Juskanock - A Tale Of Redwall

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Hello! I've been working on this fanfiction for a few weeks now and since I've joined this forum, I'll post it here as well as FF.net. I'd like to preface this by saying that I do have a tendency to start fics and not finish them, but I plan to write as much as I can! Please enjoy! Note: this takes place long after the series has ended.

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Prologue

Slate-colored smoke danced its way into the nighttime sky, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and salty broth. The heat of a Juska campfire was in deep combat with the chill of late autumn. Taggerung Rangum Nock, fox leader of the Juskanock band, stared contemplatively at the flames. He was a lean beast, muscular beneath his ginger fur. Across from him stood a large, black rat, dark-eyed and scarred from past battles. Black Alder Club was the name he went by, Club for short, and he stirred the contents of a large, iron cauldron. The evening's supper was a shrimp and seaweed soup seasoned with herbs from the woodlands: wild garlic, sorrel, and lemon balm. Club looked at Rangum and waved his free hand, trying to gain his attention. The fox didn't seem to notice. Removing the wooden ladle he was stirring with, Club tapped the side of the cauldron, forcing Rangum's head to shoot up. One of his paws reached for the dagger strapped to his leg.

   "What's the matter?" Rangum Nock asked. His bronze eyes scanned the surrounding area. "D'you hear somethin'?"

   "Mmm-mmm," grunted Club, shaking his head for good measure. Grunts, huffs, snorts, and other noises were Club's preferred method of "talking"; his tongue had been cut out when he was much younger. Despite that fact, Rangum had little trouble understanding him most of the time. It was a testament to their seasons-long companionship. Club dipped the ladle into the soup, gathered a sample of it, and held it out for the fox to try.

   "Ah, right," said Rangum. He stood up, approached the cauldron, and carefully sipped at the concoction. The shrimp and seaweed were cooked well, and the herbs added flavor to what would normally be a simple brine. Rangum Nock nodded his head in approval. "Pretty good. I think it's ready for Lans." Pausing, the fox then sighed. "If she'd just let me into our tent..."

Rangum and Club looked towards one of the three tents surrounding the campfire. A lantern had been lit inside, and the silhouette of a fox was moving about. It was Moggs, the band's seer and the mother of the second vixen lying inside the tent: Lansah. Lansah was Rangum's mate. A few hours ago, she had given birth, but Rangum had yet to see his cub. Lansah would not allow it; her mind was clouded with the instinctual desire to protect her newborn, something many a Juska she-beast experienced after bearing young. For his own safety, and for Lansah's peace of mind, Rangum stayed away. It was frustrating, but the Taggerung knew that it wouldn't last.

Moggs' silhouette moved again, and she emerged from the tent, her golden eyes dull from exhaustion. This had not been the Seer's first time delivering Juska babes, but it never got any easier.

"Oooh..." she sighed, her nostrils quivering at the smell of food. "Soup's done?"

"Mmm," Club grunted again, nodding. Leaning down, the rat reached for one of the wooden bowls that were placed just far enough that the campfire couldn't reach them. He filled it with soup, and held it out as Moggs joined them.

"Didn't add t'much wild garlic again, did ye?" asked Moggs as she eyed the bowl. Club sucked his teeth, a noise indicating his annoyance at the question.

"He didn't," Rangum answered for Club. "I 'ad some just now. It's good." He nodded towards the tent. "How's Lans?"

"Fine," replied Moggs as she took the bowl of soup and began blowing at it. "She's nursin' right now, and not t'be disturbed. Hmph. Snapped at me, she did. Her own mam!" She pointed at Rangum. "It's yore fault, o'course."

The Taggerung's shoulders bounced as he laughed.

"It's not all my fault." He took a bowl of soup that was offered to him by Club. "Lans and I agreed on it together. What's the point in startin' our own band if we have no one to pass it down to when we're gone? Besides, we could use an extra set of paws."

"Mmph. Still don't like bein' growled an' fussed at." Moggs took a sip from her soup bowl and smacked her lips at the various flavors. "Hmm. Not bad, Black Alder. Yore learnin'."

Black Alder Club dipped his head in response to the praise.

"Anyway," continued Moggs. "I'll bring some soup to Lansah in a bit. I just needed some fresh air. She might settle down once she's got some good vittles in 'er."

   Rangum sighed.

   "I want to see 'er..." he lamented. "And the cub. At least tell me if I've gotten a son or daughter?"

   "A daughter," answered the Seer. Rangum's ear flicked curiously. "Not the biggest cub I've seen, but a good appetite. Think she smelt the soup; she stopped nursin' fer a second t'get a good whiff."

   Rangum could not help but chuckle at the thought. He was pleased at the news. He had a legacy now, and  he was determined to shape his daughter into a proud Juskabeast.

   Club had served himself his own bowl of shrimp and seaweed soup as the conversation had gone on. He listened quietly, sipping at the broth and carefully chewing the solid bits. He could not taste his meal at all, but it did not bother him much. He was alive, and that was what mattered to him. Club's eyes darted between Rangum and Moggs as he waited for one of them to speak again. The Taggerung had begun to eat, but Moggs was sitting still, the bowl tightly gripped in her hands, and her eyes staring straight ahead. Curious, Club watched her. The Seer's body began to tremble.

   "Hah..." an exhale escaped Moggs' lips. "Hah...hah...hah..."

   At that sound, Rangum was paying attention to the vixen as well. He and Club exchanged a glance before they both set down their soup bowls and approached her.

   "Moggs?" called Rangum. "Y'alright, silver-whiskers?"

   Moggs did not reply. Instead, her breathing quickened, as did her trembling. The soup threatened to spill out over her paws. Club took it from her. Rounding the vixen, Rangum rested his paws on Moggs' shoulders, steadying her. He then brought a paw to her forehead. She was warm to the touch. A fever was kicking in at an unnaturally fast pace. The Taggerung knew exactly what this meant. With serious eyes, Rangum Nock looked to his rat comrade.

   "We need t'bring her inside," he said. "Quickly."

   Club nodded. With one of Moggs' arms wrapped around one of their shoulders, Club and Rangum carried the old vixen into her own tent. Lansah, hearing the commotion, called out to her mate.

   "Rangum? What's happenin'!? Is it Mam? What's goin' on with Mam!?"

   Rangum gritted his teeth. He had no choice but to ignore his mate's shouts as he and Club laid Moggs down on a "bed" of barkcloth blankets. Club stepped out again and returned seconds later with an earthenware jug filled with fresh water. Rangum lifted her head, allowing Club to carefully tilt the cooling liquid into Moggs' open mouth. The vixen drank it, smacked her lips, and peered at the Rangum and Club through squinted eyes.

   "Hah..." she breathed again. She struggled to form words. "Sm...smo..."

   "Easy," said Rangum gently. "Take yer time."

   "Smoke..." Moggs choked out. "White...fox...white smoke..."

   Rangum listened carefully. This was an omen. Whenever Moggs received one, she was struck with a sudden fever.

   "Hare...badger..." continued Moggs. "Juska...death...death...death...!"

   Rangum's fur bristled. Again, he and Club looked at each other. Club's eyes were wide with alarm.

   "Winters...two...two winters...red...stone..." Moggs' eyes began to close, and her trembling lessened. As she slipped out of consciousness, one final word left her lips: "Barabell..."

   Moggs went limp. Rangum checked for a pulse. The Seer was alive. Right now, she needed rest. In the silence, Rangum and Club sat near the recovering Moggs, both beasts repeating the words in their heads. One thing was painfully clear: something bad was going to happen, and they had two winters to prepare for it.

   "Rangum!" called Lansah again. "Answer me! I know ye can 'ear me!"

   Club nudged Rangum's shoulder, a signal for him to go to his mate. The Taggerung nodded, stood, and left for his and Lansah's tent in a hurry. When he arrived, he was met with Lansah staring intensely at him from her corner of the tent, their cub dozing in her arms. She was a pretty thing, her coat being an unusual shade of gold that only foxes of the Ruggan Bor bloodline could inherit. For a brief moment, Rangum's attention was stolen by his sleeping daughter.

   "Answer, damn it!" snapped Lansah irritably. "What's 'appened? I 'eard Mam talkin', but she was goin' too fast. What'd she say!?"

   "It's not good news..." admitted the fox. "I don't think I should tell you now, not after the day you've 'ad..."

   "I'm fine," insisted the vixen. "Go on. 'urry up an' tell me."

   Rangum sighed. There was no other choice; Lansah would only work herself up if he kept quiet. He sat down a good, safe distance from his mate and repeated the words to her.

   "White smoke, white fox, hare, badger, Juska, death, two winters, redstone, and..." Rangum was still a bit puzzled as to the last word and its meaning. Nevertheless, he said it. "Barabell."

   Lansah took the words in. Her brow furrowed.

   "...It sounds like another war's comin'," she muttered in a somewhat calmer voice. "And so soon after the Taggerung Truce, too..."

   The Taggerung Truce was an event that occurred seasons prior, during the spring. After the humiliation of Ruggan Bor by Russano the Wise, the Juska clans fell into a generations-long war over the title of Taggerung. The bloodshed seemed endless until the more sensible Juskabeasts introduced the Taggerung Truce. Any Chieftain, whether they ruled a large clan or a small band, would be known as s Taggerung. Something resembling peace finally fell over the Western Coast.

   "It could be," said Rangum Nock. "And it won't only be us Juska involved. Badgers an' hares? I'm sure you know what that's referrin' to..."

   "The Salamandastron lot..." growled Lansah. She held her cub tighter to her chest. "An' redstone? Tha's referrin' to those Abbeybeasts from the old tales. What'n Hellgates do either of 'em want with us!?"

"I really don't know, Lans." Rangum let out a heavy sigh. "An' then there's this talk o' white foxes and smoke. It's a lot t'figure out right now, but the one thing we do know is that we 'ave time t'prepare, two winters. We're lucky ol' Moggs had her omen now an' not later, when it's too late. We need t'be well-trained, all of us."

Lansah was quiet for a moment. She stared down at her cub, and after a few seconds, looked at Rangum.

"Barabell..." she began. "That was the name of me gran'mammy. Mam tol' me about her when I was a wee 'un. She died in the wars when Mam was barely old enough t'get her clan markin's."

"Aye?"

"Aye." Lansah looked at the cub again. The foxbabe yawned, exposing her pink tongue. "I wonder if that's meant t'be this 'un's name."

"It's a good name," commented Rangum as he stood up. Lansah seemed calmer now than before. Perhaps this was his chance to come closer. Cautiously, he took a step forward. The vixen's golden stare burned into him almost immediately. Rangum paused. "...I'm not gonna 'urt her. You know I'm not."

Lansah glanced her mate over. Rangum waited, not daring to breathe as the vixen made up her mind. Lansah's gaze softened somewhat; the brief conversation made Rangum's presence more palatable.

"Slowly," was all she said in response. Ears perked, Rangum carefully approached. He lowered himself onto all fours and took his place beside Lansah. The vixen held Barabell out so that Rangum could properly see her. Even with her eyes closed, something told Rangum that she would have the same vibrant eyes of her mother and grandmother.

"Heh..." laughed Rangum. "Amazin' how even the vilest Juskabeasts start out small like this, hmm?"

"Hmm..." Lansah halfheartedly attempted to laugh. Frowning, Rangum nudged her head with his own. She flashed her teeth at him as a warning.

"Sorry," the Taggerung winced. "Y'know, you really shouldn't stress so much. Moggs is fine. After a day or two, she'll be back on her feet. You know that."

"And what about the omen?" Lansah stared hard at Rangum. "What are we meant t'do when it 'appens? Fight an entire army ourselves?"

"O'course not. We survive by any means necessary, even if that means..." Here, Rangum exhaled wearily through his nostrils. "We have to flee the Western Coast."

"Flee?" growled Lansah. "Tch. I'm tired o' fleein'. We did our fleein' when the Juskalaith fell apart."

Rangum frowned as he remembered the clan he, Lansah and Moggs once called home. Life in the Juskalaith had been rough, especially under the rule of the weasel Chieftain, Sloangra Laith. She had not lived long enough to see the Taggerung Truce, not that Rangum believed she would have agreed to it. Her daughter, Verratta Laith, led a mutiny that took Sloangra's life, and in the chaos, Rangum, Lansah and Moggs took their leave. After the Truce, Rangum did not concern himself with the Juskalaith. It was a bad memory he would rather forget.

"If runnin' means our band survives," the fox responded after a long pause. "Then so be it. I didn't leave Juskalaith just so I could die. Did you?"

Lansah's silence was all the answer Rangum needed. After a moment's hesitation, he brushed her arm with his own.

"We shouldn't think about that now..." In a bold move, the Taggerung reached out with his paws. "Lemme see 'er."

"...What?" Lansah gave Rangum an odd look.

"I want t'hold 'er. See 'ow little she is."

"Hmm..."

"I'll be gentle with 'er. Honest, I will. Swear on me longbow."

"Right." Lansah eyed her mate a bit, her mind still a bit clouded by her maternal instincts. Slowly, she raised the infant and began passing her over. "Careful. Not one 'air outta place, or I'll break that longbow."

"Of course," snickered Rangum. He took Barabell, and held her out in front of him. Moggs had not been lying; Barabell was a tiny thing. The cub stirred, her nose quivering, taking in the scent of her father. Rangum could not resist a grin as he brought Barabell closer. "Barabell. D'you like that name, lass?"

"She can't 'ear ye," scoffed Lansah, the slightest hint of amusement on her weary face. "Mam says cubs can't 'ear when they're first born."

"Oh." Rangum blinked. His fur bristled with embarrassment. "Well, in my defense, I 'aven't 'andled too many cubs in my lifetime."

"I know." Lansah leaned a bit closer to her mate and rested her head on his shoulder. "Can't wait 'til she's old enough to handle a spear. Just imagine, me and 'er, downin' enemies left an' right. Not t'mention how much fish we'll be bringin' back from the sea, hehe."

Rangum held little Barabell in his arms the way he had seen Lansah do it. As the vixen spoke, he gently poked the cub's belly with a claw.

The Taggerung grinned as his own imagination took flight. "An' I'll teach 'er to use a bow. Strikin' fear into the 'earts of intruders with 'er ol' sire. I tell ya, Lans, the Juskanock's gonna be in good paws when we're done with 'er."

Lansah smiled. By now, she was used to Rangum being in the tent with her. The maternal cloud had become a ghostly mist, allowing her to see Rangum as the fox she knew and loved. The feelings were not completely gone, however. She reached for Barabell again.

"Give 'er back," she ordered. Rangum chuckled.

"Yes, marm," the Taggerung joked. He rested Barabell back into her mother's arms, and the cub began whining. She was hungry again. Lansah laid on her side, closed her eyes and began nursing Barabell. Watching her and the babe for a moment, Rangum spoke again. "You should eat, too. Moggs was gonna bring some soup, but..."

"Mmm..." Lansah opened an eye to look at her mate. "Soup would be nice. Get me some, would ye? And make sure there's a lot o' shrimp."

"Aye, Chieftain," snickered Rangum. His laughter grew louder when Lansah looked at him in annoyance. He got up and started for the entrance of the tent. "Alright, alright, I'm goin'.

Just before the Taggerung stepped out into the night, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. He watched his mate and cub once more and began to frown as Moggs' words repeated in his mind. Despite what he told Lansah, not even he could fight off the worry in his heart. Rangum Nock closed his eyes, shook his head, and left the tent in silence.

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter One

Beams of warm, yellow sunlight bathed the forest floor that morning. Gentle breezes plucked the last amber-red leaves from their branches, carrying them down to the exposed roots of the trees that once nourished them. Autumn had visited the woods again, two autumns since the birth of Barabell. At eight seasons old, the vixen was well past her infancy, not an adult, but no longer reliant on her mother's milk. Her face had yet to be marked with the symbol of the Juskanock: a green arrow that stretched along the length of the muzzle. Barabell could only earn this marking after succeeding her father's test. Today was not her first attempt, but she hoped it would be her last.

Barabell sat on one of the high, naked branches of a rowan tree. She sat with her back against the truck, one paw clutching the strap of a traveling pouch, and the other holding onto a longbow, one suited for a fox as young as she. Her golden eyes scanned the forest below her, searching for any signs of her father and Black Alder Club. In the traveling pouch was a wood pigeon slain by one of Rangum's arrows. Her test was simple; Barabell was to take the pouch and make her way back to the Juskanock camp, alone, and without being caught by Rangum and Club, who were tracking her.

