free of her belt, seemingly relaxed now
that it was time to act. Emotion
vanished, leaving only a chill sense of purpose to govern motion. The stoat moved a little closer, every
muscle tense, perhaps feeling Riala’s sharp gaze on her. Closer still, and Riala dropped from the
tree like a hawk diving for prey, roce swinging down for the stoat’s head.
Some sixth sense or perhaps the rustle of foliage as Riala brushed by it
alerted the stoat. She fell before the
squirrel could touch her, rolled to the side as the stick smashed into her
shoulder, came up with rapier gleaming in her other paw. Riala didn’t waste time cursing the miss,
let out a length of cord instead, whirling her roce until it whistled in the
breezy spring air.
The stoat crouched, rapier held in an expert paw, one arm hanging limp
at her side. “I don’t mean any—“
Riala wasn’t interested in conversation. She let the stick fly, watched
the force of it wrap the cord around the stoat’s legs and then she yanked the
stoat’s footpaws out from under her, all in the blink of a gold-brown eye. The stoat hissed in pain as she fell on her
injured shoulder, hacked at the taut cord with her rapier but Riala was on her,
dagger flashing in the greengold forest light.
The blade bit into the stoat’s sword paw, forcing her to drop the blade
and then one scarred red-brown paw pressed down on the stoat’s white throat.
“Now…” The squirrel’s eyes glinted cold vicious red, teeth baring in a
feral grin. “Let’s get some answers, aye?”
“What… do you mean?”
“You’re one of Longclaws’ horde,” Riala said with a growling edge to her
words.
The stoat flinched. “I… was…”
A sneer slashed its way across the squirrel’s scarred face and her paw
pressed a little harder on the stoat’s throat. “Don’t try lying to save your
mangy hide, scum! Where’s the
Longclaws’ horde?”
“I… don’t know…” she gasped past the pain and the crushing paw.
Riala’s dagger paw jerked up, light glinted on steel and the stoat’s ear
lay on the ground. Shock stilled pain
for one moment then faltered, elicting a scream cut off sharply by a paw’s
renewed pressure. The squirrel held her
paw on the stoat’s throat for a few seconds longer, a silent warning, then let
off the pressure. She waited for the
stoat to regain her breath in sobbing gasps.
“I warned ye not tae lie, stoat,” she hissed. “Where is the
wolverine?”
“Southlands… when I left—last season.
I swear… I don’t know!” Panic crept into the stoat’s voice and the fear
in her wild gaze could not be feigned.
Riala nodded slightly. “Where were they headed?”
“Some castle… otters and squirrels… Southblade, something… like that.”
“How many in the horde?”
The stoat shrugged weakly, bit her lip hard as her injured shoulder
shifted. “Not… too many. Five score…
maybe.”
“Captains?”
“Five…”
She was fading, pain dragging her to unconsciousness. Riala kicked the stoat’s side, kicked again
when she didn’t respond. The stoat
hissed out a tortured breath, teeth gritted. “…awake…”
“Good. I need names. Abilities.”
The stoat inhaled shakily. “Veneno.
Fox. Poisoner. Uses it on everything. Scythe in battle. Thinks he’s… death.” Even through her pain the disgust showed
clear in narrowed eyes.
“The others?”
“Astarte Darkmoon.” Something akin to hatred twisted the name into
filth. “Stoat… She uses… saber and dagger.
Power-hungry.”
She paused to grab a firmer grip on consciousness, drew in
another deep breath. “Deathcry… ferret archer… sadist. Stormsong… weasel…
bard… healer… scout leader.”
The stoat fell silent, eyelids drooping, ragged breath rattling deeper. Riala cuffed her to consciousness again. “You said five captains, stoat. I count four. Who’s the fifth?”
“Can’t…” It was as whimper, a whisper, pain and fear and a hopeless defiance all in the one word.
The dagger dropped point-first into the stoat’s uninjured shoulder. Her scream was choked off by an iron paw about her muzzle, the dagger yanked out. “I… can’t…” she sobbed, voice barely audible. “…promised…”
“Since when do vermin keep oaths?” Riala snarled. “What’s going to happen if you tell? If this captain threatened torture or death, it’s no worse than what I can do to you. Tell me, scum!”
Tears beaded at the corners of squeezed-shut eyes. “…no…”
Riala’s face grew northland cold, devoid of emotion. She let the dagger drop again, into the leg this time. Another scream, again cut short, and again the stoat refused to speak. The second ear fell to the ground. A finger followed, then another…
“…no more…”
Riala stopped at the gasping sob, waited for her answer. “You’ll tell me?”
Pain, more than just physical, contorted the ravaged face. “…yes…” Self-loathing coated the reluctant agreement and the one unharmed paw curled into a fist. “…Kiern… stoat… blade… Longclaws’ guard… favored captain… elite…”
She was fading once more, eyes glazing over, teeth bared against pain and death. Riala touched the dagger to the stoat’s throat, ready to release her from the agony, but a whisper of sound from the bloodstained mouth gave her pause.
“Kiern… I’m so… sorry…”
A sighing breath rattling past a blood-choked throat, and then silence. Riala looked at the stoat’s corpse coldly, took her dagger from the unmarred throat, plunged it into loam to clean it.
“Hellsteeth…”
A stunned shocked whisper whipped the squirrel’s head around to see Shadow de Vulpes, one paw on a tree trunk as if for support, emerald gaze wide and staring.
Riala’s eyes went colder still, hardening against the loathing she knew the fox would feel for her. “Did Malaya send you?” she asked, quiet and chill.
The blank stare shifted with difficulty to the squirrel, remained there for an eternal silent moment. “You did…this?”
“Aye.” Simple, unflinching.
A shiver rippled across the fox’s lean form, revulsion evident in the tension of every muscle. “You know this means you’re no longer a Wanderer.”
“I know.” Regret flickered, cracking through the ice, then froze to stillness. “I’m leaving Mossflower tonight. Resuming my hunt for the wolverine Nightdeath.”
Shadow nodded, turned back to the mutilated corpse, swallowed hard. “Better burn this before Malaya comes…”
“Aye.” Riala bent to gather wood for a pyre. After one long moment, Shadow leaned down to help.
It was dusk by the time the body
burned to ash. Shadow had long since departed, likely to report to
Brook. Riala remained, standing vigil over the pyre, feeling some sort of
obligation to the hordebeast she’d killed. Strange, that. She was one
of the Longclaws’s… no reason I should do this… but she couldn’t forget the
stoat’s final words, the sadness in her voice.
“Kiern… I’m so… sorry…”
…Strange.
Riala kicked dirt over the ashes and brushed leaves and twigs over the dirt until it was impossible to tell a fire had ever been there. She picked up the stoat’s rapier, tested the balance, nodded in satisfaction. A good weapon; she’d drop it off in the Wanderers’ armory when she gave Brook her resignation.
She touched the wooden insignia at her throat, unclipped it reluctantly. I’m going to miss this. Mossflower. Redwall. Her drey. The woodlanders. The Wanderers.
She shook her head, a sudden anger
flaring within. No time for sentiment, Riala! No room for
sentiment. You can never come back, not now. Get over it—you have a
wolverine to hunt.
The squirrel climbed to the forest canopy, slowly heading for Wanderers’ headquarters. It didn’t take long to reach the widespread oak, and Riala dropped into the disguised treehouse without a moment’s hesitation.
Brook was waiting inside.
The squirrel nodded slowly at the sight of the gimlet gaze and the expressionless face, resigned to the inevitable. She knows.
“Report.” The mouse’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and demanding.
Another slight nod. So this is how it is to be… “I found a stoat in the livery of the wolverine Nightdeath Longclaws while on patrol,” she said, keeping her voice even and neutral. “I sent the squirrelmaid Malaya away from the scene, then engaged the stoat in combat through ambush. I disarmed her and interrogated her through use of force. After yielding what information I needed about the wolverine’s whereabouts and horde, the stoat died from amassed injured. The vixen Shadow de Vulpes came upon me then and aided in the disposal of the body.”
“I see.” Brook’s words were calm and flat, but her eyes were winter cold. “You attacked an unknown outsider without investigating purpose, gaining permission, or announcing your presence. You tortured the stoat to death. You burned the body.”
Riala didn’t flinch. “Aye, I did.” She set her rank insignia on the desk, wood clicking on wood. “I told you I’d leave the Wanderers when I found news of the Longclaws’ whereabouts. I have, so I’m resigning.”
The quiet calm of her voice sparked fury in the Wanderers’ leader. Brook stood, paws slamming down hard on the oaken table. “Hellsgates, Riala, you tortured somebeast to death! Don’t you feel anything?”
“…No.”
“You…” The mouse glared, one paw clenching and unclenching convulsively. “What manner of beast are you?”
Riala gazed down at the latticed floor, the patterns drawing her eyes
along one gray strand in a network of browns, transfixed. “I’m not sure I
know…”
Brook hissed out a curse. “Are you a vermin that you don’t even care what you do to get what you want?”
“No!” That provoked a response at last, anger and denial and even a touch, oddly enough, of fear. Riala met Brook’s gaze for the first time since she’d entered the room. “I don’t enslave. I don’t kill younglings. I don’t interfere in duels or have half a score archers kill my enemy if he begins to get the better of me!”
“No, you don’t do that.” Brook’s voice was all ice now, former fire turned to winter hail. “You only attack creatures unawares. You only torture them to death. You only kill without thought for if your victim might not be evil.”
The squirrel turned away, fighting for calm. “You stop to see things from an enemy’s view, you can’t kill him. You hesitate, you die. I can’t think of what vermin feel. I can’t afford to.”
“At least you could have honor!”
“Honor!” Her calm shattered irretrievably, each shard drawing fury to the surface. She whirled, ears pinned back, paws clenched into tight fists. “Honor is a weakness when fighting against the honorless! It’s useless. Deadly. It killed my father, and I’m not making the same mistake!”
Disgust filled the mouse’s dark eyes. “Then you’re no better than the vermin you hate.”
Riala’s paw clenched tight on the hilt of her dagger, eyes narrowing to furious slits. Brook waited, silent, seemingly calm but with every muscle tensed for action, and her sword close at paw. A long moment passed, tension stretching into eternity, and then the squirrel forced her paw to let go of the weapon. She turned to go, paused a step from the exit. Words spun in her mind—apologies, thank yous, retorts, farewells. Yet she clamped her mouth on speech, settling for silence, and stepped from the Wanderers headquarters into the embrace of night.