The forest was quiet save the occasional warbling of songbirds and the drumming of a woodpecker's beak. Barabell wondered how far away Rangum and Club were from her location. She was given a thirty second head-start and took off running in the direction of camp. The first time Barabell had done this test, she simply ran until she was exhausted, and was found easily thanks to the trail she left. The next attempt, she had tried hiding, but the spots she chose were painfully obvious. Now, Barabell had a bit more sense. Her father's eyes would be on the forest floor, so what better place to lie in wait than up in a tree? Barabell chuckled to herself. It was a clever trick, and Rangum would never suspect it. It would have been nice to have some extra leaves for cover, but as long as she stayed still and quiet, Barabell felt certain that she would not be spotted.

Minutes passed and Barabell eventually heard the rustling of leaves. Some beast was kicking them up with their footpaws, most likely the big brute that was Club. With a cheeky grin, Barabell peered down at the forest floor, expecting to see the rat wandering past her hiding place. What she actually saw, however, made her blood run cold. One by one, five strangers came into view, armed and scanning the area as they walked. They were Juskabeasts, as evident by their tattoos: two swirling, black lines that started on the right brow, looped the eye, and ended at the cheek, with another line of small, white dots between them. Barabell's parents and grandmother bore the same markings, the symbols of their old clan: the Juskalaith. What were they doing in the Juskanock's hunting ground? Why were they armed? Who were they looking for? These questions, and more, buzzed around in Barabell's head. Her heart pounded in her chest and her grip tightened on her longbow.
"What do I do...?" she asked herself in a trembling voice, quietly, so that the trespassers could not hear her. This was a situation Barabell had never found herself in before. This was the first time she had seen trespassers on Juskanock land, and if they were unfriendly, her father and Club would be outnumbered.

"'Old it," commanded the scruffy, brown rat taking the lead. He held up his free paw, the hilt of a cutlass firmly grasped in the other one. His allies obeyed, a stoat, two ferrets, and another rat. Barabell watched the brown rat's ears twitch. "Let's 'ave a lissen fer arrows. Rangum might be 'untin'."

Barabell did not dare to breathe as the five Juskalaith listened to the sounds of the woods. Seconds passed. The birds never ceased their singing, nor did the woodpecker cease his quest for a meal. Agitated by the noise, one of the ferrets, armed with a sling, pulled a stone from a pouch on his belt and aimed randomly.

"Shuddup already!" he snapped as the stone went flying. Barabell flinched at the loud thud. Wings fluttered as the birds took flight. The drumming of the woodpecker's beak also halted. A silence followed, and the Juskalaith beasts listened again. A few more seconds went by before the stoat snorted.

"Not 'round here, I reckon," said the stoat. "Must be further along. Just wish 'e 'ad a trail we could follow."

"Mushbrain," hissed the brown rat. "Rangum ain't no fool. Our best bet is t'search this forest top t'bottom. Even if 'e spots us first, we can easily swarm 'im and bring 'im down."

They were going to kill Rangum, and Barabell was clueless as to why. She had to do something, but what? How could she...?

The vixen's eyes brightened as an idea formed in her head.

"C'mon, move it," ordered the brown rat as he started off. "The sooner this is done, the sooner we can grab Lansah and 'ead back. Remember, we're gettin' a good meal if we do this right."

"Good," huffed the other rat, a female. "I'm tired of chokin' down roasted seaweed every night while Crabcull and the other brown-nosers get the best vittles."

While the group continued in the direction they were going, grumbling and complaining about the one they called Crabcull, Barabell pulled an arrow from the quiver she carried on her back. She loaded the arrow, drew the bowstring back as far as she could, and aimed to the east. She watched the group move further and further away from the tree, and when Barabell felt that the time was right, she released the arrow.

THWANG!

The arrow took off like a shooting star, disappearing from Barabell's view in a matter of seconds. Wherever it landed, birds took flight and Barabell could hear their panicked calls. As she hoped, the Juskalaith beasts stopped and glanced towards the east.

"Just as I thought..." The brown rat took a few steps in that direction. "'E's shootin' birds."

"Why in the Dark Forest would 'e be 'untin' there?" questioned the sling-wielding ferret. "Ain't that where the Stone Border is?"

"Aye," agreed the brown rat. He then scoffed. "Just our luck. But, again, Rangum ain't stupid. 'E wouldn't get too close to it. We 'ave nothin' to worry about. Heh, if we're lucky, we can trap 'im there and he'll be forced to surrender."

A chorus of agreements and snickers arose from the Juskalaith beasts as they continued their hunt for Rangum. As they disappeared into the undergrowth, Barabell, who's heartbeat rivaled the beat of a hummingbird's wings, began climbing down after looping her bow around her body. Fortunately, going down was easier than going up. Digging her claws into the wood, Barabell allowed gravity to do most of the work. She tried distracting herself with some interesting facts from her grandmother.

Apparently there were creatures that were born with some natural ability to climb trees, and much faster than Barabell ever could. Squirrels, they were called, bushy-tailed and red-furred, much like her. The concept of such a creature fascinated Barabell so much that she had crafted a doll based on the mental image she had conjured in her head. The toy squirrel was named Lunger Longtail, and was back at camp, awaiting her return. The thought of her only friend steadied her shaking limbs somewhat.


Among the Juskalaith group, however, the sling-wielding ferret, who was named Chummer, stopped and looked over his shoulder. Noticing his hesitation, the rat leader shot Chummer a glare.

"What? Why've ye stopped?"

"Somethin's off..." muttered Chummer.

"Off?" echoed the rat. Chummer's clanmates stopped to look at him questioningly. "What d'ye mean "off"?"

Chummer shrugged. "Dunno. Call it a 'unch. Think I might patrol 'round 'ere some more. Rangum might be clever, but all it takes is one stone to his skull."

"Sounds more like yer scared o' goin' to the Stone Border to me," mocked the stoat with a wide, toothy smile.

"Stow yer gab, Hollowgill," Chummer shot back roughly. He then turned and began walking back to the path the group had originally been taking. "I'm goin'. If I'm right, ye all'll be lookin' mighty stupid."

"An' if yer wrong," laughed Hollowgill as she brandished a dagger and followed Chummer. "The look on yer face'll be 'ilarious."

"Ye both can find yer own way back to t'camp," the brown rat called after them. He nodded for his remaining comrades to follow him. "C'mon. Let the idiots wander. More of a reward for us when we bring back Rangum's 'ead."


Barabell had nearly reached the bottom of the tree when she heard the returning pawsteps of Chummer and Hollowgill. Her heart skipped a beat, and in her moment of fear, her hind paw lost its grip. A cry escaped her maw as she fell downwards, her back hitting the rowan's protruding roots.

"Ow...!" winced Barabell. Not far from where she lay, Chummer's ears perked.

"Didja 'ear that?" he asked Hollowgill. "That was a voice. A brat, by the sounds of it. Now, din' Crabcull say Rangum an' Lansah might've settled down an 'ad one by now?"

It took Hollowgill a second to respond. She was surprised, and a bit peeved, that Chummer had not been a fool like she had previously thought.

"Ain't 'eard no voice," lied Hollowgill. Chummer squinted at her, before loading his slingshot with another stone and starting off in Barabell's direction.

"Stay 'ere, then," Chummer snarled. "I'll get the brat meself."

"Not without me, ye don't..." hissed Hollowgill. Barabell had recovered by this time, and hearing the Juskalaith pair grow closer, she ignored the dull pain in her back and took off on all fours. Her cover was blown, but that was not Barabell's concern. She needed to find her father. Chummer and Hollowgill looked after her.

"Oi!" Chummer shouted as he began running, twirling the sling. "Stop! I said stop, brat!"

Barabell, of course, did not listen. Chummer launched the stone. It cut through the air, its whistling growing louder and louder in Barabell's ears. She tried running faster, hoping and praying that it would miss.

THWACK!

"Ahh!" Barabell cried in pain as the stone caught her left footpaw. She fell flat on her belly with a groan. Chummer and Hollowgill rushed to close the distance. They would not kill the young vixen, not yet. The one ordering them about, Crabcull, would find young Barabell to be very interesting.

Barabell's paw was throbbing. Even the smallest flexing of her toes sent pain all throughout it. This was bad. They were going to catch her! Fear began to take over despite the weapon she carried. Although she could have attempted to load her bow, there was no guarantee that she could land a good blow, and the other Juskalaith would deal with her immediately after. Her golden eyes glistened with tears and she slammed them tight as she lay amid the leaf litter. Barabell had always hoped that her first fight against enemy Juska would be at her parents' side, Club providing aid and Moggs ready to tend to their wounds after their victory. The fantasy had excited her before, but she felt no such excitement now. The young vixen was terrified.

"Papa!" Barabell screamed as hot tears ran down her cheeks. "Papa, help!"

The shadows of her pursuers fell over her. Barabell looked up to see the wicked sneers of the ferret and stoat.

"Aww..." cooed Hollowgill, malice dripping from her words. "Poor baby's callin' for 'er Daddy. Not t'worry, lass. We ain't gonna 'urt ye, hehe..."

"'Ey, 'ow's about ye tell us where yer Ma is, and we'll all go on a nice trip to the Juskalaith camp?" Chummer hummed. "Our friend Crabcull would love to see the two o' ye. C'mon. Speak up."

Barabell couldn't speak, instead, silently shivering as she looked up at the Juskalaith beasts. Hollowgill gained an evil glint in her eye and allowed sunlight to glint off her dagger.

"Answer the question!" she roared. "Stupid brat. Talk, or I'll bleed ye! Talk!"

"Just leave me alone!" sobbed Barabell. "I don't wanna go wi' ye!"

Chummer put away his sling and raised his paw in preparation for a strike. "Tsk. Stan' back. The brat won't talk. I'll just knock 'er out an' we can--"

Chummer never finished his sentence. Before the ferret even knew what happened, an arrow shot him through the back of his head. The lifeless Chummer crumbled to the ground. Hollowgill's previous aggression left her as fear took over. Frantically, the stoat ran to the trees for cover, only a large figure to appear in front of her and bash in her skull with a heavy club. She fell onto her back, dead. A silent Barabell stared at the two slain Juskalaith, and then at her approaching saviors: Rangum Nock and Black Alder Club.

"Barabell!" gasped Rangum as he came to his daughter's side. He knelt down and helped her into a sitting position. Barabell groaned at the pain from her injuries, but they were nothing compared to the amount of shame she felt in her heart. "Oh, lass! 'Ell's teeth, I thought we wouldn't make it 'ere in time. Me an' Club 'eard you screaming..."

"I..." Barabell's voice was barely above a whisper. Her mouth stayed open, but no other words would come out. She wanted to say that she was alright, but that was a blatant lie. Her paw stung, her body ached, and her pride was wounded. Her ears fell as she turned away from her father's concerned face. With a gentle paw, Rangum made her look at him.

"'Ey..." said the Taggerung softly. "Yer safe now, Barabell. I'm 'ere, alright?"

Barabell's eyes turned away. She said nothing. Rangum was about to speak again when a low growl from Club stole his attention. Rangum turned to see Club lifting Chummer's head and pointing to the tattoos. Rangum's eyes narrowed.

"Juskalaith," hissed the Taggerung. With a serious look in his eyes, he focused on Barabell again. "Tell me, lass, was it just these two? Or were there others?"

"...There were five of 'em," Barabell whispered. "I saw 'em from where I was 'idin', up in the trees..." She pointed up to her hiding place. With wide eyes, Rangum and Club glanced at where she was pointing and then stared at each other. A moment later, Rangum managed a small laugh.

"So this is 'ow I find out my cub's a tree-walloper, eh?" It was an attempt at lightening the mood, but Barabell's look of embarrassment never changed. Rangum cleared his throat. "Right, so, which way did they go, Barabell?"

"To the east," replied the vixen. She pointed again. "I shot an arrow that way, where the Stone Border is. I tricked 'em an' made 'em think you were shootin' birds. The five of 'em left before, but those two came back..." She paused for a moment. "They want t'kill you, and take me and Mama away."

Rangum felt the fangs of rage grip his heart. His fur bristled, and his eyes darkened and he pulled another arrow from his quiver. A startled Barabell looked up at him.

"Did they mention Crabcull?" asked the Taggerung in a low voice. Barabell nodded quickly. Rangum fit the arrow to his bow and looked to Club. "I figured that black-'earted cur wouldn't leave us be."

"Who is he, Papa?" asked Barabell. "Who's Crabcull?"

"We'll talk about that later," answered Rangum Nock. "Right now, y'need to get t'camp and get those wounds taken care of. Club."

"I'm fine, Papa, really!" protested Barabell as she tried to stand. She yelped as she stepped on her injured paw. Club approached her, holstering his weapon on his back and scooping the vixen up in his arms.

"Take 'er to Moggs," ordered Rangum as he began to track where the remaining Juskalaith had gone. "I'll be back."

Club nodded and obeyed, taking Barabell in another direction. Barabell squirmed, ignoring the pain in her body as she called after her father.

"Papa! I can 'elp! Please! I'm fine! Papa!"

The youngster's voice faded the farther away Rangum got. He frowned deeply. Barabell's humiliation had not been lost on him. She wanted to impress him so badly and earn her Juskanock markings. Perhaps, had the Juskalaith not interfered, she might have bested him. Such a strange concept, a fox hiding in a tree. In hindsight, Lunger Longtail should have been a clue. Rangum shook his head, and focused on his current task. Clumsy walkers, these Juskalaith were. They had kicked up leaf litter without a care in the world.

"Should've come 'ere an' faced me yerself, Crabcull," muttered Rangum under his breath. "Then again, you always did like makin' others do yer dirty work for ye. Coward."

Falling silent, Rangum pressed on, sticking close to the trees and shrubs to hide himself. His fur fluffed at a sudden breeze. A bit of down drifted from a roosting bird; for a moment, Rangum thought it to be snow. The first day of winter would be upon the Juskanock soon. The fox gritted his teeth as he recalled Moggs' words that night two autumn's prior. What a fine time for Crabcull to make trouble when he had other things to worry about.

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter Two

It did not take Barabell long to cease her pleading. Certain that her father was well out of earshot, the foxlass could only sulk in silence. Black Alder Club had begun a light jog westward, climbing over exposed roots, boulders and logs, and rounding trees with as much nimbleness as was possible for a rat of his size. Barabell lay in his arms, tight-lipped, and her ears flattened. Her back still stung, as did her footpaw, which she glared at contemptuously. On a better day, one where Barabell found herself victorious against her Juskalaith adversaries, she might have enjoyed being carried home like this. Barabell inhaled sharply as she fought off tears. How she longed to return to that moment when she fell, so that she could have shaken off the fear that paralyzed her. Alas, the past could not be changed, and that fact surged the anger in the young Juska's heart.

"Stupid..." Barabell seethed, breaking the silence. She felt Club's gaze fall upon her, and Barabell turned her face away to hide her tears as they fell. "Stupid Juskalaith, an' stupid Crabcull, whoever 'e is. It's not fair! Why'd they 'ave t'come 'ere today!? I was gonna pass fer sure this time! I know I was!"

More tears fell as Barabell's anger quickly shifted into dejection. She rested her head against Club's chest and heaved a sigh. The rat, still watching her, gained a glimmer of pity in his black eyes. He had been young once, green behind the ears and desperate to earn the markings that would prove his worth. A hopeful fool, he had been, something he paid dearly for. Club scowled at the reminder of his past. Barabell's eyes suddenly bore into him, and Club's face hastily shifted back to his usual expression of indifference.

"Were y'able to do it, Club?" the foxlass asked. "When y'were littler, like me? Kill, I mean?"

"Mmm-hmm," answered Club without hesitation.

"Oh." Barabell's whiskers bristled in frustration. Still, she found herself curious. "Wha' was it like?"

Black Alder Club silently stared at the young vixen. Barabell's eyes widened, and her ears grew warm in embarrassment as she realized her blunder.

"Oh, right. Ye can't speak. Sorry, Club." Barabell paused for a moment. "I wish ye could, though. Would be nice."

Club only shrugged. Admittedly, there were times where he saw his muteness as a blessing of sorts. After all, what was he, a thuggish slayer, meant to say to a whimpering youth? No, comfort was not something the rat was good at. Rangum could handle that, assuming he lived to see the day's end. At the thought of his Chieftain, Club suddenly quickened his pace, now sprinting to the forest's edge. A tiny gasp left Barabell's maw. She held tightly onto Club's fur, fearing that he might drop her in his rush. In time, the trees grew sparse, and the flatlands, painted gold by autumn's brush, were now visible. Black Alder Club spotted a dark billow of smoke in the near distance. Kicking his footpaws free of dead foliage, the rat entered the flatlands and approached the Juskanock camp.

The Juskanock's campsite was a humble thing, consisting of five tents surrounding a small cooking area. To its north flowed the River Moss, supplying fresh water, fish and a border from northern trespassers. Mossflower Woods loomed in the east, and to the west was a watermeadow, another source of food and fresh herbs. The Juskanock settled into this area at the end of the summer months, having traveled from the sandy beaches of the coast. The forest would make for a good hiding place, Rangum had explained, should the winter threat find them. Standing at the cooking fire was Lansah, her arms crossed as she watched her morning catch of trout roast over the open flame. Ol' Moggs sat nearby, sipping the last remnants of brandy from a bowl. When she pulled the bowl from her lips, she sighed in content and eyed the jug sitting beside her. After a moment's consideration, Moggs grabbed the jug, uncorked it, and filled the bowl again. Lansah glared over her shoulder at her mother.

"Drink, drink, drink," spat the spearvixen. "Is tha' all y'can do these days?"

Moggs did not reply at first, locking eyes with Lansah as she took a slow, deliberate sip. "Not quite. I eat a bit, as well. Which reminds me, y'best leave the fish be; watched meat won't cook."

"Spare me yore jokes," Lansah snapped. She turned to face Moggs, her paws moving to her hips. "Tha' brandy's s'posed t'be fer Barabell's ceremony. Don't go gluggin' it all."

"Still ignorin' my vision, are ye?"

"Y'saw wrong. Ever since we've settled 'ere, ye've been seein' wrong."

"Bah..." Moggs waved her hand dismissively. "Yore jus' too stubborn t'listen. Stubborn an' afraid."

"I ain't afraid."

Moggs ignored Lansah's interjection. "Rangum's no better. Sometimes, I wish 'e'd think more as a Taggerung than a mate. Campin' 'ere ain't gonna save us, only—"

"Be quiet." Lansah stepped closer and swiped the bowl of brandy from Moggs' paw. "An' give me tha'. I think ye've 'ad enough."

Shrugging, Moggs stood and prepared to go into her tent. "Fine. Finish it for me; might 'elp wi' yore nerves."

Glowering at the remaining brandy, Lansah huffed and flung it out into the grass. She then chucked the bowl away to deal with later. Moggs, having watched Lansah out of the corner of her eye, shook her head and pulled back the folds of her tent, muttering under her breath:

"Wasteful brat..."
   
Just then, Moggs' ear flicked. She could hear the faintest sound of pawsteps. She looked to her right and could see a dark mass approaching. Though her eyes were not the best, the scent on the wind told Moggs all she needed to know.

"Seems they're back," Moggs commented. Ears perked, Lansah searched around and quickly spotted Black Alder Club and Barabell. For a split second, a grin was stretched across the spearvixen's face, hopeful that Moggs had been wrong. That hope was dashed to pieces upon seeing Barabell in Club's arms, eyes cast downward. She did not see Rangum, either. Lansah's fur bristled as she felt a stare from Ol' Moggs.

"Black Alder," said Moggs as the rat brute entered the campsite. "Barabell. Did somethin' 'appen?"

"...I was," Barabell struggled to begin, but the shame from before caught her tongue. Lansah approached Club, standing over Barabell.

"Go on," ordered Lansah. She seemed calm, calmer than what Barabell had been expecting. The foxlass began shuddering. "Speak up. Somethin' went wrong, didn't it?"

"I-It wasn't me fault!" exclaimed Barabell suddenly. She looked up at Lansah as a fresh set of tears began to fall. "I swear it wasn't, Mammy! It...! It was...! They...! I...!"

Barabell's chest rose and fell at an alarming speed; panic was setting in, and it made it difficult to breathe. Moggs stepped in, nudging Lansah out of the way and pointing at the ground.

"There, Black Alder. Set 'er there. Her footpaw looks swollen. She's been 'urt?"

"Mmm-hmm," replied Club.

"'Urt?" Lansah echoed. Her heart sank; no longer could she deny Moggs' truth. But it was not only Barabell's failure that had her worried. "Where's yore Pa? Why ain't 'e 'ere?"

Barabell hissed as Club set her down. Moggs sat beside her and felt the swollen footpaw for signs of broken bones.

"Ow...!" yelped Barabell. "I...! Pa, 'e's...! 'E's trackin' the Juskalaith! They attacked, an'...! Ow, Nanny!"

Lansah paled beneath her fur. "Juskalaith!?"

"As if things couldn't get any worse..." grumbled Moggs. She turned to Lansah. "Wha' are ye waitin' for? Go. Take Club with ye and find Rangum before they do."

"But wha' if Crabcull--!?"

"Then this'll be yore only chance t'kill 'im. Now, go."

Barabell had never seen her mother in such a state. She watched as Lansah took a deep breath, her brow furrowing as fright became anger. Without another word, the golden vixen made for her and Rangum's tent and returned with a set of spears. She nodded to Black Alder Club, who pulled out his namesake weapon, his eyes dark with the intent to kill. Together, rat and vixen raced towards the woods, leaving Barabell and Moggs alone. The old Seer stepped away to retrieve some items from her tent while Barabell wiped her face on her arm. The silence was uncomfortable, and the cold air did not help. Moggs returned to see Barabell holding herself.

"Tch. If ye were cold, I would've grabbed a blanket while I was in there."

"I'll be okay, Nan..." Barabell assured her.

"Y'sure?" Moggs sat, placing down what she had gathered: a mortar and pestle, a waterskin, and some cloth bandages.  "I don't wanna 'ear any whingin' while I work, aye?"

"Aye, Nan," replied Barabell gloomily.

Moggs got to work. From her long, baggy robes, she pulled out some dried yarrow petals from one of the herb pouches tied to her waist. Crushing them in the mortar and adding some water, Ol' Moggs created a poultice for Barabell's footpaw.

"C'mere," Moggs ordered. "An' don't do all that cringin' an' jumpin'. Sit still."

"Aye, Nan..."

Moggs applied the poultice with as much gentleness as a grumpy, old vixen could muster--which was to say, not very much. Barabell gritted her teeth, but did her best not to cry. A Juskabeast did not cry, that was what she tried to remind herself.

"Stay off it, if y'can," instructed the Seer. "This poultice'll 'elp with the swellin'. Yore lucky nothin's broken. The beast tha' got ye must've 'ad a weak arm. Not one of the Juskalaith's best, clearly."

"D'ye know who Crabcull is, Nanny?" Barabell suddenly asked.

Moggs paused, meeting the foxlass' gaze. "I know 'im, aye."

"Who is 'e? 'E wants t'take me and Mama away, and kill Papa. Why?"

"Hmm, now tha's a long story, lass. T'make it as short as I can, 'e's a nasty, ol' beast, with an even nastier mother. Grew up alongside yore parents back in the Juskalaith territory. 'E 'ad an eye fer Lansah."

Barabell tilted her head. "An eye?"

"I'll put it this way," said Moggs. "If 'e 'ad 'is way, 'e'd be yore Pa and Rangum would be lyin' facedown in the sea fer the gulls t'peck at."

Barabell's ears drooped. "Oh."

"Aye," Moggs sighed. She began tying the strips of cloth onto Barabell's footpaw. "An' 'is Mam 'ad it out fer me, so we all 'ad to leave. Seems 'e didn't want t'give up Lansah so easily. Hmph! Always the entitled one, even when he was a cub."

"Wha' if 'e comes 'ere...?" asked Barabell nervously. "I mean...we're jus' a small band. Wha' if 'e tries t'send more beasts?"

"Winter's almost 'ere," Moggs answered as she looked to the sky. Far to the east, she could see a blanket of steely-grey clouds drawing near. If she had to guess, the first snow of winter would begin around nightfall. "The danger from my vision'll keep the Juskalaith busy, I can guarantee that. Now, don't start askin' me a thousand questions about tha', aye? I can already see 'em formin' in yore 'ead. So long as yore parents lead the way to Redwall Abbey, we'll be safe."

"Can I ask jus' one more question?" begged Barabell. Moggs raised a brow at her. "...After this one, I mean?"

"One more, noisy thing. Go on."

Barabell hesitated. She did not want to waste her question. There were so many things she wanted to know about Redwall Abbey. She did not like to bring it up in fear of Lansah shutting down the conversation. Now, there was nothing to hold her back. Barabell sat up as she chose her question:

"Will there be any other Juska in Redwall Abbey?"

"Interestin' question. Hold on." Moggs stepped away, fetching the bowl Lansah had discarded before and the jug of brandy. Barabell's eyes widened as her grandmother brought it over, poured a bit into the bowl and handed it to her. "Just a bit. Don't tell yore Mam, or she'll chew me 'ead off."

Barabell nodded, took the bowl, and had a quick sip. It was sweet, and incredibly so, with subtle hints of berries and honey. She could not make out the main flavor, however. It left a warm sensation in her throat and belly; Barabell liked it. She grinned and gazed up at her grandmother as she awaited the answer to her question.

"Right," Moggs started, shuffling about and getting comfortable. "I can't speak on the future, least, not yet. But there's an old story of one Juska who lived there, although t'was only for a short while, durin' 'is infancy. Now, this was a long time ago, before the Taggerung Wars began. In fact, some say tha' Juska's the reason the wars even began. Wasn't yore common Juskabeast, either. Not a fox, not a rat, not a...well, y'ain't seen t'many other beasts yet, 'ave ye? Think of a long, brown creature, big and muscly, with extra skin 'tween the paws t'swim."

Barabell tried to picture such a creature in her mind. She was vaguely reminded of Chummer and Hollowgill, mainly due to the body shape. There were so many odd creatures in Mossflower Country, tree-climbers, river-swimmers... What would she learn of next?

"Otters, they're called," Moggs continued, stealing Barabell's attention. "This one's name was Tagg. Funnily enough, 'e was named Taggerung of 'is clan. Juskarath, I think. Nobeast really knows wha' 'appened to 'im. The lad disappeared one day, said t'be killed by some madbeast. Who knows. Anyway, that's yore question answered. Sit still; I'll check on the vittles."

Barabell sighed and set down her bowl. She enjoyed her grandmother's tales. It was a welcome respite from the constant talk of the winter threat. The foxlass watched her grandmother amble off before readjusting herself and staring at Mossflower Woods. She could only wonder how her parents and Club were doing...



The Stone Border was a massive thing, stretching for miles from North Mossflower to the south. It took many seasons and many paws to construct it, all for one purpose: keeping vermin from entering Mossflower Woods and terrorizing its denizens. There was nothing to stop a beast from climbing it, but death awaited them on the other side if they lingered for too long. Merely gazing upon the wall of boulders was enough to ruffle the pelts of the three remaining Juskalaith. They were happy to see that Barabell's arrow had landed several yards away from the border, so that they did not have to come any closer.

The ferret, named Vishur, was the first to break the silence between them. "Fool must get some kinda thrill 'untin' 'round 'ere, eh?"

"Mmm." The leader rat, who was called Driftwood, bent down to examine the arrow closer. "Not the sort t'miss birds, that Rangum. An' if 'e was 'untin', 'e would've come fer this arrer by now."

"Y'think 'e spotted us an' played some trick?" asked Gnaw, the she-rat. "If 'e did, tha's bad news for Chummer an' 'Ollowgill."

Driftwood spat on the ground carelessly. "Serves 'em right for wanderin' off. The worms can 'ave 'em. If Rangum thinks 'e'll split us up any further, 'e's got another thing comin'. I've got a plan. Look."

The rat turned, pointing to the trail left by their footpaws.

"'E'll be usin' tha' t'follow us, I know it. Let's leave 'im a nice, little trail near the Stone Border. We'll corner 'im there, aye?"

Vishur and Gnaw snickered in full agreement. The trio continued, now purposefully kicking up leaves and branches with bloodthirsty gusto. As the Border's shadow fell over them, Driftwood began veering to the right.

"I'll go this way," he told his companions. "Y'two go off in that direction. Wrap around an' hide, but make sure t'cover your trail. Vishur, use yer spear f'tha'. When Rangum turns up, 'e'll think we've gone down one path, and y'two can catch him from behind. Even if y'miss, I can use the distraction t'my advantage."

"I 'ope findin' their camp won't be this tedious," Gnaw complained. "An' tha' Lansah won't make things difficult. Crabcull wants 'er unharmed, but y'know wha' she's like."

Vishur scratched at an unwashed ear. "Don't see why we don't just kill 'er an' say she ran off'r somethin'. It's wha' a traitor like 'er deserves. Moggs too, if she's still breathin'."

"Sounds like a great way t'end up as target practice." Gnaw cuffed the ferret's arm. "Addlebrain."

"Shaddup, the two of ye!" A now agitated Driftwood aimed blows at his clanmates with the flat of his cutlass. "Quit standin' 'ere talkin' an' do as I say! What? Are ye waitin' t'be shot down or somethin'? Y'can do tha' on yer own."

Without waiting for a response, Driftwood stormed off. Vishur and Gnaw obeyed him, but not without complaint.

"Who does 'e think 'e is?" Gnaw rubbed at the tender spot between her ears where the blade had smacked her.  "Hittin' us? Bossin' us around?"

"Thinks 'e's a Taggerdara, that one," Vishur grumbled. Using the shaft of his spear, he nudged the leaf litter back into place as he and Gnaw walked. "Tell ye wha', Gnaw. After we kill Rangum, I'll run 'im through wit' me spear. We'll get all the glory, jus' the two of us."

Gnaw's lips curled back to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. She sniggered. "Deal."

The she-rat did not see the dark look in Vishur's eyes. In his mind's eye, he could see a future where, after slaying Driftwood, he turned and plunged his bloody speartip into Gnaw's neck, payback for hitting him before. He held back from smirking; the she-rat would become suspicious.


Rangum slowed a bit as the Stone Border became visible through the trees. The Juskalaiths' trail went further, but the Taggerung was unsure he wanted to keep going. Admittedly, he felt some pride at just how much distance Barabell's arrow had gone. Rangum was tempted to reward Barabell the Juskanock mark just for that alone, though he knew that she would not accept it. He would be lying to himself if he pretended not to understand. After all, a Juska who could not kill was a Juska the enemy could take advantage of, and he could not always be there to save her. Rangum gritted his teeth. That knowledge only fueled his desire for vengeance against the intruders.

    Ducking behind the trunk of an alder tree, Rangum peered out and scanned the area. He could not see any Juskalaith, only the still forest, which was now darkening as the clouds rolled in. Rangum pulled his jerkin tighter against himself and crept on. Minutes passed, and Rangum eventually neared the shift in the trail, in front of the Stone Border. Barabell's arrow was half-buried in the leaves. Rangum took it, hid himself, and listened. His ears were given no new information. An exasperated exhale left his nostrils. Rangum did not want to go any closer to the Stone Border, even if the trail headed in that direction. The trap was painfully obvious, as well; Rangum could not help feeling the tiniest bit insulted. Still, this made things easy. All that Rangum needed to do was find where the Juskalaith were hiding.

    Driftwood chose a thicket of dying shrubs to serve as his hiding place. He got down on one knee and squinted through the thin branches, swaying slowly to glimpse around the trees. As he licked his lips, his mind would conjure up delectable delights he would be entitled to once the job was done: fresh soups packed with prawns, mussels and crabs, cuts of meat dripping with fat, and spiced mead normally reserved for Taggerung Verratta and her underlings. Saliva dribbled from the rat's maw, which he did not bother wiping away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Driftwood caught sight of Rangum's ginger coat. However, something was off. Rangum was not walking along the trail as expected.

    "What's 'e doin'...?" Driftwood asked himself. He began to growl. "If those two got themselves spotted..."