Riala paused on the south path,
gazing over her shoulder at the nightshadowed forest and the sunrise red form
of Redwall behind her. What am I waiting for? The thought was a whisper
in her mind as she stared at the abbey, at Mossflower, fixing it in her memory.
I can’t go back. Didn’t say goodbye to Malaya but that might be for
the best; she probably thinks I’m no better than a wolverine too.
Bitterness shadowed the scarred face, yet she could not turn away. Nothing
left to do here; Malaya will take care of the drey, I don’t need anything from
it. I’m finally doing what I wanted to do, continuing my vengeance
quest. I should be glad.
…then why was she still standing as somebeast adder-tranced? Why did she feel like she was leaving a lifelong home?
Kaylen… I’m sorry. Thank
you for saving me.
Onestrype… get well.
Awake. Fight again.
Even Shadow… thank you for
teaching me. And understanding.
Riala closed her eyes as pain ate at her heart. It was best to leave this way. Goodbyes were too hard, and they didn’t accomplish much anyway. This was best. Truly best…
…stay free. I’ll miss you…
Riala drew in a deep breath and turned away at last. One scarred footpaw moved forward, then the other… step by step she forced herself down the path, to the south, to the Longclaws, until a shout stopped her in her tracks.
“I…” Riala stared, mouth open like a gasping fish. “You can’t come!” she protested at last.
“Why not?”
The squirrel’s jaw clenched and she averted her gaze. “You don’t want to come with me.”
Malaya’s head tilted questioningly. “Yes I do…”
“No, you don’t.” Riala spat the words out, voice growing chill. “I tortured that stoat. To death.”
“…oh.” A long silence from the squirrelmaid. Riala studied a blade of grass on the road as if it were the most fascinating object in existence, forcing herself not to look at Malaya. Finally, in a quiet voice, “…I’m coming with you anyway.”
A curse ripped from the squirrel’s throat. She whirled on the youngling, voice rising to a shout. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Malaya. I tortured somebeast to death! For information only!”
“I heard ya.” Malaya met Riala’s glare without flinching. “An’ I think it’s wrong. But I understand. If ya hadn’t killed th’ slavers, I woulda done th’ same t’them. But if I had th’ same chance now…” She shook her head. “I’d kill ‘em quick so’s they couldn’t enslave others, but it wouldn’t be f’r revenge. ‘Cos I don’t hate ‘em anymore, yannow? I’ve let go. You haven’t yet, that’s all. So ya do things outta hate that ya wouldn’t otherwise. But I think ya know it’s wrong.”
Riala looked away, unable to meet that calm, earnest gaze. She’d been expecting revulsion, loathing, anger, even hate… anything but understanding. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“So I c’n come?”
“No.” The squirrel’s eyes grew hard, fixed Malaya with a silent command to obey. “It’s too dangerous. You might be killed or captured.”
The squirrelmaid chuckled. “So might you.”
“That’s different.”
“Nope!” Malaya grinned. “Not different at all. Asides, ya can’t stop me. Ya can’t order me t’stay ‘cos yer no Wanderer anymore. Ya can’t force me t’stay ‘cos I’ll follow even if ya knock me out’re tie me up, an’ it’ll be safer f’r me if I’m not travelin’ alone, right?”
Riala’s resolve held up barely a moment under the youngling’s good logic and stubbornness. She sighed, glare softening into an almost-smile. “Very well, Aya. I suppose I ought to welcome company…”
“Good!” Malaya skipped ahead a few paces, tailbrush waving high in the air. “Let’s go huntin’!”
The squirrel has finally stopped following us.
Nightdeath Longclaws is dismissive of this news, unconcerned as always about
the lone squirrel that has been a thorn in the side of the Nighthunt for so
long. He says she is but one beast, that the stragglers she picks off were weak
and inattentive anyway and that nobeast should mourn the loss. Kill her on
sight, we’re ordered, but we’re not to go out of our way to hunt the
goldentailed treejumper.
I respect the Longclaws. He’s the best leader I’ve served under. Even
so, I think his judgment is too hasty or too blind when it comes to Goldentail…
after all, she saw her father slain at his paws, and if her harrying of our
forces is any indication of her hate, then she is dangerous. Creatures that
live for revenge don’t give up and don’t care for their own lives.
She will return. My hope is that she returns alone.
Kiern set his quill pen back in its holder, reading over the elegant
lettering with pinched brows. A nod, a quick shake of drying powder over the
wet ink, and he was done. He leaned back in his chair to stretch and survey the
inside of the tent.
It was a bit crowded for a soldier in a horde on the march, even
somewhat crowded for a captain like Kiern. One trunk’s metal lid yawned open to
reveal a stack of meticulously rolled scrolls. Another trunk held inks and
blank scrolls; a third contained a few rare, valued books and a host of maps. A
narrow cot lay shadowed against the tent wall, blankets tucked flawlessly neat
over the canvas. A plank of wood set upon two trunks served as a desk,
uncluttered and organized.
“Captain?”
A timid voice at the tent flap drew the stoat’s gaze to the entrance. He
sighed and straightened, brushing a fleck of dust from his immaculate black
uniform. “Come in, Skyfire.”
The flap swung open and a second stoat ducked into the tent. A stray
thread of her tunic caught on the flap, pulling the stoat to a halt. She
fumbled with the opening, trying to separate cloth from canvas. Kiern watched
her clumsy struggle for a moment before rising, biting back another sigh, and
pulling a knife from one polished black boot. One slice parted the thread in
two.
“Trouble, Skyfire?”
The stoat fem looked to the ground, shamefaced. “Srory…” She fingered
the loose thread nervously, tugging at it without realizing what she was doing.
Kiern pulled her paw from the offending thread, cut the strand off close
to the black tunic, then slipped the knife back into his boot. “You’ll need to
mend that.”
“Aye, I suppose.” The ginger red paw strayed towards the thread again.
Skyfire bit her lip at Kiern’s pointed glance and pulled her paw to the hilt of
her finely crafted rapier instead, fiddling with the burnished silver.
Kiern waited while the stoat fidgeted, stared about the impeccably clean
tent, fidgeted some more. “Did you need something, subcaptain?” he asked, mild
impatience touching his otherwise even tone.
“Oh!” Skyfire started and tugged at the message canister on her belt.
She handed it to Kiern with haste, ducking her head in apology. “From the
Longclaws.”
“Really… I wonder what he wants.” The stoat upended the canister, caught
the message that slid out. He scanned it quickly, expression growing grim.
“Wonderful,” he muttered, then looked up at his waiting subcaptain. “Tell the
Nightclaws to form up for escort duty. Make sure they are presentable, and you
need to get presentable too.” The light brown gaze raked across Skyfire’s
uniform and the dust from blade practice that obscured the white claw insignia
on the front of the black tunic.
Shame caused the stoat fem’s ears to droop and she nodded. “Yessir.”
“Dismissed.”
Kiern turned back to his desk and read the missive again, more carefully
this time. “Just wonderful…”
Captain Kiern of
the Nightclaws:
I have sent messages to the other captains to assemble the Nighthunt for
executions. Some of the offenders being punished were popular with members of
the horde. I shall need my personal guard about me for this event—form up your
Nightclaws in formal uniform and wait for me outside my tent.
-Nightdeath Longclaws
Who is it this time, I wonder?
The last execution had been only a week ago. Disgruntled hordebeasts,
tired of a meager season with too little plunder, started resentful muttering
rippling through the Nighthunt. Nightdeath dealt with it expertly, mercilessly,
executing the two ringleaders and immediately leading the horde south to the
warm rich lands there. The prospect of plunder and ease silenced the
dissention… so what could the reason for execution be now?
Kiern shook his head, mentally calling his meandering thoughts to order.
He tossed the missive in the fire and brushed imaginary ash from his uniform. Skyfire
should have the Nightclaws ready by now…
He gave his uniform one last look over, rubbed his paws free of ink with
a rag, and stepped into the sunlight.
There was his command, standing in crisp lines of four before his tent.
They came to attention as he passed, critical eye inspecting every uniform,
every bit of fur. Good… they are learning. Each hordebeast was clean,
their uniforms unwrinkled, any visible metal polished to a high gleam. Of all
the Nighthunt, the Nightclaws had to look as good as they fought. Their black
cloaks, fluid in the brisk wind, marked them as the Longclaws’ personal guard,
elite fighters and every one of them loyal to the wolverine and their captain.
Kiern stopped before the newest member of the Nightclaws, a wiry ferret
with a set of wicked throwing knives slung across his chest. “You. Swiftblade,
is it?” A nod from the recruit. “Your knife harness—it is not part of the
uniform.”
“Aye sir, that I ken.” Like many of the creatures in the wolverine’s horde,
the ferret spoke with a northland accent. “Ah dinnae be used tae drawin’ mae
knives from mae belt, an’ Ah sez tae maeself, ‘Ye canna be as good a guard if
ye must think tae draw steel,’ an’ so Ah wore th’ harness, saer.”
The stoat nodded. This Swiftblade had a good head on his shoulders—after
a bit more time in the Nightclaws there was a good chance he’d make subcaptain.
“Report to Subcaptain Skyfire after the executions for a more…decorous
harness.” He eyed the battered leather askance—it did not go well with the
black and white uniform.
“Aye, saer.”
The stoat captain turned, striding to the front of the unit. “There will
be more executions today,” he said, voice carrying to every ear without rising
to a shout. “We will be guarding the Longclaws closely. It will be the
Nighthunt that you must beware of today, not the woodlanders.” His sharp gaze
raked across the ranks. “Move out.”
They reached the Longclaws’ tent, marked as different from the other
tents by a black banner and nothing else. It was the same as any other tent in
the horde’s campground, no bigger or better. This refusal to allow himself
anything better than his horde earned the wolverine respect and loyalty, a far
stronger tie than fear.
At the call of “halt!” the Longclaws stepped from his tent to survey his
gathered guard. He was, if anything, more immaculate than Kiern, his thick
black fur marred only by the occasional battlescar, wickedly long claws
polished to a high gleam. He commanded respect merely by being, muscular
dark form towering head and soldiers above most of the hordebeasts, red-black
gaze piercing and riveting.
Nightdeath Longclaws was a born leader. The Nightclaws would willingly
give their lies for him. The Nighthunt, on the other claw, took a little more
convincing… They needed plunder to buy their tenuous loyalty. And where
loyalty was uncertain, force and fear were necessary to cement it.