    He trailed off, standing up and creeping in the direction of the fox, his cutlass raised for a strike. Thinking about it, Driftwood realized that he had no reason to get upset. Gnaw and Vishur could keep Rangum busy while he got closer. It was not exactly what Driftwood had planned, but it could work.

Rangum Nock, unaware that Driftwood was stalking him, searched the area to the left of the trail. It took little time for him to spot Vishur and Gnaw in the distance, crouching behind trees and weapons drawn. They had not noticed him yet. Rangum drew back the string of his longbow, took aim at Vishur, the larger target, and fired.

"Hrrrk!"

Gnaw turned to watch her clanmate fall against the tree he was hiding behind, Rangum's arrow lodged in his throat. With wide eyes, Gnaw looked up to see Rangum reaching for another arrow. The she-rat wasted no time in running for cover, leaving Vishur to bleed out.

"Damn...!" she hissed. "'E didn't follow the trail!? An' Driftwood made it out like tha' plan was foolproof! Oooh! I'll get 'im fer this!"

Of course, that would not be possible if Rangum was not slain first. In Gnaw's paws were throwing daggers, a third still sheathed on her belt. She just needed Rangum to come closer...

Thwang!

Another arrow was fired, hitting the tree Gnaw currently hid behind. Cursing again, she chose the brief window in which Rangum was reloading to move to another tree, one that was a bit closer.

Fwip!

    Gnaw watched the arrow that would have been her death fly past her. She heard paws kicking the leaf litter. Was Rangum coming for her? She could not be sure. And where was Driftwood!?

    With another arrow ready, Rangum began moving to the side so that he could see his prey clearly. Doing so, however, allowed him to see Driftwood, crouched and slinking towards him. Rangum's heart skipped a beat when their eyes met. He recognized the rat. Driftwood gritted his teeth and dove to the side, shouting aloud:

"Gnaw! Kill 'im!"

Fearing an attack from the side, Rangum turned back in the direction Gnaw had been in. His blood ran cold when he did not see her. Rangum's ear flicked at the rustling of pawsteps. He dropped the bow and arrow and tumbled forward, narrowly missing a swing from Driftwood's cutlass.

"'Ell's teeth!" Driftwood cursed. Baring his fangs, the rat watched as Rangum stood and faced him, now armed with the dagger from his leg sheath.

"Got some nerve comin' 'ere," Rangum panted. "Come any closer, an' yer a dead beast. This blade'll go right in that big gut o' yers."

The black-hearted Driftwood began smirking. "Don't act brave, Rangum. I can see it in yer eyes, tha' same fear I saw all those seasons ago."

Rangum jabbed at the air as Driftwood took a taunting step forward. "One rat doesn't scare me."

"Two might," growled Driftwood, his tongue running along his jagged fangs. As much as Rangum wanted to hide it, the bobbing of his throat gave away his terror. He had not killed Gnaw yet, and she was still somewhere behind him. Rangum could not remember how far she had been, not did he have any idea of how good of a throwing arm she had. Driftwood's eyes gleamed with twisted amusement. "The way I see it, ye 'ave two choices: either y'turn t'deal with Gnaw and lose yer 'ead, or y'keep yer sights on me and take a dagger to the back. Heh, glad I ain't in yer position."

Gnaw took this as her signal to try and approach. Gingerly, she stepped out into the open, raising a dagger to throw as she crept into range. Rangum could hear the soft rustling of leaves and twigs not too far behind him. His eyes burned with hatred for the rat in front of him.

Then, to Driftwood's confusion, Rangum's expression calmed as he glanced off to the side, looking behind him. A trick?

"What're y'lookin' at?" Driftwood demanded.

"My mate," Rangum responded. Driftwood now turned, and though he did not see Lansah herself, he did see one of her spears flying towards his chest. Rangum jumped to the side as Driftwood was impaled through his heart. At the same time, Gnaw's dagger shot past him. If there had been even a second of delay...
"What!?" exclaimed Gnaw in dismay. The she-rat stared in disbelief at the uninjured Rangum and the now-lifeless Driftwood, the latter of which was now sprawled atop the leaf litter. Lansah joined her mate's side, the upper part of her left ear sliced into and dripping blood. The dagger had gotten her, not that the spearvixen seemed to care. Heart racing, Gnaw raised her second dagger, but felt a strong paw clutch her wrist. A club was placed beneath her chin as a warning. Swallowing, Gnaw let the dagger go.

"Mmph!" Black Alder Club grunted as he pushed Gnaw down, onto her knees. He raised his club, ready to bash in her skull, when Rangum held up a paw.

"Wait, Club."

Club halted. Rangum and Lansah made their way to the pair of rats. Gnaw trembled, looking between the mated pair and the rat brute, eyes glistening in the hopes of gaining pity. To her dismay, she was only looked at with contempt and, in Club's case, apathy.

"L-Look..." Gnaw's voice trembled. "B-Before y'do anythin' rash, heh, I jus' wanna say--"

"Save it," Lansah barked. She pointed at Gnaw with her spear, its stone tip, inches from Gnaw's twitching nose. "I already know it was Crabcull who sent ye. Where is 'e?"

Gnaw licked her lips. "...B-Back in Juskalaith territory. Ahh! Wait!" She through up her paws as Lansah brought the spear back to stab her. "Please! I'm only one rat, aye? 'Armless! An' C-Crabcull needs t'know yer a band not worth messin' with, heh...!"

Club rolled his eyes and made a gesture with a claw over his neck. Lansah nodded and raised her spear again.

"No! Mercy!"

"Lans," said Rangum as he reached out and grabbed Lansah's spear. She raised a brow at him.

"What?"

Rangum's eyes darkened as he pointed his dagger at Gnaw. "After what her clanmates did to our Barabell, d'ye think she deserves a quick death?"

Gnaw's eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. Her maw opened, wanting to scream and beg for her life, but in her heart, she knew that it was futile. Her fate was sealed. Soon, whatever birds still remained in the area took to the skies, fleeing the blood-curdling screams of the tortured Juskalaith.

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter Three

Rangum Nock, Lansah Bor and Black Alder Club traveled back to the flatlands in silence. Blood stained their faces, claws, and clothing; a trip to the River Moss was a must. The three had gotten their revenge, but the satisfaction it brought them was short-lived. As crows rasped in the distance, descending upon the dead Juskalaith, tension lingered between the pair of fox mates.

Lansah kicked through the leaf litter,gripping her spears so tightly that turned the skin of her paws white. Every now and then, Rangum would look her way, opening his mouth to say something, before deciding against it. Club walked behind the two foxes, watching them both. He shook his head. Sooner or later, Rangum would find the will to speak, and Lansah would lash out. The rat had seen it time and time again.

"Ahem. . ." Rangum cleared his throat. A smirk pulled at Club's lips. A Taggerung drenched in the blood of an enemy, and stuttering like a lovesick mouse. The sight was comical. ". . .Sorry 'bout yer ear."

"T'hell wi' me ear," barked Lansah, keeping her golden gaze on the path ahead. "It's just a cut. You, on the other paw, almost died."

Rangum sighed. "I know."

"T'was a stupid thing y'did," spat Lansah. "Goin' off on yore own like that. Y'should've come back t'camp."

"I 'ad their trail," the Taggerung explained. "There were only the three of 'em. I figured I'd pick 'em off an' be done with it."

"But y'got distracted."

Rangum huffed. "Wasn't meanin' t'be. Tha' Driftwood's faster than he looks. Or was, I should say. Hmph. Good riddance to 'im."

"If we 'adn't gotten t'ye in time. . ." Lansah gritted her teeth.

"Y'did, an' tha's all tha' matters, Lans."

Lansah stopped, whipping around to face her mate. "An' what if we 'adn't!? What if y'died, Rangum!? What in the blazin' Gates are we t'do if ye died!?"

Rangum took a moment to answer, staring at his fuming mate and feeling the watchful eyes of Club against his fur. As calmly as he could, the Taggerung spoke.

"Ye'd find a way t'survive without me."

Lansah's eyes were aflame with wrath. Her spears fell from her paws, and like golden lightning, she lunged forward. Rangum had no time to react as Lansah's claws gripped his shoulders. Both foxes fell into the leaf litter, Lansah landing atop her mate. With a yell, she brought up her paws and began cuffing Rangum's head.

"Don't y'ever say a thing like that again!" shouted Lansah fiercely. "Idiot!"

"Stop it!" Rangum snapped. Using all of his strength, he shoved Lansah, throwing her onto her back with a grunt. Rangum then straddled her, taking hold of her arms, and pinning them down. "Yer overreactin', dammit!"

"Leggo o' me!" The vixen struggled against her mate's grip to no avail. "Get off me!"

"Not until ye've calmed down."

"I am calm!"

Rangum's voice suddenly boomed. "Y'think me a fool, Lansah!?"

Lansah snarled and snapped her teeth, but Rangum was unphased. His hold on her did not slacken until she settled into the leaf litter. Club continued to watch from afar, silently grateful for his lack of a mate. Volatile things, Juska females could be. After a time, Rangum stood, offering a paw to Lansah. The vixen smacked it away.

"I can get up meself," Lansah muttered, dusting herself off once she was on her footpaws. Rangum shook his head, sighing in exasperation, before addressing Black Alder Club.

"Go on. We'll catch up."

"Mmm," grunted Club. The rat carried on, his pawsteps gradually fading until they could no longer be heard over the growing wind. Lansah stood, refusing to meet Rangum's gaze as she went to gather her spears. Rangum rubbed his face, inadvertently smearing still-wet blood on his cheek.

"That 'urt, y'know," he commented. Lansah scoffed, but did not reply. "What? Are ye tryin' t'kill me so no other beast does?"

Lansah shot Rangum a look of warning. "That's not funny."

"Right. I keep forgettin' ye've lost yer sense o' humor."

"Spare me. I'm the only one in this band takin' Mam's omen seriously."

Rangum raised a brow in confusion. "We're all takin' it seriously."

"Tsk," Lansah tutted. Balancing her spears against her right shoulder, the vixen pointed at Rangum. "Y'say tha', but Barabell's spends most of 'er time dallyin'."

"Oh, 'ere we go. . ." Rangum looked to the sky, throwing up a paw in frustration. Lansah continued as if he had not spoken.

"I can 'andle failed tests. What I can't 'andle is how little she's been trainin' in between 'em. Yore content t'let her run around like a headless pheasant. It's no wonder why she snivels like a babe still. She's no Juska warrior, no killer."

"She's still young, Lansah," argued the Taggerung. He folded his arms over his chest. "Moggs' omens don't change tha'. I'm lettin' 'er live the life we agreed she could 'ave."

Lansah spoke in a low snarl. "An' it'll be a short one if she's not ready for battle. Is tha' what y'want, Rangum?"

Rangum bared his teeth at Lansah's accusatory tone. "It was 'er first real fight. Have some pity for the lass."

"Pity. . ." Lansah let out a humorless laugh before staring at Rangum with a face of stone. "We do tha', and she'll expect it from 'er enemies, and they'll tear 'er apart."

Rangum matched his mate's cold expression. "Not if I can protect 'er."

"An' the moment yore distracted. . . the moment we're all focused on fightin', and she's left t'fend for herself, what then? Eh, Rangum?"

Rangum opened his maw to answer, but no answer came. He searched his mind for something, anything, that could alleviate Lansah's doubts. No excuse seemed adequate enough. As Lansah's stare bore into him, Rangum's ears grew hot. Seeing her mate stumped, Lansah spoke again.

"You an' Mam, y'both act as if I'm bein' unreasonable. A brute. Well, I ain't. I want us t'survive, especially Barabell."

". . .Well," Rangum finally managed to say. ". . . Maybe it's time t'consider what Moggs told us back at the old camp, her second omen. Barabell wouldn't need t'fight, then." Lansah bowed her head, ears flat and her muzzle wrinkling in agitation.

"I was afraid ye'd say tha'," she grumbled. "Mam tried to bring that up earlier. I don't want to go, Rangum."

"I know y'don't. But I don't think we 'ave any other choice, Lans."

"They'll kill us. . ." Rangum watched the fur on Lansah's arms stand on end. He stepped towards her, paws outstretched for an embrace, but Lansah backed away, shaking her head. "Not now."

Rangum frowned. "Right." He paused. "'Ere, let's just get clean and get back t'camp. We'll eat, clear our 'eads and figure out what to do later."

". . .Aye." Lansah glanced at her mate's face, slightly puffy from swelling. ". . .Wet cloth'll fix tha'."

"Mmm?" Rangum then realized what she meant. He chuckled. "I've dealt with worse, y'know tha'. Though sometimes I wonder if I would've been better off takin' an adder as my mate instead. Somethin' a bit less ill-tempered, heh."

The pair walked side by side once more. Lansah stuck out her tongue and made a sound most unflattering. "And yore brats would be uglier than the Devil himself."

"Wi' my 'andsome face?" teased Rangun. "Nay."

Rangum began to laugh. Lansah tried to restrain herself by biting her lip, but soon, she, too, started chuckling. Without thinking, she stepped closer to her tod and sighed at the warmth radiating from his winter coat. Rangum stole a glance at her, and after a moment's consideration, he extended his arm to her. Lansah slowed her pace and met Rangum's gaze. The tenderness shining in the Taggerung's eyes burned her. Feeling her own eyes sting with tears, Lansah once again abandoned her spears and allowed Rangum to hold her. Pulling her close, Rangum buried his nose into her neck, finding Lansah's scent beneath the sharp smell of blood. He then pressed his lips against the white fur of her throat. Lansah tilted her head back, eyes closing. Vermin did not trust by nature. Trust belonged to the goodbeasts of Mossflower, and those of their ilk. Few vermin pairs were blessed with such a gift. In times of peril, others of their kind were quick to turn on one another, driven by fear or self-interest. For Rangum and Lansah, life saw them rely on each other, forging a bond free of threats, bribes and lies.

"Oh, Lansah. . ." Rangum's voice trembled as he spoke. High above, the clouds drew ever nearer, bringing rumbling thunder that almost swallowed the tod's words. "The 'ottest flames of 'Ellgates couldn't stop me keepin' this band alive. We'll be alright, all of us. I'll make sure o' tha'."

Fear still clung to the back of Lansah's mind. As she opened her eyes, seeing the clouds swallow the sky, she shuddered.

". . . We need to go," she finally spoke.

Rangum took his time in releasing her. "Aye."



Barabell had retired to her tent, bringing with her some of her mother's roasted trout. Ol' Moggs had the same idea; Barabell could just barely make out the Seer's snores from where she lay. The lass nibbled absentmindedly at the tender, garlicky meat. It helped her take her mind off of her parents and Club, but a meal did not last forever. Setting aside the bones, Barabell looked around the tent's interior. There was not much light, save what poured in through the half-open flaps.

Peering through the dimness, Barabell first spotted her bow, quiver, the traveling pouch from her test, and the little spear Lansah crafted for her. In the opposite corner sat piles of baubles, little things that caught her eye as she explored outside of the Juskanock camp. One pile consisted of freshwater shells and stones, cleaned of silt. Another was made up of the bones of leftover meals. Barabell was particularly fond of bird skulls. She played with them like dolls, giving them names and voices. Then, there was her collection of feathers. At the top of this pile was a brown feather edged with green. The sight of it brought Barabell back to summer's end. The Juskanock had recently arrived from the coast, and Barabell was eager to explore her new home.



The flatlands greeted the lass with the smell of sun-kissed grass and the hum of insect wings. Barabell rushed about, helter-skelter, on all fours, laughing as the wind whistled past her ebony ears. She observed grazing deer, leapt from large stones, and disturbed a sleeping grass snake. All in all, the day was eventful. Before returning to camp, however, Barabell was stopped by the warning cry of a lap-wing.

Pee-wit! Pee-wit!

A female lapwing approached from the tall grass, shrieking and holding her wing at an odd angle. A curious Barabell gave chase, and was mystified when, the moment she got too close, the wing fixed itself and the lapwing flew away. This only made Barabell all the more intrigued. Then, realizing that birds meant nests, Barabell returned to where the lapwing had surprised her. Sure enough, she found the lapwing's scrape. Within it were four speckled eggs, and a few pretty feathers from the mother bird. Barabell kept a feather for herself, and the eggs she brought home as part of the daily vittles. That day was a good one.



The outside air stole Barabell from her memory, nipping at her nose and numbing her paws. Huffing, she pulled her woven blanket over her head, plunging herself into darkness. Barabell prepared to settle down for a nap, but felt something poking her bottom.

Barabell's heart fluttered. "Lunger!"

The lass rolled off of her sleeping mat with haste. She looked and saw her squirrel dollie, Lunger Longtail, laying where she once sat. A crude thing, he was, put together with twigs, twine, and strips of barkcloth for the tail. Still, he was her closest friend, and the thought of crushing him, even accidentally, sent pangs of dread through her heart. Barabell dragged herself back to the mat, being mindful of her wounded paw, and collected the dollie.

"I'm sorry. . ." murmured Barabell, looking into little holes scratched into the wood of the "head" — Lunger's eyes. "Forgot I left ye there, heh. Did I wake ye?"

Lunger stared back at Barabell. Barabell spoke again, but lowered her voice. Life was given to the wooden toy.

"Ah, no, been up fer a while."

"Aye?" Barabell tilted her head. "Doin' what?"

"Thinkin' 'bout trees." As Lunger "responded", Barabell set him down against the tent wall. A wince escaped her as she sat before him. "It's a squirrel's favorite passtime, y'know? Wish I coulda climbed that rowan tree with ye, but me arms are too stiff."

"Pfft. . ." Barabell sputtered her lips, ears splaying. "Wasn't tha' fun anyway. A bunch o' Juskalaith showed up. Bunch o' scumfaces. Club an' Papa killed 'em."

The empty eyes of Lunger bore into the cub. "How 'bout you? Kill any?"

Barabell's head sank into her shoulders. "I'd 'ave me markin's if I did."

There was a long silence before Barabell made Lunger continue.

"Pretend they're birds next time," was the dollie's advice. "Or fish. Aye, tha's it. Stab 'em right in the gills. Tha's all ye've got t'do."

There was a hollowness to Barabell's voice now. "Juska don't 'ave gills."

"Pretend." Lunger did not sound like himself anymore. "Y'have to. Don't think. Just do it."

Barabell did not feel like speaking to Lunger anymore. Quivering, she pulled herself onto her mat, brought the blanket over herself, and entered the darkness again. The warmth that engulfed her was overwhelming. Sleep called her, and Barabell answered, leaving the world for a while.



Aboard the Seavixen, far from the West Coast and Mossflower Wood, Prince Iska Undra also slept.

His dream brought him from a quiet ship cabin to a sandy shore. Iska stood with his back to the waves, gazing out at a field of chaos. War had come to the beach, leaving several vermin dead and dying on the dunes. Fire surrounded them, fed by a viscous resin. The air was choked with white smoke. Iska could only stare in silence. His ears twitched at the wicked laughter of vermin soldiers, charging inland from the corner of his vision. Their blades were raised. They hungered for more bloodshed. Suddenly, a figure approached from the carnage, heading straight for Iska. The lad reached down, laying his paw on the hilt of a rapier.

Shing!

The silver blade was pointed at the figure, who showed no signs of slowing. Iska swallowed. He took a step back, his footpaws wettened by the tide. The fire illuminated the face of the approaching beast. Iska's heart nearly stopped. The creature was a mouse.

"You. . . ?" Iska whispered. He stepped further into the water. It now reached his waist. The mouse showed no signs of slowing. Iska swung the rapier as a warning. "No! Stop! You're not real! You're just a story!"

From his scabbard, the mouse drew out his own blade, a broadsword. Orange light danced along its length. Iska was mortified as the warrior held the blade over his head in preparation to strike. The mouse then gave a command:

"Go."

"Go. . . ?" echoed the young prince. The rapier trembled in his paw. He tightened his grip on it. Furrowing his brow, Iska retorted with as much authority as he could muster. "No. Mossflower Wood will belong to us. Your Abbey will belong to us. It's inevitable."

"Is it?" asked the mouse.

Iska opened his mouth, but his words died on his tongue. Instead, he was hypnotized by the glowing sword, ready to cleave him in two. He screamed at himself to strike. Gritting his teeth, Iska obeyed the order.

"It is!" declared the prince. The water roared as he shot towards the mouse, swinging his rapier. His maw then fell open in horror as the mouse parted like smoke. Iska stumbled forward and fell onto his knees. He saw his face in the water, but also, the reformed phantom. Iska turned to the mouse as the blade raised again.

"No!" Iska yelled. The sword fell upon him. "NO!"



"NO! NO! Umph--!"

Iska found himself tangled in soft blankets, rolling about the floor of the ship's cabin. The prince gasped and grunted, trying to free himself. He heard a door open.

"Majesty!" The rough voice of a guardbeast brought Iska back to reality. There were footsteps, and Iska soon felt the fabric be pulled from him. A rat guard looked down at him. "Y'alright? What's 'appened?"

Iska hesitated. He turned and saw a second rat guard searching the cabin, more than likely looking for a would-be assassin. The prince cleared his throat.

"The sway of the ship knocked me out of bed."

"Hmm. . ." grunted the rat. ". . .Aye, well, that'll 'appen. Ye 'urt at all?"

Iska stood. "Not really, no. In fact, I'm a bit hungry."

"We'll 'ave somethin' brought immediately."

"No." The prince started for the cabin door. "I'll go to the mess room myself."

The rat guards exchanged a glance.

"Are y'sure, Yer Majesty?" asked the second rat.

Iska became insistent. "Yes. Very sure. In fact, you're both dismissed. No need to guard an empty room, is there?"

"No. 'Spose not." The first guard grinned. Who would say no to some time off? He nudged his fellow rat. "Right. C'mon, then."

The rats took their leave. Once their footsteps faded, Iska released a long, deep sigh. He rubbed his weary eyes and went to collect his sword belt from its peg on the bulkhead. Iska fastened it tight around his waist, smoothed down his fur, and stepped out into a narrow corridor.

Prince Iska Undra was a young fox, having just reached his ninth season. Unlike most of his kind, his fur was as white as fresh snow, flecks of silvery-grey marking his forehead like a crown. His shifting eyes were a piercing blue, and his robes were a similar shade. The lad walked with his head high, the fear from his nightmare hidden from the eyes of any he passed by.

"Have you seen Karvas?" he asked a patrolling stoat guard.

"Checkin' 'is supply, Yer Majesty," was the report.

"I see." Iska frowned and carried on. The information did not surprise him. His elder brother, Karvas Undra, would spend hours in the ship's storage if allowed, all so that he could admire his collection of pine resin. Iska was disappointed to hear that Karvas had not changed much since leaving their home.

Home.

Iska's ears fell. How he missed the Isle of Sanctus. He had never been so far from it in all of his life. If only he could go back.

"What to eat. . . ?" Iska decided to distract himself. "Pottage, maybe? Ha. As if there's anything else to choose from. Maybe some hardtack to go with it." He sighed. "I wish we had some nutbread. . ."

Before long, Prince Iska heard raucous laughter and harmonious singing.  He entered the mess room at the height of the lunch hour. Seated at the wooden tables were vermin soldiers, of which there were nearly one hundred. Slavebeasts traveled between the tables to serve grog and bowls of pottage. A trio of slaves stood together in a corner and paired their voices with instruments. Iska strained his ears, hoping to focus on the current song:

Samble, oh Samble, what trouble was he!
'Gainst his dear mother's wishes, he'd play in the sea!
Chasin' cod, eel an' bass, slurpin' oysters all day,
Blind to danger, he was, of the beast, blue and grey.
White-Eyes, she was named, that shark of the reef,
With rage, she swore to swallow that thief!
She attacked from the dark, snapping teeth so white,
But the sun caught her eyes, and she swerved to the right!
She gave Sam a scare and with haste, did he flee,
And he cried, "Oh, Marmmy, don't let 'er catch me!"
White-Eyes gave chase, sent the lad 'cross the bay.
Young Samble turned left, spied some rocks in his way.
The otterlad smirked, for he knew what to do.
Upwards did he go, like an arrow, he flew!
Too fast, White-Eyes swam, and crash, she did,
And to the depths of the reef, she slid!

The soldiers quieted down, somewhat, when they noticed Iska's arrival, but that act of etiquette was quickly forgotten when the song concluded, and shouts for new songs came. Iska did not mind. He was quite fond of the musicians; he could not blame others for enjoying them as well. The prince arrived at a table reserved for himself, Karvas, and their two generals. Presently, one general was seated, a large male wolverine berserker who greedily devoured strips of dried fish.

"General Urz," said Iska as took a seat. Urz paused his noisy chewing, saliva oozing from the corners of his maw. Iska did his best not to visibly cringe.

"Young Prince. . ." growled Urz. "Returned to the land of the living, have you?"
   
    "Indeed." Iska turned to face a pretty mousemaid that had approached him. His paw clenched as he remembered his nightmare. Taking a deep breath, Iska spoke as calmly as he could. "I'll take a bowl of pottage and a biscuit."

The mousemaid gave a curtsy. "Yes, good Prince." She turned to leave, but a raised paw from Iska stopped her.

"I'll take some honeyed milk as well."

"Bah!" General Urz interrupted. "Drink some grog! Put more fur on your chest."

Iska fixed his general with a hard stare. "I'll have honeyed milk, I said."

"Pheh!" Urz returned to his fish. The mousemaid stared between the fox and wolverine, wanting nothing more than to be dismissed. She rushed off when Iska waved his paw at her.

". . . Has land been spotted yet?"

"Hmm?" Urz swallowed another mouthful of food. He then took a long swig of grog and smacked his lips. "Ah, land, yes. The coast's been spotted. Should reach the shallows by sunrise."

Iska's heart sank.

"Good. I'll let Karvas know."

The General raised his head and sniffed indignantly. "Let's hope he doesn't kill all of our potential recruits, the fool. I've a mind to dump that resin into the sea and be done with it."

"Watch your mouth," Iska warned the fearsome beast. "You're boarding on treason, and Father told me to show no mercy to traitors, not even you, Urz."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Fox and wolverine stared intensely at one another. For Urz, the situation was almost laughable. A cub threatening him with treason? His paw could easily break the lad's neck. And yet, Iska held his gaze without flinching. Urz was reminded of the prince's father, King Renvoll. A thought passed through the berserker's mind: just what sort of skills had the king taught his son in secret, so that he could fell a beast such as himself if it ever came to it? Urz swallowed. Iska began to smile.

"Let me handle Karvas," was the prince's request. "Can you do that?"

Urz was momentarily speechless. He cleared his throat. ". . . I can do that, yes."

Iska nodded. "Good."

A bowl of pottage topped with a sea biscuit was placed before the fox prince. The pretty mousemaid had returned. The honeyed milk came next. "Your Majesty."

Iska gave the slave mouse a nod, before bringing the mug to his lips and tasting the sweet, nutty concoction. He felt Urz's eyes leave him, and his shoulders untensed. When he had enough, he started on his meal. The pottage was nothing special, though he liked the oiliness of the herring. It was nothing compared to what he ate normally, however. Despite his hunger, Iska ate slowly, deliberately. Shoveling food into his maw was the act of a lesser beast; that was what his father taught him. As Iska began gnawing on the soup-soaked hardtack, a sudden shout came from another table.

"Thief!"

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter Four

Thud!

A mouse was thrown to the floor, landing in the room's center for all to see. The slave singers fell silent. Heads turned to catch a glimpse of the failed thief. From the mouse's paw slipped a chunk of hardtack, clattering across the floorboards and scattering crumbs. The shadow of a she-ferret soldier spilled over him like ink on parchment. This guard was known among the army as Arrdah.

"Didn't think I'd notice yer grubby little paws near me food, eh, mouse?" seethed the ferret. She pulled a scimitar from her hip and pointed its curved tip at the slave. "Yer rations ain't good enough fer ye? 'Ave t'steal from a 'ard-working soldier, did ye?"

The mouse slowly sat up, rubbing the arm that took most of the impact. He laughed mirthlessly, glaring at the vermin looming above him. "Hard-working? Is that what you tell yourselves? Are you the one running the kitchens?" He spied a mess of spilled grog under a table. "Cleaning your messes!?"

As the mouse's voice loudened, the air grew thick with hostility. Teeth were bared, and some spat curses. It seemed that, at any moment, any number of them would pounce on the slave and silence his insolence permanently. General Urz licked his chops. Blood would be drawn; he could feel it in his bones. This suited him far better than silly shanties about otters. His grin slipped when Iska rose from his seat.

Arrdah gripped the slave by the collar of his tunic. "Watch tha' tongue 'fore y'lose it, mouse. Yer fed. Yer clothed. Yer protected. What more d'ye want, y'ungrateful little minnow?"

"You've taken everything we have!" said the furious mouse, wrestling with Arrdah's claws in a fight for freedom. "And all we get are scraps! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of you vermin!"

"Shut it!" Arrdah ordered. The onlooking vermin cackled and cheered as he was slammed against a tabletop. As the wind was knocked out of him, the mouse could only utter a strained groan. Dark spots formed in his vision. Arrdah held aloft her blade.

"Y'want more vittles, eh?" She began. She met the eyes of a sitting rat. "Somethin' fresh? Well, 'ow's 'bout a taste o' yer own arm? Should do y'fine, hehehe!"

The rat smiled and forced the mouse's arm straight. The mouse flailed his footpaws, but Arrdah caught them both in a single claw. Most of the slaves averted their gaze. One volemaid wailed, and rushed to Arrdah's side, throwing herself at the ferret's footpaws.

"Mercy!" she screamed. "Please, he's learned his lesson! Don't hurt him, I beg you!"

"Enough!" Iska tried to lift his voice over the cacophony of soldiers, but in their bloodlust, they did not listen. The prince started for Arrdah. Urz's want for butchery was so great, that he nearly reached out and grabbed the fox's robe. He stopped himself just before his claws could scrape the fabric. Iska unsheathed his rapier as he walked. The gleam of silver caused the chaos to wane. Arrdah did not notice just yet, kicking the poor volemaid away.

"Get off! Touch me again, and yer--uhh!"

The mess room quieted in an instant. Arrdah, feeling something sharp against her back, went stiff.

"Did you not hear me?"asked Iska calmly. "I said that's enough."

"P-Prince Iska. . ." The scimitar slipped from Arrdah's paw with a loud clang. She attempted to laugh, though it sounded as if her throat had gone dry. ". . .G-Got a bit. . . carried away, heh. Jus' scarin' the mouse a bit. Deserves it fer disrespectin' 'is betters, a-aye?"

"Mmm-hmm." Iska knew what needed to be done. Renvoll warned him that a time like this would come. For days, he hoped that his father would be wrong. Now, the creatures under his command were watching him. General Urz was watching him. He ordered himself to act swiftly. The voice of his mind sounded exactly like his father. "You know, it's very rude not to look at me when I'm talking to you."

"O-O' course, Your Majesty. . ." Arrdah turned quickly, hoping to earn the prince's good graces with a crooked grin. It would be the last thing she ever did.

Iska plunged the rapier's tip into Arrdah's throat.

Both vermin and woodlander watched with horror as Iska withdrew the blade. and took Arrdah collapsed onto her back, her dying gaze searching for Iska's. The prince kept his eyes on his blade, wiping it clean with a cloth produced from his robe pocket. He gave a clear order to his soldiers.

"Get rid of her."

The order was obeyed promptly. Iska then turned to the performers. Words were not necessary; they began a new song. The rest of the slaves continued their work, save for the mouse and volemaid. The volemaid lingered near the table, wanting to see what would become of her friend.

The rat guard, terrified that his end would be next, moved his claws to the scruff of the mouse slave's neck and forced him to sit up. "Got 'im right here, Lord. Not goin' anywhere, this'un."

"Take him to the deck and punish him there," demanded Iska. "But no serious injuries. If he can't work, he's useless."

With a nod and a sinister grin, the rat pulled the mouse off of the table. The mouse dragged his footpaws, giving some resistance, but the vermin soldier was far stronger. The slave shouted over the music at Iska:

"Putrid fox! Just like your father and his court! Murderer! Slaver! Sooner or later, you'll all get what's coming to you!"

The music and song drowned out the mouse's voice when he disappeared into the hallway. Iska felt suddenly fatigued. He only wanted a nice meal. Sheathing his blade, the young fox turned to the volemaid, who jumped when their eyes met. He shoved his bloody pocket cloth into her fidgeting paws. "Clean that. Find me when you're done."