“Fall in,” Kiern barked in the drawn out commands that sounded like
gibberish to the untrained ear. “Escort formation!”
The NIghtclaws formed up behind and around the wolverine, a living cloak
with Kiern at the Longclaws’ right shoulder and Skyfire to the left. They
followed grimfaced as their chief strode to the open area that served as
temporary parade grounds.
Kiern’s gaze flicked to the cart already set up as a stand for the
executions. Confusion stirred when he saw that nobeast was chained to its
sides, ready for the sword. Odd… what is the chief up to?
Movement form the Longclaws caught his wandering eye and he stopped at
the raised paw. “All halt!” he sang out, focusing on his leader.
Silence fell over the assembly, conversation and the rustle of idle
motion fading to nothing under the piercing stare of the wolverine. “You’ve
been called here today because of traitors in your midst,” Nightdeath said,
voice chill and flat. “Hordebeasts plotting to kill me and take my command.
Hordebeasts in high positions, no less…”
Oh… Kiern nodded,
slight and knowing. No real surprise, this. Nightdeath periodically eliminated
one or two captains or subcaptains, often those who were getting too ambitious.
It kept his captains in line and the turnover meant that nobeast had time to
grow secure enough to plot assassination. Kiern alone had held his position as
captaincy for several seasons; he was the only one the Longclaws trusted, if
any. He wasn’t at all expendable, and he intended to keep it that way.
The nervous rustling of motion at the Longclaws’ words subsided under
the wolverine’s ebony glare and he continued. “I do not tolerate dissention! You
swore to serve me when you joined the Nighthunt—every one of you! Any who
wishes to take back his oath may do so if they do so before me—and then they
must leave the horde with no more than they joined with. Any who breaks his
oath, and plots treachery, however…” That cold gaze seemed to pierce every
stare it met, past the body to the innermost dark secrets of the soul. “…they
can only leave the horde through hellgates. ”
The wolverine’s unnerving stare traveled across the four divisions,
settled on a fox with the white bars of a captain. “Captain Longbrush of the
Nightblood.”
The wiry tod stepped forward, features inscrutable though his flat amber
eyes held the merest hint of fear. “Aye sir?”
“What are the properties of belladona?"
The score of hordebeasts behind Longbrush, his entire command and all
trained assassins, stiffened at the name of the plant. The fox licked his lips
nervously, eyes darting side to side as if for a way out. "A poison,"
he said at last, one paw wandering to his stomach and the hint of nausea
crossing his angular features, "sore painful an' deadly."
"And how does it kill, captain?" The Longclaws's voice was
dangerously soft.
By now the assassins' captain was shaking uncontrollably as he spoke.
"First... dizziness. Dry mouth... heat... nausea - hellsteeth, ye
didna!"
"Continue, captain." Commanding. Cold.
Longbrush gripped his stomach with both hands, his face twisted with the
effort to hold back nausea. "...vomiting next. Blurred sight..." and
his eyes became unfocused as he recited the litany of symptoms, panic creeping
into his tone, "...faster heartbeat, agitation, raving... then weakness,
sleepiness, shortness of breath... death... " He doubled over,
convulsing in the throes of retching.
"Does it have a cure, my friend?" The words were an almost
verbal caress, the stroke of coils before the adder's bite.
Past chattering teeth and heaving stomach the fox managed to choke out a
weak "n-nay..."
White fangs showed in a parody of a grin. "Not a very good thing to
give to somebeast, is it, captain? A pity I learned of your plot before you
carried it out. And a pity you were so eager for breakfast this morning - you
consumed the very poison you planned for me. How... ironic."
"Tekhyl! Tekhyl of the Nightfangs!" The fox's eyes rolled wildly
and he pointed a quivering claw at a ferret in captain's uniform. "He told
me to do it! Said ye was a fool, a deceiver and would ne'er let any of us live
more'n a season're two.... hellsteeth, Longclaws, ye poisoner! Someday
ye'll trip up! Somebeast'll kill ye! Ye'll die, an' ye'll rot wi'out bein'
buried an' everybeast'll be celebratin'!"
His ranting deteriorated into nonsense, more and more ridiculous
accusations alternating with desperate pleading until it all dwindled into
silence, the shaking and retching slowed to trembling and he collapsed on the
ground, gasping for air. Sinking lower and lower to the earth, curling into a
miserable ball, eyes blinking shut and open, open and shut until they closed,
drifting to unconsciousness to lifelessness.
Nightdeath turned away from the body, ebon eyes turned hard as steel and
just as cold. His gaze traveled across the ranks, settled on the ferret that
Longbrush had accused.
“Captain Tekhyl of the Nightfangs.”
The name was a death knell, tolling a second time in the same day, and
the ferret’s face was grim as he stepped forward. He and his command were a
rough, seedy lot, each covered in scars, many missing ears or eyes or claws.
The Nightfangs were the toughest of the Nighthunt, the first to attack in battle
and the last to leave.
Nightdeath’s eyes narrowed. “You encouraged Longbrush. You plotted with
him to kill me. It was you who gave the assassin the idea of poisoning me in
the first place. Perhaps I ought to have slipped you belladona as well.”
Anger flared in the sable brown ferret’s eyes. “Mebbe I’d get te yew
afore it kicked in’ an’ I’d kill ye, mebbe that why you ain’t poisoned me, yew
bloody mangeclaws! Too scared te fight, poisoner?”
The taunts drew a spark of fury to the wolverine’s cold gaze, but outwardly
he remained unmoved. “Do you wish to try your blade on mine, captain?”
“If yer fool enough, aye!”
Nightdeath nodded, an almost imperceptible movement. “To the death,
then.”
A savage grin split the ferret’s scarred face. “Wouldn’t ‘ave it any
other way, tarface!” He stepped away from the ranks of hordebeasts and drew his
cutlass, the polished curving blade gleaming silver in the southland sun. “Been
waitin’ a long time fer this…”
The wolverine joined him in the open ground between his guard and the
Nighthunt but he didn’t yet unsheathe the longsword slung across his back.
Tekhyl sneered and pointed to the longsword with his cutlass. “Draw it, chief.”
A sardonic smile ghosted across the Longclaws’ face. “I do not need it
to defeat the likes of you."
“Yew mock me?” The ferret snarled and dropped to a fighting crouch.
“Yew’ll be too easy te kill!”
The wolverine let the tips of his fangs show in mocking challenge. “Kill
me then, ferret—if you can.”
“He’s mad!”
Kiern turned at the shocked whisper, raising an eyebrow at Skyfire’s
wide eyes. “Mad, subcaptain?”
She gulped at the mild reproof in his tone but explained nonetheless.
“Tekhyl’s not captain for nothing, sir. He’s an expert fighter. I’ve watched
him. He keeps in practice but I’ve never seen the chief fight except in
battle…”
“Is Tekhyl a better fighter than I?”
Surprise flickered across the stoat fem’s face, settling into
thoughtfulness. “No, he’s not as good as you…”
“I have never been able to defeat the Longclaws in a duel,” he said,
“and I do not believe he has ever used all his skill in our sparring sessions.”
Skyfire’s eyes widened even further and she turned back to the two
combatants. “This should be good then…”
The ferret slashed down with his cutlass for the wolverine’s shoulder.
There was a flicker of movement, impossibly fast and casually executed, and
Tekhyl stumbled forward as his blade cut only air. Nightdeath had stepped just
far enough to the side for the cutlass to pass by unrewarded by blood.
“Oh my,” the Longclaws said with mock startlement and false concern,
“did you trip? You really must watch out for those pesky rocks…”
A ripple of half-stifled laughter from the ranks provoked a snarl from
the ferret captain. He slashed to the side, angling up for the wolverine’s ribs
at the last moment. Long white claws flicked out, deflected the curved blade
aside.
“Ah, sorry, captain… it is not quite time for my manicure yet.”
Rage choked words in Tekhyl’s throat. He charged once more, feinted,
feinted again, then kicked out with his footpaw when the wolverine parried and
dodged both feints. He growled satisfaction as it connected with Nightdeath’s
gut. Wind forced from his lungs, the wolverine was distracted for a split
second and that was all that the ferret needed. His blade whistled in, Nightdeath’s
claws came up to parry, and a slight miscalculation brought forth a line of
blood along the wolverine’s ribs.
First blood.
Pain mingled with fury hissed from the Longclaws’ throat. His claws
lashed out, drew blood from Tekhyl’s shoulder. The ferret retaliated but
Nightdeath was ready. He dodged and slashed an identical wound on the captain’s
other shoulder, smiling infuriatingly though his eyes held all the rage of a
firestorm. For every failed attack on Tekhyl’s part, the wolverine gave the
ferret another deep claw wound.
The captain was flagging visibly after only a short period of time, face
contorted in pain, slashing weakly at the wolverine. Nightdeath stepped forward
and grasped Tekhyl’s sword paw, turned it till the cutlass lay against the ferret’s
throat.
“Don’t embarrass yourself any further,” the wolverine said with a wicked
gleam of fangs. “Just lean forward and you end this yourself.”
The hate in Tekhyl’s blood-soaked face was chilling to see. “I’ll wait for
yew in hellgates!” he spat, and jerked forward against the blade, jaws snapping
shut a hair’s breadth from Nightdeath’s throat.
The wolverine stepped back, disgust clear on his dark features. He let
go of his dead captain and the corpse fell to earth like a broken marionette.
Turning his back on the bloody mess, he pointed a red-stained claw at a ferret
the color of old blood.
“Subcaptain Deathcry of the Nightarms.”
The ferret’s eyes widened in stunned shock and she froze for a long
moment before stepping forward. “Sssir?” she said, wariness sounding strange in
her hissing voice.
“Where does your loyalty lie?”
Another surprised silence. “With ye, sssir…”
Nightdeath nodded slightly. “You are now the captain of the Nightarms.
Kill your previous captain in any way you wish.”
“Sssir?” Deathcry stared at him, disbelieving.
“You heard me, captain. Do it.”
A gleam came into the flat ebon eyes as the reality of the situation
dawned on the lean ferret. She turned to the now-demoted captain, a
seedy-looking weasel with dawning fear written in every tensed muscle. He
backed away before Deathcry’s wicked grin, staring wildly about.
“Chief, nay, don’t do this, ye know what she’ll do tae me…!”
“You are a spy, Chalgore,” the Longclaws said coldly, “and whatever
Captain Deathcry does to you is only what you deserve.”