The volemaid hung her head. "Y-Yes, good Prince."

Iska finally allowed himself to return to his table. As his eyes flickered towards the ground, he noticed that the dropped hardtack had disappeared. Given the lack of rage towards another slave, Iska could only assume that some opportunistic soldier had picked it up. He wanted to laugh, but he could not. His duty as prince had been completed, at least, for now. He hoped for no more incidents. General Urz watched the lad take his seat. His platter still possessed a few fillets of salty, dried cod. He could not bring himself to finish the meal. Only Renvoll had the power to still his paw. He had not expected either of his sons to possess that ability. Worse was that it was the younger of the two to do it, a cub who had not even reached his full height. The realization made Urz taste bile. The great wolverine stood up and stormed out of the mess room, leaving his prince in silence.

Prince Iska Undra watched the wolverine's departure out of the corner of his eye. Only now did the crushing weight of what he had done hit him. Iska stared, blankly, into his half-eaten bowl of pottage, knowing that this would be the first of many executions and displays of regal judgment. He would not be able to avoid the eyes of the dead forever. And the phantom. . .

"Eat," he uttered a soft command to himself. Iska ladled some salted broth, oats and carrots onto a wooden spoon. "Don't think about it right now. When you're finished, go see Karvas."

With the order given, Iska ate, drank, and lost himself in the ballads and poems of the slave band.



The Seavixen's cargo hold smelled of stale air and damp wood. The vessel groaned as the ocean put pressure on her wooden planks, but Prince Karvas was deaf to it. The fox sat in the cramped space, surrounded by crates and barrels. One crate sat before him, open and exposing its contents. Jars of amber resin filled the interior, save for one empty spot. Karvas held the last jar and was toying with the sticky liquid. He would dip the tip of his paw inside, take it out and watch as the liquid dribbled back in. The sight hypnotized him. He did it again and again. Karvas had yet to grow weary of it.

Like young Iska, Karvas was a white fox. Instead of small, silver flecks, Karvas's eyes, ears and back were decorated with large, blue-grey patches, like soot on a bed of fresh snow. His eyes were yellow, a color shared with his mother, Queen Acedia Undra.

Gathering the sap on his paw-tip once more, Karvas gently placed the jar back into its space in the crate. He brought his paw to his nose and inhaled. The pine resin had a distinct smell, sharp, yet sweet. It reminded Karvas of home. The prince reached down and opened the hinge of a lantern resting beside him. He then brought the lantern to eye-level with his clean paw. The flame danced in his eyes. With quick breaths, he brought the resin-covered paw close to the flame.

"Stop!"

Karvas froze. Turning to his left, he saw his brother, Iska, staring at him from afar. The cub prince's eyes were wide with panic. As if shaken from a spell, Karvas set the lantern down and wiped his paw clean with a robe cloth.

The elder prince spoke with indignation. "You know better than to shout at me while I'm handling resin. I was getting a better look, nothing more."

"Don't lie." Iska's paws curled into fists, his brow furrowing. The emotion he had been holding back now manifested into anger. "I told you to stop doing that! We're still seabound! One wrong move, and you'll kill us all!"

Karvas twitched his whiskers irritably. "Keep your voice down! You'll send the army in a panic. If Urz comes down here to lecture me, he'll get a dagger to the throat."

"And Gorehund will kill you right after," said Iska plainly.

"Ha!" Karvas placed the lid back on the open resin jar and closed the crate. He then stood, tall and sophisticated. His silver robes were tinted soft orange in the low light. "She can certainly try."

Shaking head, Iska pointed to the wooden ladder leading into the cargo hold. "Go upstairs, get some fresh air and food."

"Telling me what to do?" Karvas bent down and flashed Iska a devilish grin. The paw that was still slick with resin pinched the young prince's cheek. "Remember yourself, dear brother. This is my siege. You're helping me."

Iska smacked Karvas' paw away. "Act like this is your siege, then. Tomorrow, we'll have reached Mossflower Country. We need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"What's your plan when we reach the shore, then?"

Karvas lifted his head high and clasped his paws behind his back. "We search for good fighters, and we give them an ultimatum: join our Empire, or burn."

Iska frowned. "You need to be careful with that resin. If you burn down the entire forest, we won't have an Empire. And Father. . ." The cub prince trailed off, ears splaying.

"Father will have what he wants, worry you not." The elder prince passed his brother, making for the hold's ladder. "As for the resin, I know what I'm doing."

Iska laid a paw on his rapier's hilt. The blade slid out partially, but the lad hesitated. Sighing, he put the rapier back into its scabbard.

"I really hope you do," was Iska's delayed response. He stayed in the cargo hold for a time, looking at the crate of pine resin. As much as he loathed to admit it, Urz might have had a point about disposing of it. Yet, he dared not provoke Karvas. The resin made him act like a madbeast, and he did not want to be made into a pincushion with daggers. After taking some time to settle his fur, Iska left for the ship's upper deck.



Nearly a score of slavebeasts funneled into the ship's brig that evening. With the day's work done and the soldiers retiring to their quarters, the slaves were to be locked away and fed their meager rations. A big, muscular weasel named Muggir served as the brig guard. He was armed with a whip, and every so often, he would lash it above the heads of the slaves to startle them.

CRACK!

"Move, move, move!" Spit flew from Muggir's stinking maw. "Last one in feels the whip, haha!"

The male slaves allowed the maids and wives to enter before them. The volemaid and mousemaid from the mess room were some of the first to enter the cell. Their mouths fell open in horror as they saw their friend, the mouse slave, laying limp on a pile of old potato sacks. They rushed to him, falling onto their knees.

"Kell!" sobbed the volemaid. The mousemaid checked him over, blinking hard as tears filled her eyes. Kell was beaten from head to tail. Soft groans escaped his bleeding lips with every breath he took. The voices of his friends caused him to stir. Despite his swollen face, he grinned.

"Rushlet. . ." he murmured. "Molly. . ."

"Hush now. . ." Rushlet, the volemaid, rested Kell's head in her lap. "You shouldn't talk too much."

Molly stood. "I'll ask for water. It should help with the swelling."

"They won't give me water. . ." Kell scoffed. "Don't bother. They'll only hurt you. Just stay here."

Molly nodded, though she frowned as she sat down. She looked to the brig's entrance. Muggir had his whip raised, preparing to strike.

CRACK!

An otter howled as the whip caught his back. Muggir's laughter echoed off the walls, and he slammed the prison door shut. Molly clenched her paws.

"The rotten beast!" she said with an angry twitch of her tail. Immediately after, her features softened and she buried her face into her knees. "Oh, but that's nothing new, is it? At least the ship is docking in the morning. I can't imagine the soldiers will take us with them on their awful invasion."

"Not unless they need entertainers," Rushlet pointed out. She looked around and spotted the musical trio, which consisted of a hare, a hedgehog and an ottermaid. "Bless their souls if they're taken. Can you imagine having to watch—"

Molly pulled down her ears. "Oh, Rushlet, please don't. I can't bear to think of it."

"Paws out!" Muggir was now yelling. He brought a pail to the iron bars, reaching in with a paw. "Get yer vittles! Quickly!"

"Go on, Molly," said Rushlet. "I'll stay here with Kell."

Molly nodded, and after giving Kell's hand a light squeeze, she left. Kell lowered his voice.

"Speaking of food. . . did my distraction work?"

Rushlet smiled and patted her apron pocket. "I got a few pieces of hardtack, and whatever I could fish out of some pottage in a pinch."

"Good, good. Ow!" Rushlet had twinged his ear. He looked up at her with a look of bewilderment. "What was that for?"

"For scaring me half to death," the volemaid scolded. "Stealing was enough of a risk without you giving a speech. Iska could have seen that as treason!"

Kell decided to sit up and look at his friend properly. "I'm sorry for scaring you, Rushlet, but I just couldn't hold back anymore. First Sanctus, now Mossflower. . . how many good creatures have to suffer until the Undras are satisfied?"

"Oh, Kell. . . !" Molly whispered, her voice tight with panic as she returned to her friends. She carried a small mound of mashed, pickled vegetables and beans in her paws, a truly pitiful meal. She held the mash out for Kell and Rushlet to take a share. "Muggir will come in here and give you a second beating if he hears you. . . !"

Kell pinched off some of the mush. Rushlet passed him a piece of hardtack when she was certain Muggir wasn't looking in their direction. "He might break something if he does. Muggir won't risk being killed."

Rushlet licked tangy brine from her paw. "Still, you need to be more careful, Kell. Vermin don't think of consequences in the moment, you know that. We'd hate to lose you." The volemaid then managed a giggle. "I know that Molly would."

"Rushlet!" Molly's ears and nose were bright red, and as Kell beamed at her, she pulled her apron over her face. "Really, now!"

The three friends laughed together, bringing warmth to their cold, damp cell. Rushlet and Molly began emptying their pockets of what they had managed to steal during Kell's distraction. They waited for Muggir to enforce curfew by blowing out the brig lanterns, before passing around extra food to the other slaves. Soft words were exchanged:

"Bless you, pretty one."

"Are you sure? You're younger. You need more than me."

"We can share, alright?"

It was far from a feast, but the camaraderie between slaves made up for their hunger. One by one, the woodland creatures settled into sacks and old, tattered clothes to sleep. Kell slept close to his two friends, growing warm when Molly curled up beside him. As he stared at the blackness above him, feeling the sway of the Seavixen, listening to the snores of those around him, he began to think of Iska, the cub prince, son of the vile King Renvoll. Kell hated the foxes. He hated Renvoll. He hated Karvas. He hated the court that treated him and other woodlanders like they were lesser than them. Yet, as he thought of Iska, the Undra who had so callously slain his own soldier, he felt a different emotion. Anger, yes, but not an absolute hatred that he felt for the other foxes. After all, Iska was only a lad. He had a sister back in the Isle of Sanctus who could have been Iska's age. What was a cub doing leading an invasion, bringing death across the sea? Deep within his heart, Kell felt a sort-of pity for the prince.

"No. . ." Kell said under his breath. "He's an Undra. I shouldn't feel for him. I won't feel for him. His father and brother are in him and there's no changing that. I can't let him take Redwall Abbey. But what are we to do. . . ?"

That question hung in the air and Kell had no answer for it. Sighing, he lay his head upon the scratchy potato sack and let the Seavixen rock him to sleep.

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter Five

Not a single creature dared to speak as Mallach, Seer of the Juskalaith tribe, performed her ritual. Night had fallen over a vast camp perched on the edge of Mossflower's coastal pines. The stars were consumed by black clouds and spat out as snowflakes. Thunder rumbled; the vermin below could feel it in their bones.

A great bonfire had been lit for the occasion. Its smoke choked the air with the scent of burnt pine needles and dried flowers. Mallach danced with the flames, yowling a song in the Juska tongue. Her eyes, greener than ferns in summer, were rolled back into her head. It was as if the beasts of Hellgates had taken control of her body. Some Juskalaith warriors trembled from the cold. Others were haunted by Mallach's odd spectacle. Yet, two beasts stood unaffected. One was the Juskalaith leader, the she-weasel, Taggerung Verratta Laith. The other was Mallach's son, Crabcull, Taggerdara of the Juskalaith.

Taggerdara was a relatively new term to the Juska tribes, another product of the Taggerung Truce. A Taggerung's closest warriors were gifted the title, granting them authority that could only be overturned by the Taggerung themselves. Crabcull was one of three Taggerdaras, and he made sure that every creature knew it.

The heat of the fire was heavy against Crabcull's fur. He stood, alone and apart from the crowd, a dead squirrel lying limply in his arms. He awaited his mother's command with begrudging patience. He did not care for ritual theatrics. Crabcull was a handsome tod, whose sleek, auburn coat accentuated his striking emerald eyes. His muscular body and confident stance would turn the heads of many a vixen. None of them held Crabcull's interest. Only one vixen had ever set fire to his black heart.

Six days had passed since Crabcull's hunters went to search for the Juskanock band — seven, come midnight. He had sent them south, believing that Rangum Nock would use the proximity to Salamandastron as a form of protection. He hoped for results soon. He wanted Lansah. He wanted his legacy.

Crabcull's eyes flickered back into focus as Mallach came to an abrupt stop. Slowly, she turned to him, extending a paw. She gave a ghostly command.

"Feed the Mother of Hellgates."

The Taggerdara stepped forward, slowly and deliberately. The heat intensified, as if he stood before that fiery maw of the damned. He raised the body of the squirrel.

"Feast!" Crabcull's voice rose above the roar of the flames. "And grant us knowledge!"

Crabcull cast the body into the bonfire, where it was quickly devoured. Dark smoke writhed and twisted, filling the air with a vile stench. Mallach approached the fire, raising her paws into the air, maw open. The tribe waited. Then, without warning, Mallach gave a horrible scream. The younger vermin jumped. Unease spread throughout the older beasts. Even Verratta had fur standing on end.

"Vecks Augu has blessed me!" Mallach shrieked. "Winter! Winter brings death! The morrow brings a ship from the west! A galleon of fire and death! They come for Mossflower! They come for the red-stone Abbey!"

The Juskalaith stood as one. Weapons were drawn and paws were clenched in panic and rage. Crabcull could only stare at his mother in shock. Verratta Laith gave a mighty bark.

"Do we slay them? Tell me, Seer!"

Mallach drew in a dry, rattling breath. The Juskalaith leaned forward.

"Many will enter Hellgates."

The Seer convulsed and crumpled to the ground. Crabcull rushed to her, picked her up in his arms and pressed a paw to her neck. She was alive, but unconscious. The Juskalaith vermin erupted into disorder, shouting over one another.

"I ain't enterin' Hellgates! She's not talkin' 'bout me!"

"We should leave! Let the enemy take Mossflower!"

"Why not join 'em!? Imagine the bounty! The glory!"

Verratta stood near the bonfire and bellowed over the gathered assembly. "SILENCE!"

The Juskalaith slowly hushed themselves, leaving only the crackling logs and the wailing gale. Strapped to Verratta's back was a battleaxe once wielded by her mother, Sloangra. Verratta pulled it free and held it up, letting the fire reflect off it.

"More than a hundred Juskalaith sit around this fire, and I hear talk of fleeing? Submission!?" The weasel spat into the dirt. "Nonsense! This is Juskalaith land! I'd sooner be beheaded by my own axe than give up what is mine by law! If I die, then so be it! If the enemy falls, even better! But we are not bowing to seabeasts!"

Protests began. Not all in the tribe shared Verratta's pride. Perhaps she was content to be part of that prophesized "many", but they were not. A vixen armed with a cutlass stepped forward. Her name was Saltbrush.

"Yer the one speakin' nonsense!" Saltbrush raised her weapon threateningly. "If y'think fightin' an' dyin's the way t'go, yer a bigger fool than yer mother, dirtdog."

"Saltbrush. . ." hissed Verratta. "So you've finally decided to swallow your fear and challenge me? I've heard you making complaints behind my back, you miserable skulker."

Saltbrush looked around to her fellow vermin for support. "If I became the tribe's Taggerung, I'd 'ave us livin' a life o' comfort! Let's join these seabeasts an' let them be the ones t'die! We'll be the ones to own the Abbey in their place!"

Rowdy cheers rang out in support of Saltbrush, but Verratta's loyal followers were equally loud in their convictions. Crabcull set his mother down and rose to his footpaws. Slowly, he pulled a longbow from over his shoulder. Verratta met Crabcull's eyes, and the weasel smirked.

"It's a challenge, then," began the Taggerung. "The winner decides how the tribe moves forward."

Saltbrush tossed her cutlass from paw to paw as her supporters banged their weapons and hollered. To her surprise, Verratta returned her battleaxe to its sling.

"What are y'doin'!?" the vixen barked. "Arm yerself!"

A fanged grin stretched across Verratta's face. "I should mention that Juskalaith law requires a trial against the tribe's Taggerdaras before the Taggerung is fought. Nobeast has ever been foolish enough to challenge me, so I can't blame you for not knowing, haha!"

Saltbrush's maw fell agape. "Wha'!?"

A hard-eyed Crabcull notched his bow, aiming for Saltbrush's leg. But that was not all. A she-rat and a brown-furred ferret emerged from the crowd of Juskalaith, both of them Taggerdaras. The rat was named Kelplah Hooksharp, named for the pair of hooks she butchered foes with. The ferret was called Drekk, a fearsome brawler. The three Taggerdaras closed in on Saltbrush, who looked frantically between her opponents.

"This ain't fair!" Saltbrush dropped her cutlass and raised her paws. "Wait, wait! I ain't ready! I-I changed me--!"

Fwip!

Saltbrush clutched her leg, screeching in agony. She had little time to focus on the arrow when Drekk slogged her across the face. The vixen stumbled—right into Kelplah's path. The she-rat grinned madly.

Slash!

Rip!

The execution was a horrid display of Juska cruelty. Arrows pierced flesh, paws dealt blow after blow, and the hooks sliced. When the slaughter was over, Saltbrush was splayed in the snow, melting it with her blood. Verratta watched it all, chuckling. The Juskalaith would fight.

"Do any other creatures feel like testing their luck?" shouted the weasel. The Juskalaith vermin looked at one another. Not one of them stepped forward. "Smart. Back to business. Crabcull, Kelplah, Drekk. You take a score with you and keep watch at the beach. Send your fastest back to me the moment they're close to anchoring."

"Aye, my Taggerung," the trio of Taggerdaras spoke in unison. Crabcull stepped closer to Verratta.

"I need t'bring me mother to 'er tent," he informed her. "Can I?"

Verratta nodded to the still-unconscious Seer. "Do it quickly."

Crabcull nodded. He threw a glance to Kelplah and Drekk. "Start without me. I'll catch up."



Mallach had a large tent, larger than most in the tribe. When Crabcull entered with his mother, he was hit with a faded blend of lavender, rosemary and cedar. Ceramic bowls were arranged in a circle where Mallach would cast bones and meditate. Mallach's mat sat in the corner. Crabcull laid her down, but did not leave. Instead, he patted her cheek to wake her. Mallach awoke with a start, bolting upright.

"The ritual!" she cried. Crabcull waved his paw.

"Calm down, old beast," he scoffed. "The ritual's over. Ye've given Verratta yer wisdom."

Mallach swatted Crabcull's nose. "Vecks Augu gave that wisdom, not I. You jest, but she will have the last laugh if you don't show her respect."

Crabcull threw his eyes upward.

"We go t'war on the morrow," Crabcull began to explain. "I'll be leavin' soon to keep watch on the beach. They're seabeasts."

Mallach raised a bone-pierced brow. "Why are you here, then?"

Because I need a favor." The Taggerdara lowered his voice. "I need ye t'cast yer bones or whatever it is y'do, and look into some beasts I sent south."

"You did what!?"

Crabcull clamped Mallach's maw shut with a paw. Mallach, in turn, struck his arm. Crabcull hardly seemed affected. "Listen. I 'ad to. I 'ave t'find Lansah. I want 'er back."

"Mmupiph!" Mallach struggled to say. Crabcull released her muzzle. "Stupid, stupid whelp! If Verratta finds out--!"

"She ain't findin' out," Crabcull interrupted, his voice low and rough. "When my 'unters get back, I'll tell 'er we found Lansah skulkin' around our territory, alone. I'll vouch fer 'er return, and see 'er life spared. She'll 'ave t'be mine, then. She'll owe me."

"You waste time longin' fer that vixen," Mallach snapped. She pulled a barkcloth blanket around herself. "It's been seasons. There's other vixens. Pick one and be done with it."

Crabcull clenched his fangs. "I don't want another vixen." He glanced at the tent flaps. "I'm wastin' time 'ere. Do what I tell ye. I want a progress report when the fightin's done." He did not wait for a response when he stormed out of the tent. Mallach huffed.

"You'll wish you'd taken me seriously when Vecks Augu turns her fangs on you. . ." the Seer muttered. She got up from her mat and sat in her circle of herbal burners. She would do Crabcull's bidding, but it would be Crabcull who had to deal with the consequences.



The Seavixen's slaves were used to waking up before dawn. Muggir's snoring was the first thing to greet them as they blinked sleep from their sunken eyes. Kell sat up, Molly still clutching his tunic. He felt his bruises, which, thankfully, were not as puffy as they were the night prior. Time was running out. He needed to find a way to escape the ship, not just for himself, but for as many of his fellow woodlanders as possible.

"Psst!" Kell whispered. He nudged Molly, Rushlet, and anyone near who was still waking up.

Zemiroh Pluck, the hare musician, yawned and scratched at his ear. "A few more minutes, milad, please?"

"No time, friend," answered Kell. "And don't talk too loud. The galleon anchors today, remember? We need to think of a way out."

 "A way out?" Old dormouse Goodwife Hazel tutted. "The Dark Forest is our way out, young mouse, and you'll be the first to go there if you don't stop testing the vermin."

"Oh, Goody," said Rushlet, wiping grit from the eyes of squirrel lad. "The Dark Forest comes for us all eventually. Do you really want to spend whatever time you have left locked away on this ship?"

"I want to pass the way an old creature ought to," was Hazel's stubborn retort. "The blade of a soldier isn't that."

"Stay 'ere, then." The tired rumble of a male otter filled the darkness next. It was the otter that took a lashing from Muggir's whip, Bryum. "The rest of us are leavin', or dyin' tryin'."

"I won't leave 'er." Perle the Dancer, the ottermaid bard, turning her head sharply towards the sound of Bryum's voice. "Fer shame, Bryum. We're all in this together, even if some o' us are more difficult than others."

"The cheek of you youngsters. . ." grunted Goody Hazel.

"Everyone, everyone!" whispered Kell with urgency. He paused, listening. Muggir began snorting in his sleep. The slaves fell silent and waited. There was the smacking of lips and the snoring picked up again. Kell released a breath. His next words were as quiet as he could make them. "We're wasting time bickering. Think, friends. What can we do?"

"The soldiers will want a meal before they leave the boat," Molly pointed out. "We could grab resources. W-Weapons. . ."

"And then what?" asked Zemiroh. "Fight the entire bloody army with forks and knives? If that's the plan, I'll be sure to give a rat a jolly good whacking with my lute for good measure, wot?"

"Save the wit for your next performance, Zemiroh," chided Quilligan, the hedgehog drummer. He felt around and tugged the hare's ear.

"If the kitchen's our only real option," Rushlet brought the conversation back on track. "Then perhaps. . ." The bankvole hesitated.

"Go on, lass," Perle encouraged.

"What if we started a fire?"

Soft gasps rippled around the cell. Some covered their mouths with their paws to stifle louder reactions.

"What a way to enter the Dark Forest. . ." muttered Goodwife Hazel. "Patting flames from my tail. . ."

"Let me explain. . . !" Rushlet urged in a strained whisper. "It doesn't have to be a big fire. The soldiers are terrified of Karvas' pine resin. Even the smallest of fires would send them panicking. They won't pay attention to us, not until the fire's out. We can use that time to get to the small boats."

"And run right into General Gorehund, that old she-beast." Zemiroh sounded grim. "She'll pick her teeth with our bones before we can flippin' blink."

"We can drive 'er," Bryum suddenly chimed in. "It's an ol' otter trick. When we wanna catch a large amount o' fish, some fast swimmers guide the fish into the nets. We do the same with 'er, taunt 'er, use what we steal from the kitchen. It's risky, but it can buy us time to get the small boats free. In fact, I'll do that meself. I've been itchin' to whack a few vermin with me rudder."

"I'll help," Perle offered. "With luck, we'll dive after the small boats once they're loose."
   
"I'll start the fire, then," said Kell. His heart pounded, but he managed to steady his voice. "I'll volunteer in the kitchen and do it, spill some oil, set fire to some cloth."

"Oh, Kell. . ." Molly's ears wilted. "They'll kill you for sure if you do that. . . !"

Kell closed his eyes and held a paw to his chest. "I won't make it easy for them. If I die, Molly, look after Faye and my parents. Please."

    Molly could only weep. Kell pulled her close to muffle her sobs. Between her ears, he left a gentle kiss. The Seavixen's slaves had all come from King Renvoll's castle on the Isle of Sanctus. They had known each other for seasons. Now, they were far from home, entering a world they knew only in stories. Molly's grief spread among her friends as the weight of what was to come hit them. Any number of them were at risk of dying before the day's end.

Kell tore the hem of his jerkin, pulling off a long strip. He then felt for Molly's paw and tied it around her arm. "Prepare yourselves, everyone. Once the fire starts, there's no turning back."



The nightmare came again.

The beach, the bodies, the fire. . . it was all there. Prince Iska stared wordlessly. He knew what—and who—was coming. As if summoned by the prince's expectations, the phantom appeared through the inferno. The warrior mouse was approaching. Fire glinted off something in Iska's paw. His rapier. He already had it drawn. Feeling confident, Iska stepped forward. He would change the nightmare and purge the phantom from his mind.

"The slaves think you're an inspiration," the prince began. The mouse stopped. The flames framed his body, making him appear like a living shadow. "You aren't—you're just a mouse, a mouse named Martin who lived and died like any other creature. You might've been a warrior long ago, but you're dust in a grave now." Iska came nearer. He angled his rapier, bringing the tip to rest under Martin's chin. "You don't scare me."

Embers danced in the air like fireflies. Starved of the charred vermin, the fire began to dwindle. The resin kept it alive. In the relative calm, Iska could hear the lapping of the waves behind him. The prince smiled. He had the upper paw. He searched Martin's eyes for terror. Instead, he saw only a hardened wisdom born of hardship and tragedy. Iska tensed.

Martin spoke as if the blade were not there. "Foxes, rats, ferrets, stoats. . . Even a wolverine has attempted to bring ruin to Redwall Abbey and its allies. Do you think you are any different? You, a cub?"

"A prince," corrected Iska harshly. "Son of King Renvoll Undra."

"A victim of your father's selfishness," concluded Martin solemnly. "One of many."

The warrior and the prince stared into each other's eyes. In that moment, Iska wished that Martin had simply cleaved him. The mouse's form began to blur. Like paint on a canvas, colors melted into each other. The wartorn beach gave way to darkness.

Iska woke up.

The snoring of Karvas was the first thing to catch his attention. The cub sat up, ears flicking at creaking wood. To his relief, he found himself in bed instead of thrashing about on the floor. His face was wet. Bringing up a paw, Iska felt the moisture of tears. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his nightgown. Throwing his footpaws over the side of the bed, the young prince stood and walked to the large window on the cabin's back wall.

The edges of the glass were frosted from the cold air. The waves rose and fell at an almost hypnotizing pace. Beyond them, the light of dawn appeared on the horizon, chasing away the night. Not wanting to think of what was to come, Iska distracted himself by blowing onto the glass. A patch of white condensation appeared, and Iska pressed his nose into it, leaving a mark. His shoulders bounced in amusement. He blew more air, and this time, left his pawprint. He laughed into the bend of his arm.

"Mmph. . ." A groan caught the cub's attention. He looked over his shoulder, past a large navigating desk in the room's center, to Karvas' bed on the left side of the cabin. Karvas tossed and turned, muttering to himself. His footpaws were caught in his blanket, leaving him shivering and exposed. Iska treaded lightly, coming to his brother's side.

"Cold. . ." Karvas' chest heaved. "So cold. . . get me out. . ."

As delicately as he could, Iska tried to pull the blanket free, though Karvas made that difficult. Iska pulled back his head, narrowly avoiding a kick to the face. Taking a chance between thrashes, Iska yanked it loose. He climbed onto the bed and pulled the blanket over Karvas' shaking body. Iska wrapped his paws over his brother's shoulders.

"You're out," he promised. "You're not stuck anymore. You're here, on the Seavixen. You're safe."

Karvas began to calm. His fur settled, and his chest steadied. Iska let out a long sigh of relief.

"There 'e goes." The muffled voice of a night guard caught the cub's ear. He strained to hear better. "I thought it was gettin' too quiet. Y'know, if 'e's so cold, he should jus' set 'is bed on fire."

"Don't even joke," a second guard grunted. "Surprised 'e made it the whole trip without tryin' it. Madder than mad, 'e is. Glad I ain't Iska."

"Surprised 'e ain't kill 'im yet."

"Renvoll's orders, I reckon. I dunno. Don't really care, so long as I don't wake up on fire."

Iska gazed, forlorn, at the sleeping Karvas. With his head tilted back, the elder prince's neck was completely exposed. Iska only needed his rapier. There would be no penalty. In fact, it was Renvoll himself who gave the order. The king pulled Iska aside the day they set sail, and gave a whispered command:

"This is Karvas' final chance to prove himself as an Undra. If he gets in your way, cull him from our family."

Iska's breath caught in his throat. He clambered down the bed and hurried to his own. Swiftly, he changed from his nightgown to his noble robes. He put on his belt, but kept his focus away from his rapier. All he could think of was plunging that cold blade into Karvas' throat.

"He'll do it," Iska assured himself, his voice hushed. "He'll make Father proud. I won't have to kill him. He'll be able to come home. He'll. . . come home."

Iska was not sure he believed himself.

The cabin door swung open and the guards, a ferret and a stoat, straightened up, presenting arms. Iska stepped out, clicking the door shut behind him.

"Majesty," greeted both soldiers.

Iska's response was curt. "I'm going to the upper deck."

The guards glanced sideways at one another. "Aye, Majesty."

Young Iska walked briskly, past the snoring ranks of his sleeping army in their quarters, and up the companionway towards the open air. He shoved the wooden hatch with effort, grunting at the strain on his young body. He hoped that one day doing so would be easier.

The sea breeze whipped across the deck that early morning, cold and rich with the smell of salt. Iska took a deep breath. The air was fresh, lacking the stench of unwashed soldiers. The song of the sea could be heard clearly; the waves hissed, becoming drums when hitting the sides of the Seavixen. Above, past the white sails, gulls were circling.

At the helm was Casca Webclaw, a slim and pretty mink. She stood out amongst the ship's crew; the Isle of Sanctus did not have many minks. Near her, leaning heavily against the side of the ship, was a female wolverine: General Gorehund. Nearly as large as her mate, General Urz, she carried with her an iron maul. Iska did not stare at it for too long, lest his mind conjure images of broken skulls. Casca was the first to notice the cub prince, and waved a black paw to him.

"Ahoy, Majesty!" she called, her pleasant voice a rarity among the vermin. "Yon coast be drawin' near! Come! Look!"

Grinning, Iska obliged, climbing the stairs to the helm and getting a proper look at the approaching coast. The distant dunes were covered in morning mist. Iska's heart pounded in his ears, but he did not allow that to reflect on his face. Gorehund lumbered close and clasped Iska on the back with a massive paw. Iska was nearly toppled over.

"The worst is over, young Undra," boomed the she-beast. "Now, we kill. We conquer!"

Iska swallowed. "We recruit," he reminded her.

"Yes, yes. . ." Gorehund waved her paw. "Then we kill and conquer. Hmph! Urz wants something swift and easy. Me? I want Redwall to fight with everything they have. I won't be satisfied with a quick slaughter!"

"Ha!" Casca laughed. "Talk like that makes me want t'join the fight! If only I didn't need t'watch Ol' Vixxy." She gave the steering wheel a fond paw. "Bring back a warrior's 'ead fer me. Hare, if y'can. Might make stew wiv it, hahaha!"

Iska began to have regrets about leaving his room. Truthfully, he was not entirely sure what else he expected. He walked to the side of the ship and peered into the water, hoping for something else to get his attention. Here and there, he could spot the movement of fish in the dark water. As they fled the massive hull, Iska imagined woodland creatures in their place, escaping the army. At least they would live if they escaped. Perhaps there was somewhere else for them, somewhere King Renvoll wouldn't want. It was a naive thought, and he knew it to be such.

Iska was shaken from his thoughts by Gorehund's thudding pawsteps. He watched her traverse from the stern to the bow, where the anchor awaited her. She heaved the heavy release lever, an easy task for a beast such as she. The prince closed his eyes, but it did not stop the sounds of the rattling chain, and the great splash that came after. The Seavixen groaned, sounding relieved that her voyage was nearly over. Iska hurried back to the companionway, returning to the cramped, stuffy deck below. He could not watch the Seavixen stop. He needed more time. He needed breakfast.

[JazzOfRedwall98]

Chapter Six

The march to the dunes had been swift. The Juskalaith traveled lightly, bringing only their weapons and grog to warm their bellies. Snow became sand underpaw; it flew wildly as the Juska ran with reckless abandon. Leading the score were the three Taggerdaras: Crabcull, Kelplah Hooksharp and Drekk.