He turned away as the new captain caught Chalgore and bound his paws
tight behind his back. “Subcaptain Astarte Darkmoon of the Nightfangs, you will
replace Tekhyl as captain. Subcaptain Veneno of the Nightblood, you will
replace Longbrush as captain. Be sure that you do not make the same mistakes
they did.”
The stoat fem and the tod fox nodded but could scarcely repress
triumphant grins. Nightdeath’s gaze raked across the ranks. “Astarte, have some
of your command clean up this mess. Stormsong, to my tent. Dismissed.”
He turned and headed for his tent as the Nightclaws fell in around him.
Kiern halted the Nightclaws just outside the Longclaws’ tent, waited
while Nightdeath and the captain of the Nighteyes, Stormsong, entered. The
stoat turned to Skyfire. “Choose twobeasts to guard the tent,” he said, “and
dismiss the rest.”
“But—“
He held up a paw to forestall the barrage of questions clear in her
eyes. “I’ll tell you what I can after I talk with the chief.”
The stoat fem started to say something, bit back the words, nodded.
“Yessir.”
With a nod in return, Kiern turned away and slipped into the Longclaws’
tent.
The wolverine was sitting on his cot, paw pressed tight to his side,
glaring at the patient Stormsong. “Just put a bandage on it tae stop th’
bleedin’,” he growled, dropping the cultured accentless diction he used around
the horde.
Despite the fact that Nightdeath could and would kill him in one
pawstroke, the cloud-gray weasel stood firm. “I sighted thine wound when it
happened, sir,” he said in his soft, musical voice. “’Tis deeper than thee
pretends, an’ if it be not cleansed, stitched, an’ bound, thee shalt not live
out the season.”
Nightdeath snarled his opinion of the healer-captain’s words in none-too-gentle
terms but complied, shrugging off his cloak with a wince. He glanced over to
the entrance as he did so, and at the silent flame-red figure waiting there.
“Aye, an’ ye can come in, cap’n. I s’pose ye ‘ave yer share o’ questions.”
Kiern nodded acknowledgement of Stormsong and saluted to the Longclaws,
eliciting another growl. “Naught o’ that, stoat. We be alone save f’r th’
healer-bard here. Hurry it up, weasel…”
“Thee must needs remove thy jerkin, sir,” Stormsong said mildly.
A silent show of fangs and the wolverine complied, stripping off the
garment to reveal a mess of scars and a deep gash along his rib cage. Stormsong
tsked, dipping clothes in a bowl of heated water and pressing them to the
wound.
Nightdeath glared at Kiern. “Don’t look so disapprovin’, stoat,” he
said, voice harsh. “Couldna show weakness afore th’ horde, ye ken that.”
The stoat’s face was a study in impassivity. “Yes, I know. I do not like
it, but I understand.”
“Good.” He hissed as Stormsong spread a yellowish paste on the wound and
transferred his glare to the healer. “Ach, bard! Be ye tryin’ tae heal me or
murder me?”
“This shalt prevent infection,” the weasel said, still calm. “May I
continue or must needs thee growl a mite longer?”
The Longclaws’ teeth bared in a feral grin. “Careful, cap’n… ye walk a
deadly path.”
Stormsong didn’t reply to that caution and Nightdeath turned back to
Kiern, one eyebrow raised in query. “Well, scribe? What be ye wantin’ tae ask?”
“Why kill three captains in a day?” Blunt, direct—Nightdeath did not
like dancing about a subject like duelists testing each other for weaknesses.
“Why indeed…” One flat ebony eye fixed Kiern with a scrutinizing stare.
“Treachery on th’ part o’ Longbrush an’ Tekhyl, like I said.”
“And Chalgore?”
A shrug, followed by a wince as the movement shifted the gash in his
side. “Things were comin’ tae a head between Chalgore an’ Deathcry. If I’d nae
stepped in we’d lose one’re t’other anyhow—thought I’d choose which tae die, ye
ken?”
Kiern grimaced. “But Deathcry? ” Revulsion was clear in his
expression and tone. “She’s…”
“…a sadist, an’ useful.” Nightdeath shook his head slowly. “Ye need tae
learn th’ use o’ creatures, e’en when they be repulsive. Her love o’ pain
controls her, an’ I c’n control her through it. She’s a good interrogator. An’
I just earned another notch o’ loyalty by givin’ her Chalgore.”
The distaste didn’t leave the stoat’s eyes. “Chalgore was a good
captain. He was no sadist, and yet he was still loyal to you…”
“Ye think tae high o’ Chalgore, cap’n,” Nightdeath said with a dry
chuckle. “I took Deathcry from a hordechief’s harem, didna that ye ken? An’
Chalgore abused his position, commanded her tae do more’n fight. She hates him
fer it, an’ that’s why she be so eager to kill him slow.”
The disgust Kiern felt must have shown because Nightdeath laughed. “Ye
be tae soft, Kiern. Tae honorable. These things happen in a horde; naught tae
do fer it. Next question?”
The stoat scowled, brief and dissatisfied, but the Longclaws had closed
the subject firmly. “Your choice of replacements,” he said. “A fox who thinks
he’s death and a…” He stopped, groping for a word to describe Astarte Darkmoon.
“whore?” Another dry laugh. “Dinnae look so shocked. ‘Tis what she be.
She also be a faine leader, good fighter, an’…” He grinned, fangs bared in
mischief, “…popular with her troops.”
Kiern snorted, letting out the expected snicker. “Good reasoning, but
what of Veneno?”
“Aye, th’ poisoner. He’s mad. He’ll drive his command tae th’ brink o’
mutiny within th’ season.”
“Ah…” Puzzlement overtook the stoat’s expression. “Would not that be
reason enough to keep him from captaincy?”
“Nay, nay.” The wolverine grinned at his captain’s confusion. “When I
replace him his command will be grateful an’ for more loyal tae me. ‘Tis
most important tae have assassins like th’ Nightblood with ye. Tae
dangerous tae have them against ye!”
“Thine herbs, chief. They shalt dull the pain of the needle.”
Nightdeath glared down at the slight gray weasel. “Th’ cream’s numbin’
enow, bard,” he growled. “I’ll not be drinkin’ who-ken-what herbs just tae
lighten some pain!”
Stormsong bowed his head in assent and drew a long needle from the fire.
“Thee must needs remain still, chief.”
“Er… sir?” Kiern glanced from the needle to the tent flap, unease
mingling poorly with his breakfast.
“Aye, aye, dismissed.”
The stoat saluted and hurried out of the tent as fast as dignity would
allow, Nightdeath’s dry laugh following him out.
“Kiern, there you are!”
The stoat froze at the sing-song call, the sultry voice. “Should not you
be with your command, Darkmoon?”
“They’re celebratin’ the leadership change—any cause for a party, you
know. Nobeast can really relax ‘round The Captain, so I thought I’d go lookin’
fer somethin’…else to do.”
Kiern sighed, exasperation heavy in the exhalation, and turned. The
ginger-red stoat fem smiled enticingly, one slim paw on a curvaceous hip. She
was attractive and knew it, sought constantly to use it to gain power and rank.
She’d even tailored her uniform to fit snugly about her lithe form. Yet she
wore the saber at her side with practiced ease, and an occasional scar showed
her experience in battle. A dangerous enemy, Astarte, but also an uneasy ally.
“What do you want?” Kiern asked, voice chill and dispassionate.
The hint of a pout formed on the fem’s unmarred face. “You’re always so
cold, captain.”
“At least I am no adder.” He turned to go, and most creatures would have
accepted the blatant dismissal.
Not Astarte. She strode smoothly to match his pace, watching him from
the corners of half-closed eyes. “Rude, aren’t you? Thought you were a
gentlebeast.”
The muscles in Kiern’s jaw twitched. “You have reached the highest rank
you can, captain. There is no reason to bother me any longer.”
“Oh, but there is…” She sidled up to him, far closer than Kiern found
comfortable. “Job security. You have it, as much as anybeast could—the chief trusts
you. He doesn’t trust anyone else.”
A growl rumbled from the stoat’s throat. “What makes you think I can do
anything about it?”
She blinked. “You could put in a good word fer me.”
“And the Longclaws would know you had some form of influence with me,
and he would lose trust in me, perhaps replace me. No, I would not do that.”
“Ah…” The hint of knowing triumph touched Astarte’s face in the form of
a small smile. “So the loyal captain of the guard has self-interest after all.”
She chuckled, low and rich. “I’ll ask you again when I find an option
advantageous to us both, hm? ‘Till then, Kiern.”
The stoat’s lip curled in distaste as Astarte sauntered off. “I will
never understand the Longclaws’ decisions…”
Kiern sank into his chair with a long, tension-dispelling sigh, pressing
the sides of his aching head with his paws. The orderliness of his tent was a
welcome respite from the chaos outside, and he could feel the stress melting
from his bones.
Somebeast rapped upon the tentpole. The stoat stifled a groan and
straightened in his seat, adjusted his uniform, smoothed his fur. Cannot
show weakness before the horde. Nightdeath’s maxim, drilled into Kiern from
the moment the wolverine had taken him in as a youngling. It was true, he knew
it was true, but sometimes he wished he cold just tell the world to leave him alone
rather than being the ever-ready captain of the guard…
“Enter,” he said, command and strength evident in his voice—no hint of
the exhaustion he felt.
Skyfire ducked into the tent, eyeing the flap warily, then moving to
stand before the makeshift desk that dominated the spotless tent. “Sir—you said
you’d explain…”
“Yes.” He nodded to another chair. “Sit.”
The stoat fem obeyed, watching him curiously. “So. Why did the chief do…
what he did today?”
With an inward sigh, Kiern leaned forward over the desk and explained
most of what he knew. He left out the parts he knew would weaken her loyalty to
the Longclaws—always the conscientious captain, I am… I not only guard his
person, I guard his reputation also.
His explanations dwindled to silence and he sat back in his chair,
watching Skyfire take the information in. She frowned, mulling it all over.
“So… Deathcry’s loyal to the chief because he took her from a hordechief’s
harem. Why do you follow him, then?”
A flicker of surprise blinked across Kiern’s face, then settled into the
far-off stare of memory’s grasp. “I was the son of a scribe before woodlanders
overran the fortress my parents worked at, killed the king and scattered the
rest of us. We—my sister and I, our parents had been separated from us in the
battle—we were found by slavers. We were fairly young… no use as allies but
quite useful as slaves.”
The stoat stopped, shook his head and came forcibly back to the present,
gaze clearing to sharp obsidian. “Nightdeath killed the slavers and took me in,
taught me how to fight, eventually made me the captain of the Nightclaws.”
He looked at last to the stoat fem and could too easily make out the
pity in her dark eyes. His jaw tightened and he turned away, staring hard at
the lines of elegant script on an open scroll until they blurred into
incomprehensity.
“What about your sister?” Soft, compassionate, and it was that very
compassion that curled Kiern’s paw into a tight fist, that pressed sharp claws
into callused pad.
“She was sold before Nightdeath freed me,” he said, harsher than he’d
intended, not looking up from the table.
Cloth rustled, Skyfire shifting position behind him, and her voice was a
shocked and pitying whisper when she spoke at last. “Oh, Kiern…”
A bite of pain reached his mind from his paw. He lifted it before him and
stared in unthinking fascination at the drops of blood forming rubies on his
clawtips, staining the punctured pad. Do not need anybeast’s pity…
Skyfire seemed ignorant of the tension raging within her captain. She took
a step forward, curiosity battling uncertainty. “Do you… do you know what
happened to her?”
A droplet of blood fell from one curving claw, traced a line of dark red
down his arm. “Why would I care?” and his voice was cold, hard. “She was only
my sister.”
Breath hissed sharply behind him—Skyfire, shocked at her captain’s
indifference. “Sir…?”
“I have answered enough of your questions, subcaptain.” Still as chill
as the northland snows. “You are dismissed.”
She hesitated. His voice rang out again, sharp and commanding. “Dismissed,
subcaptain!”
“Yessir!”
Quick pawsteps, the rustle of a tent flap. He stood silent for a long
moment, paws once more tensed into fists. Then he turned, collapsed into his
chair with a groan and let his head fall into finally opened paws. Ensnared in
the clutches of memory, he scarcely noticed and scarcely cared as his own blood
dripped down to ruin the painstakingly crafted parchment.
Night turned to day returned to night, moonless and clear. The stars
peered down at the only flame in the warm night, the fire lit tent in the
Nighthunt encampment.
The captains of the horde gathered within, informal and seemingly
relaxed as they waited their chief’s arrival. Astarte lounged across the floor
mat, watching the others with hooded eyes, all sultry invitation. The black
dogfox Veneno stood cloaked in shadow, whetstone rasping across his keen
scytheblade again and again, honing it to a deadly edge. Deathcry hunched apart
from the others, suspicion lurking in the red-tinged gaze as she chewed
absently on a thin bone. Stormsong spared them all barely a glance before
returning to his lute, adjusting a string here and there.
Kiern remained standing, situated near the entrance, motionless and
immaculate. I hate these councils, he thought, observing wary calculation in
every eye, sensing the tension like bared steel waiting for blood. None
trusting anybeast else, all seeking their own advancement.
Disgusting.
“So… Kiern.” Astarte’s smooth voice caressed the name between the
repetitive rasping of Veneno’s whetstone. “Any idea why th’ Longclaws called
this little circus?”
The stoat glanced to Stormsong. “I am not at liberty to tell you; the
chief will explain all when he arrives. I can tell you that it has to do
with a scout’s discovery.”
“Really…” Astarte turned her attention to the cloud-gray weasel, who
shot an irritated look at Kiern.
“I can tell thee nothing,” the healer-bard said, strumming a gentle
chord on the lute. He tilted his head, ears sifting the sounds, and tightened a
gleaming string. “Surely thou hath the patience to wait for the chief’s
arrival. It cannot be long.”
The Nightfangs’ captain rose to her footpaws in a single fluid motion
and sidled over to Stormsong. “Come, come, captain… it’s really not fair that
you an’ Kiern know but th’ rest of us don’t. You can tell me, can’t you?” Her
paw brushed moth-soft across the weasel’s shoulders and Stormsong stiffened
beneath the touch, every muscle tensing. “Remove thy paw, Darkmoon,” and his
usually soft voice was as taut as his lithe form.
She blinked, hesitated. “Is… something wrong, bard?”
“Remove. Thy. Paw. I hath no interest in thine kind. Thou be
repulsive, flaunting thyself to any an’ all.”
A dark anger flashed in the stoat fem’s eyes and she pulled away, turned
from liquid and languorous to sharp fury in an instant. “You captains’re all
alike, aren’t you? You an’ Kiern. Too good fer pleasure, so proud of yer
abstinence, so disdainful of somebeast who uses what she has t’get what
she wants.” She glared at both stoat and weasel, dark eyes bright with
indignation, slender paws curled into fists, and then the anger seemed to drain
away to leave her with only fragility and a still-alluring dejection. She
turned the force of that wounded helplessness on the assassin-captain Veneno,
slinking up to him and laying a ginger-red paw on his black fur. “D’you hate me
too, Captain Veneno?” she asked, somehow managing to mix a purr with a pout.
The fox blinked, eerie amber gaze flicking from Astarte to Stormsong to
Kiern and back again. “I… nay,” he said at last, a slow smile touching his dark
face. “Death hates nobeast.”
A low laugh, throaty and rich. “Then maybe you’ll show me what Death can
do, after this meeting?”
Kiern’s lip curled in disgust and he turned away, wishing the Longclaws
would hurry. I will not be able to take more of this without slicing out
that whore’s tongue…
“Will ye jussst shut yer flamin’ jawsss, Darkmoon?”
Astarte smirked, leaning against Veneno and glancing at the blood-red
ferret in the shadows from the corner of her eye. “Why, Deathcry, what’s the
matter?”
The ferret pulled the bone out of her mouth and pointed it at the stoat
fem. “Ye be disgussstin’. There be other waysss tae gain th’ power ye love ssso
much.”
“Really.” Astarte’s gase sharpened, gained a vicious light. “Yer one
t’talk, aren’t you? Only reason yer a captain now’s because ol’ Chalgore liked
yer…skills…”
Deathcry snarled and bit hard into the bone. It splintered into two
jagged halves that she held up, death dancing in her eyes, fangs bared in a feral
parody of a smile. “Thisss be what’sss left o’ dear Chalgore,”
she hissed. “He ssscreamed right tae th’ moment he died—an’ it took an age fer
th’ ssscum tae die. That be hisss reward for making me sssubcaptain!”
“I see.” A smirk touched Astarte’s face. “Yer a spider then. Have th’
male before you devour him…”
The ferret moved with lightning speed, both sharp ends of bone pressed
at Astarte’s pale throat like twin fangs. “Ye call me a ssspider, whore? E’er
felt a spider’sss bite?”
“Enough.”
Deathcry locked glares with Astarte a moment longer before breaking away
and biting down on a piece of bone once more. She didn’t look up as Nightdeath
followed his chill voice into the tent, ebon stare touching every captain
within.
“Astarte. Play your games outside the tent, on your own
time,” the wolverine said, frigid as the northland snow.
Rebellion flickered, a slight twisting of the mouth, then vanished and
Astarte stepped away from the silent Veneno, returned to the other end of the
tent. “Yes sir.”
The Longclaws waited as his captains turned their full attention on him,
then nodded slightly. "One of Stormsong's scouts has reported a small
armed group of woodlanders half a day's march to the south, directly in our
path," he began in his typical blunt manner. "We could go around them
but some of the horde are getting restless, and so a fight would likely improve
morale. Captain Darkmoon, your command is the most impatient for battle,
correct?"
"Yes sir. They edge towards rebellion if they go too long without a
battle."
"The Nightfangs will be the first into battle, then." The
wolverine's dark gaze flicked to Deathcry. "What of the Nightarms?"
She shrugged. "They be missssile beasssts. Lessss warhungry than
many. Ussse usss if needed but it isss not neccessssary for morale."
A nod, and his attention turned to Veneno. "Your assassins?"
"Aye. The Nightblood are hungry for the killing, and I am starved
for death." The fox ran his tongue along the sharpened scytheblade,
grinned in malicious anticipation. "As is my blade..."
Kiern's nose wrinkled in mild disgust but he wiped the look clean in an
instant, returned to impassivity as Nightdeath turned the topic to the tactics
in the upcoming skirmish. All five captains leaned in, turned serious and
thoughtful in the flurry of discussion and orders and strategy as the night
wore on to dawn.
“‘Round ‘bout sunset, Ashwood.”
The graying squirrel squinted into the glare of the day’s last light,
then turned his attention to the burly salt-pepper hedgehog standing nearby.
“Set up camp now or try for the plains?”
His companion hmphed at the thought. “Safer te make camp. We don’t be
the only creatures in these parts. Scouts reported seein’ some vermin.”
“I suppose.” The squirrel shrugged and shouldered his longbow. “Well,
I’d best tell the others we’re stopping here…”
By the time the gray of dusk had given way to a cloud-strewn night, a
full twoscore of bedrolls were laid out by merrily blazing campfires, and the
first few sentries stood about the camp of woodlanders with a sleepy sort of
vigilance.
None of the sentries managed to sight the inky forms within the
almost-black of treeshadow. And amidst the rustle of the autumn breeze through
dying lives, nobeast noticed a puff of air from the forest’s edge.
“Ow!”
The mousemaid Springfern clamped a paw to her neck, wincing as she let
out the involuntary yelp. A passing hare sentry paused at the sound, long ears
tilting her way. “Somethin’ the mattah, Fern-me-spring?”
Springfern’s paw remained pressed tight to the side of her neck. “Nay, jus’
a beesting, I…” Abruptly she stiffened and, with excruciating slowness, toppled
to the ground.
“I say!” the hare exclaimed, bounding to her side with two long strides.
“That doesn’t look quite like a bally sting, m’gel!” He crouched by the fallen
mouse, paw moving hers aside until he could see the brown feather protruding
from Fernspring’s fur, and his eyes widened. “That’s…urk!“
The hare arched backwards as a dagger thudded into his back, and then
black-clad figures swarmed past him into the sleeping camp with all the noise
of an owl on the hunt.
Muddclaw was bored.
He crept up behind yet another half-awake sentry and ended the stupid
squirrel's shift with a single knife thrust, then eyed the other shadowy figures
on the outskirts of the camp with a sullen air. It was no fun sneaking around
killing the unwary. Maybe it was for assassins like the Nightblood but he wore
the red gloves of the Nightfangs. He wanted battle!
A notion tickled the fringes of his mind and he paused, nibbling on the
bloodstained tip of his longknife. If somebeast screamed in pain because a
hordebeast didn't manage to kill on the first strike... that would
probably wake up the camp, wouldn't it?
Muddclaw grinned and slunk his way to the next unsuspecting sentry. Oh,
fun indeed. He hated hedgehogs.
An agonized cry split the forest air as Muddclaw's knife hit home, but
the hedgehog sentry was no amateur at battle... He whirled with speed
unexpected for such a large and wounded creature, and the surprised Muddclaw
never had time to dodge the axe that split his skull in two.
Ashwood leapt out of his bedroll at the scream, impatiently kicked away
entangling cloth, and strung his longbow as he peered into the darkness. The
squirrel’s sharp gaze picked out still, shadowed forms lying where sentries
once stood, and his nose twitched at the scent of blood.
“We’re under attack!”
A familiar voice bellowed the cry from Ashwood’s shoulder, startlement
whirling the squirrel about and into a fighting crouch before he could process
the sight before him. It was the hedgehog, blood dripping from his axe, eyes
alight with battlerage, tunic stained dark red.
“What--where--“ The graying squirrel’s sleepfogged mind tried to process
all the sights and scents and sounds, sluggish from the abrupt awakening.
The hedgehog spun Ashwood around to face a scowling, black-garbed rat
charging from the edge of the camp. “That’s what! Get ‘im, treejumper!”
Instinct sent the squirrel’s paw to his quiver without a moment of hesitation.
Slide an arrow free, send it to the bowstring, draw and release. A thud, a
scream, and the rat spun to the ground. A cold, still calm settled over the
archer as he sought out attacker after attacker, shut out all but his target
and the line of sight down each straight arrowshaft. Death’s feathered heralds
hissed through the midnight air from steady paws, and vermin began to fall.
“Heh…looks like we’ve been found out,” Astarte said with a throaty
chuckle, fondling the saber at her side. She glanced sidelong at the shadowy
form of Veneno. “Ready for some fun, Death?”
The flat amber eyes flicked her way, then took in the sight of yelling
woodlanders rallying to the defense. Fangs gleamed in a feral grin, chill as
hellgates. “Aye…let us send these foolbeast to my kingdom.” A laugh, empty and
eerie amidst screams and warcries, and Veneno leapt into the midst of the
woodlanders, scythe glittering in the light of the impassive moon, dark hood
shading his face like the very spectre of death.
Astarte laughed then, too, saber sliding free of its sheath with the
slithering scrape of Dark Forest’s call. “This fox might be mad,” she murmured
to her bloodthirsty blade, “but he still speaks my tongue…”
“Niiiiightfaaaaangs!” she yelled, and twoscore gleaming pairs of eyes
turned her way. “Attaaaaaaack!”
The answering roar from the camp’s surroundings thundered dark across
the clear sky, a vermin storm in the autumn night.
Kiern watched the battle from the cover of night-draped trees, black
cloak wrapped close about his lithe form, hood lifted to shade his face.
Near-invisible at his side was an ink-dark figure, imposingly tall next to the
lighter built stoat.
“The battle goes well, captain.”
The Nightclaws captain glanced over to the wolverine, then to the chaos
of the erupting battle. “More of a massacre, chief. They are no match for the
Nightblood and the Nightfangs.”
A chuckle from the Longclaws. “Aye… that is true enough.” His cloak
rustled with the shifting of his powerful frame, and he pulled his hood back to
reveal a mirthless smile, fangs gleaming pale in the night. “Go tell Darkmoon
and Veneno to take a few woodlanders alive. Preferably fighters, if it is
possible…and younglings as well.”
Kiern’s gaze sharpened, narrowed, probed Nightdeath’s impassive face for
a long moment. “May I ask why, sir?” he asked at last, keeping his voice
carefully neutral.
A grin. “Oh no, it is not for slavery… merely the usual. Recruition.”
“Oh yes…” A slow nod, but the stoat’s eyes still held a troubled shadow.
“Very well.” He turned back to the battle, drew his saber, and crept down to
the woodlander camp like a wildcat on the prowl.
It wasn’t difficult to find the captain of the Nightblood. All Kiern had
to do was follow the crazed, empty laughter that rasped above the clash of
blades and screams of the dying. The stoat wove in and out of the individual
skirmishes, stepping lightly over groaning wounded, dark gaze seeking the
bloodied gleam of a scythe and the flash of amber in midnight fur.
Laughter echoed in his ear and he whirled, focused on the eerie spectre
that was the fox. “Veneno!”
Though Kiern shouted the name above the din of battle, the assassin
didn’t seem to hear. Kiern grimaced and made his way to the insane fox, stepped
inside the reach of the whirling scythe, blocked the haft with a gloved paw.
“Veneno!” he shouted, in the captain’s face this time, and a hint of
sanity returned to the flat amber gaze.
“What do you want?” Veneno snapped, jerking his scythe free.
Kiern’s ears flattened momentarily against his head but he forced them
to relax. “Orders from the Longclaws. Capture some fighters alive. And some
younglings.”
A snarl from the black fox. “Death is not…”
Irritation crackled within, fueled by the stoat’s innate distaste for
the insane captain. “Does Death command the Longclaws now?”
Veneno scowled, forced an angry salute, and turned back to the battle.
“Tell the chief I’ll do as he commands,” the fox said, face twisting as he spat
the words.
“See that you do.”
Kiern stalked away, every muscle taut with vexation. Dealing with Veneno
always tried his temper and his patience, but Astarte Darkmoon was worse…and
now he had to give her the Longclaws’ orders.
“The two captains I detest the most…” A snarl slashed across his face.
“Playing the chief’s messenger. Hellsteeth!”
Astarte took a bit longer to search out. Ducking arrows and fending off
the rare unoccupied woodlander, Kiern picked his way through the
camp-turned-battlefield, emotion closed off along with adrenaline to leave him
dispassionate and detached. He rarely gave in to the chaotic tension of war,
and now was no exception.
A rather young fox stood in an empty swath of bloodshed, gazing around
with glazed brown eyes and dazed expression. A sword drooped to touch the earth
from his paw, half-forgotten. Kiern nodded, slight and understanding, and
paused next to the tod.
“New recruit?” he asked, voice quiet compared to the din of the
surrounding massacre.
A nod from the fox, shaky and numb. “I…never fought, ‘till now. Not in
battle…not like…” A shudder coursed through the wiry frame and the tod leaned
heavy on his sword as his legs threatened to give way.
Kiern followed the young soldier’s gaze to the mutilated corpse of an
older weasel, next to the equally bloodied body of a hedgehog with an axe in
one paw. “I see…” He shook his head once, a bitter smile twisting across his
face, and clapped the fox firmly on the shoulder. “It gets easier… you’ll
become used to it in time.”
Another shudder. “…should I…? Get used to killing?”
The stoat let his paw drop from the young Nightfang’s shoulder, drew in
on himself in silence for a long moment. “If you think you shouldn’t, then ask
the Longclaws to let you leave.” A vermin horde is no place for weakness...
A deep breath, cleansing his mind of doubts, and he scanned the camp for
a glimpse of Astarte. “Do you know where your captain is?”
The tod nodded slightly. “Aye. Over that way, with Subcaptain Patcheye.”
He pointed between two trees with a red-gloved paw. “Last I saw, anyway…”
“Thank you.”A nod, a sketchy salute, returned belatedly by the fox, and
Kiern headed off to find the Nightfangs captain.
"Just kill it already." A bored voice from the shadows, and
Kiern paused between the twin pines that the Nightfangs soldier had pointed
out. Dark eyes scanned the clearing, settled on a gray weasel leaning against
the side of a half-burned cottage.
A whimper squeezed into the night air past a fear-strangled throat, and
Kiern stepped to the side for a better view. Astarte stood over a young mouse,
sword tickling its throat. Not a length away, an older mouse stood trimbling,
fright-wide gaze fixed to the dibbun.
"But Patcheye..." A chuckle, dark and deadly, from Astarte.
"That wouldn't be nearly so fun, now would it?" The saber twitched,
slicing a strip of fur from the mouselet's shoulder, wrenching forth a scream.
Kiern growled low in his throat, forced back the anger and disgust, took
a step forward. "Leave it alone, Darkmoon," he said, voice chill as
the fangs of winter.
She looked up, arched a brow at the sight of the Nightclaws captain.
"What, now ya defend woodlanders, Kiern?" A laughing smirk. "I
thought better of you than that."
His jaw clenched. The stoat fem could get under his skin like none
other. "Chief's orders. You're to take as many younglings and soldiers
alive as possible."
"And do what we want with the rest...?"
A grimace, quickly masked with impassivity. "I suppose."
Patcheye laughed, low and sinister, and stepped over to the mousemaid.
"Well then, that be good tae hear..."
Kiern couldn't hold back a snarl then, fangs baring as the one-eyed
weasel cast a smirk his way. The stoat fought his rebellious face into control
with difficulty as he turned away. "You have your orders. I suggest you deliver
them to your soldiers before they kill too many woodlanders. The Longclaws will
be none too pleased if that happens."
He could feel Astarte and Patcheye's glares boring holes in his back but
he walked away without turning. Behind him, Astarte snapped an order to her
subcaptain, and Kiern smiled thinly as he strode back to the Longclaws,
messenger duty complete.
The battle ended quickly after that, and Nightdeath Longclaws prowled out of the shadows as dawn blushed pale across the horizon. Hordebeasts stiffened to attention as the wolverine passed by, then relaxed slightly once he was gone. Kiern followed close behind, gaze sharp for danger, a dark red shadow at his chief's shoulder.
A flash of ginger fur caught the stoat's eye and he motioned to Skyfire, sharp and commanding. She turned at the movement, hurried to the Longclaws' other shoulder, joined Kiern in guarding their chief as he made his way to a gray squirrel bound tight between two red-gloved Nightfangs.
"Is this their leader?" Nightdeath asked after a long moment.
Astarte stepped out from behind the squirrel and saluted briefly. "Aye, sir. Near as we can tell, anyhow."
The wolverine gave Astarte a cursory nod and let his gaze travel over the squirrel. Gray fur had been turned black-red with blood, and the woodlander's chest hstill heaved with exertion, but he stood tall between the two soldiers and his gaze was steady and defiant.
"What are you called, brushtail?"
The squirrel glared at the Longclaws, jaw muscles twitching as he remained silent. One of the soldiers that held him prisoner, a hulking red fox, slapped the squirrel hard across his face after seconds ticked by in silence.
"Th' chief axed you a question, scumtail. Ya'd best answer, or ya ain't goin' ter like whatcha gonna get," he said, a sneer worming its way across his face.
"Enough. I need this one healthy." Nightdeath motioned to Deathcry, who grinned from her hunched position in the treeshadows, and she strode away with eager purpose. The Longclaws turned back to the squirrel, a mirthless smile hovering about his dark face. "How high a cost are you willing to pay for honor, woodlander?"
The squirrel stiffened at the quiet question, eyes narrowing sharply. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" Nightdeath turned the question over on his tongue, twisted it with amusement, edged it with midnight humor. “You are likely willing to give your own life for honor… but are you willing to let others die for your pride? A youngling, perhaps…?”
“Mista Ashwoooooood! Help meeeeeee!”
A dibbun’s shrill wail split the air, announcing the entrance of a young mouse dragged in tail-first by Deathcry’s iron paw. The ferret lifted the dibbun by its tail, one claw reaching out to draw a thin line of red across its chin. The youngling shrieked with fear and the sting of pain, eyes wide and staring.
A swear wrenched its way from the squirrel’s chest and he jerked forward against his bonds, pulling his captors forward a step before they managed to recover and brace themselves against his struggles. He strained at the ropes, teeth bared in a savage snarl, ears lying flat against his skull. “You bloody monster!” he raged. “Thirce-cursed coward! You… unh!” The stream of abuse cut off abruptly with the squirrel’s air as his fox captor slammed a gloved fist into his midsection.
“One dead is not too high a cost?” Nightdeath mused above the squirrel’s choking coughs. “What about two? Or three, or more yet?” He glanced to Astarte, tilted his head in question. “How many did you capture, captain?”
She thought for a moment. “Six fighting beasts, three female noncombatants, five younglings.”
A thin smile and the wolverine turned to the squirrel once more. “One youngling tortured for every moment of trouble I’m given by you or your warriors. Is that high enough a cost?”
The squirrel blanched at the thought, stood tall for a brief moment, and then all the fight whooshed from his body in a long breath, leaving him limp in his bonds. “Aye.” The answer was nearly a whisper, defeated and hopeless.
“Good squirrel… I knew you’d see sense.” A nod to Deathcry, etching a triumphiant grin across her face. She pulled forth a knife and pressed the tip to the dibbun’s shoulder, then pushed. Agony arched the youngling’s back and the mouselet howled in pain, a cry that rose to an endless scream when the ferret dragged the knife down through tender flesh.
” No! What are you doing? STOP!” The shocked shout erupted from the squirrel while the screams rent the air again and again.
Nightdeath arched an eyebrow at the horrified squirrel. “Only doing what I said I would. You gave me trouble earlier; now a youngling is paying your penalty.”
“But I…” A fresh scream slashed through the dawn and the squirrel crumpled, defiance melting to pleas. “Stop… please stop it… I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Just… stop hurting her…”
The Longclaws held up a commanding paw and Deathcry wrenched her dagger free with a disappointed scowl. The mouselet’s cries died to whimpers that faded to silence as unconsciousness took her at last.
“Deathcry, have your archers build pens for the prisoners,” Nightdeath said as both dibbun and squirrel were dragged away. “Veneno, put any healers under your command to work on the injured soldiers and prisoners. Kiern, Astarte, Stormsong—come with me.” He turned on his heel with those last orders and strode back into the relative privacy of the trees, leaving his captains to their assignments.
“Stormsong, Kiern, you’ve both recruited soldiers before…” The Longclaws cast a cursory glance over the two captains before turning his attention to Astarte. “Do you know how it is done, captain?”
She shook her head. “Nay, sir. Tekhyl told me somethin’ of it, but not more’n that ya use woodlanders.”
“Very well then… Kiern, you will explain the recruiting process to Astarte.” The ebon gaze flicked to Stormsong. “You will scout, as usual. Do you have a tally of our casualties yet?”
The gray weasel inclined his head as he received the order. “Aye, sir. Of the Nightfangs,” and he nodded to Astarte, face carefully blank, “three be lost, an’ three wounded so to be barred from battle for a fair pass of time. Of the Nightblood, one be wounded sorely.”
One eyebrow quirked skywards at the numbers. “Three dead?” Nightdeath repeated, eyeing Astarte in question. “Surely your Nightfangs are better trained than that.”
The stoat fem’s jaw clenched, a minute twitch beneath ginger-red fur. “They’re first t’fight an’ last t’leave, sir,” she said evenly. “An’ so they get killed easier. Which means more new recruits more often an’ less time t’train.”
“I see.” A smile, amusement or approval or both, ghosted across the wolverine’s face. “Well done in the battle.” He turned back to Kiern. “Assemble the recruition team and wait for word from Stormsong’s scouts. You know what to do.” A pause. “Ah yes… bring Astarte with you and explain everything to her. Dismissed.”
The barest hint of a grimace twisted Kiern’s expression as Nightdeath headed back to the camp and Stormsong melted into the undergrowth, leaving him alone with Astarte. She smiled, triumphant and sultry, and glided to his side.
“Well, captain,” the stoat fem purred, “shall we be goin’?”
One paw clenched, a spasm of irritation, and Kiern glared at the Nightfangs captain. “Aye, we shall, but you’d best remember this: the chief has effectively put you under my command. You will behave as such.” With that he spun about, setting his nose to the camp and striding away, leaving Astarte to swear indignation and follow with furious grace.
Kiern stepped into the orderly chaos of the Nightclaws’ section of the camp, a circle of tents around a merrily blazing campfire. Some lounged about the flames, talking in idle voices, while others sharpened weapons and cleaned gear. Woodsmoke drifted about the entire area, scenting everything it touched.
Kiern stood on the outskirts of the camp for a few long moments before he was noticed. Glances shot his way and silence followed, except for one unaware rat, back facing his captain, jaws flapping in the autumn breeze.
“An’ then me an’ Crow sneaked up on th’ sleepin’ redglove, an’… whaddaya want?” The irritated question burst from his mouth, propelled by a companion’s elbow in the rat’s ribs. The rat glanced over his shoulder, yelped at the sight of Kiern, and almost fell into the campfire when he hastened to his footpaws. “Cap’n! Sorry sir, didn’t notice ya…”
A slight smile played about Kiern’s lips. “So I gathered. Sandblood, correct?” A nod from the rat. “New recruit, I believe… You will need to be more alert if you wish to remain a Nightclaw.”
Sandblood ducked his head in shameful apology. “Sorry sir. I’ll do better from now on.”
“See that you do. At ease.” As the rat reseated himself, Kiern let his gaze take in the entire Nightclaws camp. “As usual, the Nightfangs lost somebeasts in the battle.” A dry chuckle rippled through the ranks at that—Kiern’s Nightclaws held a good deal of scorn for the rival Nightfangs. “So we have to go recruiting to restock their ranks for them. Recruition team, form up by my tent once I’m finished. Meanwhile, I need twobeasts to help guard the prisoners in case the Nightarms manage to fail in their duty. Are there any volunteers?”
A grizzled ferret and a wiry fox stood up. “We’ll go,” the ferret said, leaning casually on his spear.
Kiern nodded. “Very well.” A pause as fallen leaves crackled and Astarte stalkedi nto view, glaring at every Nightclaw in sight. A faint snicker waas the response and the stoat fem’s claws flexed as if she wanted to rip out each black-garbed throat.
Kiern ignored her and gave his last orders instead. “Double guard on the chief for the next few days, starting now. The rest of you, go back to whatever you were doing.”
There was silence for a moment as the stoat turned to Astarte and lifted one brow. “What took you so long, captain?” Behind him, the camp realized Kiern had finished and began to carry out their orders, some rising and jogging off to their assignment while the remainder returned to their chatter and chores.
“Was I expected to hurry, captain?” she asked in reply, sweet as poison.
A shrug from Kiern, who simply stepped out towards his tent and the waiting recruiting team. “Come along, Darkmoon.”
Silence behind him. He smirked at the thought of her enraged expression – he was almost beginning to enjoy this. Then Astarte spoke, and uncertainty slithered through his mind.
“Yes sir!”
She sounded entirely too cheerful.
The stoat fem sauntered up beside and a pace behind him, flashing him a grin with a glimmer of her usual sultry manner lurking silken behind the expression. “Care to explain this recruiting process to me, captain?”
She was up to something; he was as sure of that as he was of the brisk autumn wind tearing at his cloak. But Kiern turned her request over in his mind once, again, found nothing to suspect with it. No reason not to answer…
“Stormsong is looking for likely recruits,” he said. “Unattached rats, foxes, stoats, and the like. The worse off the better. Once he finds some, he’ll report back to me, and I and the recruition team will gather up a few of the captives that can fight. We’ll give them weapons and turn them loose on the creatures we want to recruit.”
“But… won’t they attack us too?”
Kiern shook his head. “We have their dibbuns and the woodlanders know what misbehavior might bring their young. They will do what we tell them to.” A pause, straightening out his thoughts in their orderly precision once more. “Once the ones we’re trying to recruit start having a hard time of it, we step in, kill the woodlanders, and we’re owed a debt. Most beasts jump at the chance of good clothes, decent food, and steady pay.”
A frown from Astarte. “And if they don’t care about debts?”
Kiern smiled thinly and tossed a bag heavy with coins into the air, holding his paw out for it to smack into with a seductive jingle. “That’s what the gold is for.”
The two stoats had reached the waiting recruition team by then and they stopped, letting Kiern scrutinize the small group.
“Have any of Stormsong’s scouts returned yet?”
Skyfire turned from her study of the woods and shook her head. “Not yet, captain… should be any moment now.”
“Very well…at ease.” This last was to the stiff-standing team of six, who relaxed and resumed chatting quietly, sharp eyes never wavering from the thick woods.
A low chuckle from Astarte, earning a quick glance from Kiern. “What is so amusing, Darkmoon?” he asked.
A slight smirk. “Just somethin’ that occurred te me… How loyal is yer subcaptain?”
“How loyal…” Kiern’s eyes narrowed to wary slits. “What do you mean?”
She chuckled, easing into her typical sultry air. “Weeell…”
“Captain Kiern?”
A gray shadow in mottled greens and browns detached itself from the dark woods, startling the nearest Nightclaw soldier, who growled something about “Nighteye demons.” Kiern nodded to the gray weasel as he concealed a smirk at his soldier’s comment. “Captain Stormsong. You’ve found something?”
“Aye. A brood of foxes, three younger an’ five elder. They be none too well fed, an’ living in much squalor.”
“Good…” Kiern glanced to the recruition team. “Did you hear that?”
The response came in sharp unison. “Aye, sir!”
A nod. “Stormsong, I’ll need more information on these foxes. Would you come with me to retrieve the captives?”
Stormsong inclined his head in agreement. “Aye, Kiern.”
“Astarte—remain here with the recruition team,” Kiern ordered. “Skyfire should be able to answer any questions you might have.”
A scowl flickered across the stoat fem’s face, then shifted to a mocking smirk as she saluted. “As you command, captain.”
Kiern shook his head and turned to follow Stormsong, black cloak whispering behind him in the crisp autumn breeze.
It was a short walk to the penned-up slaves. Kiern strode alongside Stormsong, dark gaze never still, trained senses alert for danger at all times—as a guard of the Longclaws must be. Stormsong moved with almost equal awareness, yet his paws made no more sound on the leaf strewn earth than the ghost his cloud-gray fur caused him to resemble. He glided more than walked, all wary stealth next to Kiern’s coiled readiness.
Stormsong broke the silence first. “Didst thou volunteer for this task?”
Kiern tilted his head in the weasel’s direction, ears swiveling towards him, but that was the only indication of his surprise at the question. He walked on for several moments, letting the rustle of autumn leaves and the distant murmur of horde voices fill the quiet. “It is my duty,” he said at last.
“It doth not suit thee.”
The stoat’s eyes narrowed at the quiet words. “What do you mean?”
Stormsong’s gaze drifted to the clear sky, shadows gathering in his face. “Thou art honorable,” he said, choosing each word with deliberate care. “This task…it be trickery an’ threats. Harming the young if the warriors doth not obey… attacking others only to ‘save’ them… this be not thine way.”
“It is my duty,” Kiern repeated, jaw clenching along with his fists.
The spy captain shook his head slowly, a sadness creeping into his pale gaze. “Thou thinkest harming children be honorable? Thou thinkest such treachery be right? Doth it sit well on thine heart, Kiern?”
Kiern’s lips drew back in a snarl, and he hissed out fury to shield himself from the pain of the bard’s words. “I serve the Longclaws! He freed me from slavery—trained me—made me his captain… My life is his.” Intensity and conviction filled those last four words, and he grasped onto the thought of his duty like a bird might grasp a branch in the midst of a roaring storm.
“Your life…” Stormsong turned to regard Kiern, deep sadness still lingering in his eyes, as well as something—an intensity, an unattainable dream, mingling with other secrets of the soul that Kiern could not identify and was not sure he wanted to… “Thine life be his,” the healer bard echoed. “And what of thine soul?”
Silence. Kiern’s thoughts hung motionless, the very air stilled, time frozen in waiting of the answer.
“Enough!” A near shout erupted from the captain of the Longclaws’ guard and the world caught its breath. “You tread dangerous ground, captain. You, too, serve the Longclaws. And I protect him.”
The thread of something akin to a threat snaked dark through Kiern’s words. He held Stormsong’s gaze a moment longer, anger and warning sparking from his russet fur, and then he resumed his purposeful stride to the captives’ pen once more. After a moment, Stormsong followed, silence stretching tense between the two captains.
“Now.” Kiern’s turn to break the quiet this time. “Tell me more of these foxes…”
“…and there be little more to tell,” Stormsong finished as the two captains reached the pen that held the woodlander captives.
Kiern turned the weasel’s report over in his mind as he scrutinized the captives. Most sat against the hastily built walls, staring into nothingness, ears and tails drooped with hopeless dejection. They numbered six: the lithe squirrel archer who led the band of woodlanders; a burly hedgehog fem slumped in the corner, glaring at all who passed; a wiry young mouse, huddled listless against the wall, turning a stick over and over in his paws without seeming to realize what he was doing; a powerfully built river otter, dozing on his back in apparent carelessness; another squirrel, this one a young female with dark brown gaze wide and staring, mind locked in horrors of memory; and another male mouse, older than the previous, dark fur flecked with silver, eyes closed as he leaned against the wall, tensed muscles and clenched paws showing that he was far from asleep.
At the soft pad of paws on earth, the squirrel archer looked up with narrowed gaze. “More of you come to mock?” he said in a soft voice, the low volume not quite concealing depths of hate and resentment. Behind him the hedgehog fem rose with clenched fists, glaring murder at the two Nighthunt captains.
Kiern met the hate-filled looks with a calm lack of expression. “I am Captain Kiern of the Nightclaws; this is Captain Stormsong of the Nighteyes. We’ve come to take the six of you on a mission. This is the only task you will have with us.”
“Ye fool!” It was the hedgehog, pushing past the squirrel, quivering with barely contained rage. “Ye think we’d be believin’ yew lyin’ vermin scum?” She spat at Kiern’s footpaws, teeth bared in a snarl. “All yew think about be control an’ power! Ye’re goin’ to make us slaves, don’t think we don’t be knowin’ that!”
Oddly enough, it was Stormsong who retorted, musical voice quiet in response to the hedgehog’s tirade. “Thou knowest very little of us,” he said, stepping forward to meet the woodlander face to face. “Never has the Nighthunt kept slaves of any sort. Captives, aye, but never for long, and they never be sold. An’ the captain thou spake to be the most truthful being I hath met. Thou shalt not accuse him of lying.”
The hedgehog’s only response was to sneer, quills standing on end. “Ye talk mighty nice, but ye take me fer a fool, an’…”
“Quilla.” The squirrel placed a paw on her spiny shoulder, the command in his quiet tone silencing her at once. “Enough.” She glared once more at the two captains and huffed off, nudging the sleeping woodlanders awake with bad grace. The woodland leader remained facing Kiern and Stormsong, arms loose at his side, waiting. “What is it you wish us to do?”
Kiern studied the squirrel for a long moment before nodding. This is a creature I can respect… An odd notion, but the thought seemed perfectly sensible, whispering through his mind. “All you must do is fight a few foxes. We will lead you to them and you will attack them. You will make no mention of us to the foxes; you will simply attack.”
A troubled shadow flickered across the squirrel’s face, but at last he bowed his head in reluctant consent. “I have no choice, do I?” His mouth twisted into a parody of a smile, resigned and angry. “You have our younglings, after all…”
“Aye.” Kiern’s jaw clenched at the thought of such manipulation, stomach twisting slightly before he quelled it. Duty first… “Gather your warriors. We will arm you for attack. Come.”
The squirrel turned to the other five woodlanders. “We have our orders,” he said dryly, fist clenching despite his apparent calm. “I’ll explain as we go.”
Kiern watched for a moment longer as the woodlanders formed up in a tight knot, and then whirled on his heel, disgusted at what he had to do.
It didn’t take long to reach the recruition team. Kiern led the way, with Stormsong on careful watch behind the six woodlanders. Each woodlander’s expression held a grim resignation, a knowledge of a lifetime’s end. Some, like the young mouse and equally young squirrel fem, showed fear in darting gazes and flickering tails; others, like the river otter and the squirrel leader, moved with unwavering acceptance, jaws set and faces blank.
The recruition team straightened to attention at the sight of the two captains, then relaxed at the casual “at ease” from Kiern. “Give the captives their weapons,” Kiern ordered, one paw resting on his saber. Soon the woodlanders were armed—the squirrel leader with his bow and arrows; the hedgehog with a massive club; the young mouse with a fine-edged paw-and-a-half sword; the river otter with twin polished scimitars; the young squirrelmaid with a blade-tipped staff in shaking paws; and the older mouse with a well-used saber. The captives stood in a wary circle, weapons at paw, eyeing their waiting captors with uneasy glances.
Kiern never removed his paw from the hilt of his saber as he stepped forward from the other soldiers. “You have your orders,” he said, voice quiet but firm,” and you know the consequences of any misbehavior. Disobey, and your younglings take the punishment. It will serve you no purpose to attack us. Do you understand?”
Jaws clenched along with paws, and muscles tensed, but the squirrel archer again took charge, nodding with sharp curtness. “Aye, we understand quite well, vermin,” he growled. “Lead us to our targets.”
“Very well.” An answering inclination of the head from Kiern, and the stoat captain turned to Stormsong. “Lead on, captain.”
Stormsong’s pale gaze searched Kiern’s for a long moment, but he turned away without a word, melting into the underbrush with the ease of lifelong practice. Another moment, and the recruition team and woodlander captives followed, soon swallowed up in the forest’s depths.
It was a lengthy hike over a nonexistent trail, snaking between tight-grown trees as the sun continued its unceasing journey to the distant horizon. Golden evening light struggled through the browning leaves of autumn, turning everything a musty amber that seemed out of place for the silent creep to battle and bloodshed.
“Hsst!”
Stormsong raised a silent paw and the small group halted at once, ears pricked, eyes staring into the shifting shadows of evening woodlands. The spy captain motioned and Kiern crept to his side, following the direction of the weasel’s paw to a small clearing and the flashes of red and gray fur within.
Foxes.
Kiern studied the scene for a long moment. A dilapidated hut rested by a small, none-too-clear stream. Slow movement was evident through the cracks in the poorly built hut, and a young fox kit tumbled out of the building, followed by a scolding vixen. Two more kits played a game of tag at the opposite edge of the clearing, and three male foxes sat around a campfire, chatting idly, slanted amber gazes flicking occasionally to the fringe of their home.
Where’s the fifth adult…?
A young vixen, scrawny but attractive enough in the manner of her species, stepped through the hut’s doorway, a basket in paw. She brought it over to the tods, red brush swishing side to side as she revealed a few meager loaves of bread. The male foxes grumbled a bit over the pitiful meal but ate ravenously enough, and the vixen headed back to the hut.
Kiern took in the cutlass at the oldest fox’s side, a grizzled gray male with scars webbing his tough but emaciated frame. The younger tod, barely an adult, speared one of the loaves on a longknife and ate it with relish, seeming content despite the way his ribs stuck out from beneath thin-stretched russet fur. Another dogfox, probably the younger’s father, toyed with his bread with one paw as he set down the double-headed axe he’d been sharpening.
Not a good season for this brood…but they’d do well enough as soldiers. If they managed to survive…
The stoat captain nodded to the recruition team, motioning with his paw to the clearing. Each Nighthunt soldier sketched a brief salute in return, careful movement so as not to attract attention, and each took charge of a woodland captive, spreading out o