Upon their arrival, the Juskalaith sat huddled together on the beach. No fires were lit, keeping them hidden while darkness reigned. Most of the vermin slept in shifts, but Crabcull found that the cold kept him awake. Gazing at the dark tide, he thought of Lansah, that beautiful vixen. She loved the sea, Crabcull remembered. He would often watch her catching fish and shrimp from the dunes, ducking out of sight when she returned inland. The thought of Lansah, as fierce as she was pretty, warmed the bowfox more than any brew.

Fog gathered on the dunes closer to sunrise. Through the haze, a looming shadow advanced from afar: the galleon. Crabcull squinted. A fox was mounted to the ship's bow. For a moment, the bowfox thought it was some tortured soul, strung up as a warning to enemies. Yet, it did not sway in the wind, as a body would. The morning twilight revealed it to be a figurehead, a wooden vixen with flowing hair and a maw open in a silent serenade. Crabcull tilted his head. He had encountered his fair share of sea rats, but none of them decorated their vessels with wooden beasts. The bowfox was unsure of what to make of it.

"Funny-lookin' ship," slurred Drekk, giving a voice to Crabcull's thoughts. The ferret brawler sat up, stirred by rushing water and groaning wood. At this point in time, all of the Juskalaith were awake, watching the ship enter shallower waters. Drekk scratched a half-bitten ear. "Wha's a ship need a 'ead fer? Can't eat nothin', can it? Eh? Am I right, Crabcull?"

Crabcull shared a glance with Kelplah, who was busy keeping herself alert by gnawing on beachgrass. They smirked at each other before Crabcull responded.

"Don't'cha remember wha' Mallach said? 'Bout the galleon o' fire an' death? Where do y'think the fire comes from?"

Drekk's almond eyes slowly blinked. "No kiddin'?"

"Betcha it'll climb right outta the water an' fight us," added Kelplah. She gave the ferret a wink. "Verratta'll be real impressed if ye got the first cuff on it. Gotta put 'em paws t'good use somehow, aye?"
   
Drekk beamed like a dibbun gifted with candied chestnuts. "Aye, tha's smart! Heh, if I climb it, give it a few biffs on the 'ead, it'll come crashin' down, and we won't 'ave t'worry 'bout any fire! Aye!?"

Crabcull turned away so that Drekk could not see him snickering. The bowfox fought his shoulders to stay still. Kelplah gave an exaggerated nod, smiling wide.

"Such a clever 'un, ain't ye, mudpaws?" Kelplah chuckled. She nodded towards the sea. "In fact, why wait? Go! Catch it off-guard an' bring it down now! Right, you lot?"

Kelplah looked around to the other Juska, also laughing and cheering the oafish Drekk on. The ferret stood, chest swelling, paws jabbing at the air in preparation. He turned to the ocean and prepared to charge into the shallows, when something gave him pause. The smiles fell as Drekk turned, giving his fellow Taggerdaras a look of suspicion.

". . .Wait," the ferret muttered. "Y'both aren't playin' another trick on me, aren't ye? Jus' like tha' time y'sent me t'raid tha' nest fer eggs, and it turned out t'be a big owl's nest? Scratched me up really good, she did. I ain't gettin' 'urt again fer a laugh." Drekk clenched his paws. "Not this time."

Drekk stepped closer to the pair of tricksters. Crabcull stood up, raising his paws. "Right, settle down, y'cuff-'appy idiot. Save them paws fer the enemy, why don't ye? Now stand down."

Drekk stopped in front of Crabcull, their chests nearly colliding. The fox was taller, but the ferret hardly seemed intimidated. Crabcull placed his paws on his hips. If a fight broke out, Drekk would thrash him before he could get enough range for his bow. Despite knowing this, Crabcull maintained a light-hearted expression, offering Drekk a patronizing pat on his bare shoulder.

"Drekk, me ol' mucker, we're only teasin'." Crabcull pointed to the galleon. "Look. if we really made ye tha' upset, pretend every seabeast that comes off tha' boat's me an' Kelplah. Smack "us" 'round a bit. Should cheer y'up, aye, Drekk?"

Drekk snorted, but nodded.  The instant he turned back to the sea, Crabcull made a gesture to Kelplah and his scouts, swirling his paw and crossing his eyes. The Juskalaith covered their maws and bit their tongues, all to avoid the brawler's wrath.

SPLASH!

All eyes turned to the galleon, watching water and sea foam settle as the anchor disappeared into the depths. The Juskalaith rose to their paws, all humor gone. War was upon them. Kelplah looked back at the score of scouts and pointed to a lithe, young foxlad—freshly marked, swift of paw, and eager to prove his worth.

"Rooka! Back t'camp! Tell Verratta!"

Rooka obeyed, dropping to all fours, tearing eastward towards the Juskalaith camp. Crabcull readied his bow, Kelplah raised her hooks, and Drekk cracked his paws. The Juskalaith watched and waited.



"Out! All o' ye!"

The slaves of the Seavixen exited the brig with haste. For once, they could not focus on Muggir's insults, nor the cracking of his whip. Up the ladder they climbed, aiding the older creatures whose legs ached and paws trembled. There was no time to waste; with the galleon steady, and hungry soldiers trudging their way to the mess room, the woodland slaves had no choice but to steel themselves for the plan ahead. Kell took the lead, forcing himself through the pain of his bruises. At the end of the group was the big otter, Bryum. Muggir kept a sharp eye on him, waiting to see his exposed back. The weasel's patience was quickly rewarded when Bryum's paws rested on the ladder rungs. Muggir raised his whip.

"MOVE!" the slaver bellowed.

Bryum stayed where he was. The edges of the wooden rungs dug into his paw pads. Above him, the other slaves waited for him. Some shifted on their paws, others listened to the soldiers above. In the brig, Muggir raised a brow, his arm slackening somewhat.

"Y'got weevils in yer ears, waterdog?" spat the guard. "Move, or I'll flay yer 'ide!"

Bryum turned and launched himself at the weasel. Muggir's back hit the floor with a heavy thud, but Byrum's webbed paw kept him from yelling. Muggir dropped the whip and dug his claws into the otter's side. Hissing in pain, Bryum gripped the guard's throat and began to squeeze.

"Help. . . !" Muggir croaked. His plea died as soon it left his lips. Bryum bit his lip, muscles tensing, paws numbing. . .

Thlump. . .

Muggir's arms smacked against the floor. Bryum could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He almost missed the hushed shout of Zemiroh.

"A bit early for vermin-slaying, wot? Hurry out of there, before a soldier comes looking for us!"

Bryum took a moment to catch his breath. "Aye. Comin'."

Bryum dragged Muggir's unconscious body to the pile of straw the weasel called a bed. After setting him down and covering him in his blanket, the otter climbed the brig ladder and joined his friends.

"Sorry, mates," said the otter gruffly as the slaves began moving. "Figured I'd work meself up a bit 'fore the actual fight. I didn't kill 'im, by the way. In fact, if anybeast asks, say 'e spent the night gluggin' grog."

"Just try not t'get distracted by more guards," begged Perle. "We don't need the entire army on us 'fore the fire starts."

"Hmph." Goodwife Hazel folded her arms, twitching her fluffy tail. "This won't work. We'll all die. This won't work."

Rushlet moved to the old dormouse, took her paw, and squeezed it. "It will work. We'll get you out of here. I promise."

The slaves hushed themselves as they continued upwards. They entered the mess room in a body, scrutinized by the eyes of the Undra Army's earliest risers. Prince Iska was also present, the only creature to sit at the courtbeast's table. Kell felt compelled to look over at him. The cub's expression was unreadable as he watched the slaves hurrying to their duties. It did not take long for the prince's icy eyes to meet Kell's. The mouse furrowed his brow, recalling that it was Iska who ordered his beating. Whatever sympathy Kell felt for the lad was pushed from his heart. Standing a bit taller, Kell continued onward.

Iska, meanwhile, wondered if he should address the mouse, perhaps to demand loyalty or to remind Kell of his place. He tried to think of what his father would do, how he treated troublesome slaves. Woodlanders were mostly simple things, Renvoll would say, but some were fueled by a fire that could threaten their Empire's foundation. That fire needed to be extinguished. Iska's eyes flickered to the bard trio. They were preparing themselves in their designated corner -- Zemiroh with his lute, Quilligan with his tabor, and Perle with her flute. An idea formed in Iska's mind. Cruel as it was, it had to be done. His nose pointed upwards, Iska spoke with a forced serenity.

"Singers!"

Eyes fell upon the cub prince. The slaves paused in their march to listen. "In honor of our anchoring, I'd like for you to play The Badger's Head."

The slaves gasped, some cupping their mouths. The soldiers perked, sneering in interest. The musicians looked at one another. Zemiroh, normally fixed with an expression of casual elegance, now twitched his nose uncomfortably. Quilligan cleared his throat, and Perle gripped her flute so hard, she feared it might snap. Iska's paw drummed the tabletop. Zemiroh Pluck took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and bowed to the prince.

"As you wish. . ." The hare's jaw was clenched, and he aimed a glare at the floorboards. "Good prince."

Cheers came from the growing assembly of soldiers. Prince Iska settled into his chair, smiling. His rapier would stay sheathed for a bit longer. The slaves hurried into the kitchen as the song began.

Sanctus was his name, great beast with heart of flame,
Once Lord of mountain keep, sending sea rats to the deep.
With ev'ry war that came, the Lord would say the same,
"If only peace could stay, I'd put my blade away."
The Brigadier with heavy sigh, begged, "Lord, please do not cry.
For war will come, indeed, and your blade, Mossflower needs."
But Sanctus, fool and coward, sought that refuge that the ocean brought.
An' folks he dragged to Isle's edge, a kingdom built, to him they pledged.
No beasts for war, arms tossed to sea, the King believed that he was free.
Seasons passed, and came the day, when Sanctus began to grey.
Soft and fat, with upturned eyes, lost in the stars, face deep in pies.
Had Sanctus only watched his back, he might've stayed the fox attack.
From ice came Renvoll, brave and bold, to free the land from fool so old.
The fox told lies of peace and love, a gentle voice, like cooing dove,
A test that Sanctus did not pass, and brought the end to him, alas.
One night in spring, under starlit sky, Renvoll brought old Sanctus out to die.
The moon was all that Sanctus saw when silver struck 'neath his maw.
With Renvoll as king, the Isle was free, with troops on land and ships at sea.
We give our thanks, for the fool is dead, and all that's left is the Badger's Head.

   
The soldiers howled, cackled and pounded their paws upon the mess room tables. Iska tapped the back of his paw in polite approval. By now, Karvas and Generals Urz and Gorehund had joined him. Gentle Molly scurried about the table, supplying grog for the wolverines, sweet damson wine for Karvas, and honeyed milk for Iska. The cub noticed that her cheeks were stained with tears. Looking at the singers, Perle and Quilligan also dabbed at their eyes. Iska decided to focus on his beverage.

Gorehund raised her mug in the air, baring her fangs in a frightening grin. "A grand song to start our day. Now, if only breakfast would hurry up. I need to stretch my legs."

Urz clanked his mug against his mate's. "Patience. Can't fight on an empty stomach." The large male studied young Iska for a few seconds. There was still not an ounce of fear that Urz could see, and the choice of ballad, though uncharacteristic for the lad, satisfied him. Urz still did not like it, but Iska continued to impress. His sights were then set on Karvas, swirling his wine and twitching his whiskers in annoyance.

"Such a stupid, dreary song," snapped the elder prince. "Who wants to hear about some old, dead badger for the thousandth time? Forget him, I say." Karvas barked over the uproar. "Play something faster! You're boring me to tears, you useless bards!"

"Funny you say that when your father isn't present," rumbled Urz, narrowing his eyes at Karvas. The fox returned the disdainful stare, his paw slipping into his robe sleeve, feeling the hilt of a hidden blade.

"And you'll do well not to repeat what I say to him," said Karvas in a low growl. "He'll rain hell on me, yes, but you'll be there soon after."

Iska raised his paws. "Please. We should plot out our movements. Urz, the map, if you would."

Gorehund, quite roughly, smacked Urz's shoulder as he pulled a rolled-up parchment from his belt. "Always starting fights, you irritable thing." Urz bared his fangs at her in warning. Throwing one last pointed glare at the elder prince, Urz stretched the map of Mossflower Wood onto the table. Iska made a mental note to give Gorehund his thanks at a later time.

"We should be here," began Urz, jabbing the map with a claw. "Near the coastal pines. The badger place is close. We can avoid it, but. . ." The wolverine trailed off.

"Go on," Iska urged him. He took a glance at Karvas, who was focused on the mess room door. Iska's footclaws jabbed Karvas' leg.

"Ow!"

Karvas' eyes burned the back of Iska's head.

Urz snorted, bringing the conversation back to focus. "I don't like leaving Salamandastron alone. Suppose there's a new badger in charge. He'll hunt us down and pick us off."

Iska opened his paws and shrugged. "I don't think Father wants anything to do with Salamandastron. I can't remember the last time he's brought it up."

Urz rapped the table with his paw. "We ought to go there and slay whoever holds it."

"I agree," Gorehund chimed in. "What's one badger against two wolverines?"

Iska frowned. "We won't know what's waiting for us in the mountain. Redwall has its stories, but monks aren't Badger Lords. If we take Redwall first, Salamandastron's army will be the ones outside, at our mercy. I think that's Father's idea, anyway."

Urz and Gorehund looked at each other. Gorehund spoke up. "Fair point, though I hope the badger does give chase." The she-beast snickered. "There should be a ballad for the one who kills him. That'll be me, of course."

Urz huffed, unamused. "Get up and join the musicians if you want to make jokes, wife." Gorehund continued to laugh. Iska began to feel like a schoolteacher with several rowdy students. The cub prince checked on Karvas, who was quietly staring at the table's lantern. Karvas began rubbing his paws together. Iska gave him a lighter nudge this time.

"Is there anything you'd like to add, brother? This is your siege, after all."

Karvas glanced between Iska and the generals before clearing his throat. "Quite right, little Iska." The patched fox leaned forward, eyes scanning the map. He drew a silver stiletto from a sheath on his belt and used its tip to guide the eyes of the three onlookers. "We'll start through these pines, head straight into the forest and curve southward, crossing the ford. We march until we reach the Abbey."

"Hmm," Urz chuffed. He had no complaints, not yet. Karvas began a rhythmic, restless beat on the tabletop.

"I want the firepots ready before we disembark." Karvas inhaled sharply, the candle stealing his attention again. His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "The Mossflower fools have only one chance to join us, or they burn."

Iska's ear flicked at Urz's growl. Sensing conflict, the cub spoke up quickly.

"I'm sure they'll be more than willing to join us if we make it worth their while," Iska pointed out. "The woodland folk want peace, and that's what we'll give them if they join us. The tribes and hordes, well, what better reward for their loyalty than occupying Redwall Abbey? We may not need your fire."

Iska gazed at his brother with wide, hopeful eyes. Karvas' eyes sparked with anger, and his paw tightened around the stiletto's handle. Before Iska could blink, the point of the blade was pressed into his cheek. It did not draw blood, but the warning was blatant.

"We've two comedians at this table," said Karvas, smiling as he pressed the blade tip a bit deeper. Iska bit back a hiss. "Unfortunately, I'm not in a joking mood."

". . . I get your point," Iska said after a moment of collecting himself. "It was just a suggestion. Apologies, Karvas."

"Your brother speaks sense, Karvas," Gorehund snarled, her voice losing its usual pleasantness. "You'd do well to listen to him. I won't be using the firepots recklessly. I don't care how much you wave that twig around."

Karvas shifted his glower to the great female. "I didn't realize you answered to infants, Gorehund."

Urz arose, slamming the table with his paws. The mess room quieted, heads turning to the male General. Even the singers paused their performance. Iska's heart fluttered. He had to take control, and fast. Taking a chance, Iska reached into Karvas' robe sleeve and pulled free the hidden dagger. He pointed it at Karvas' chest. The sudden action made Karvas recoil involuntarily.

Iska's voice filled the silence. "Insult me all you want, but leave our Generals out of this. You know what your problem is, Karvas? You're hungry. We all are." He faced his soldiers. "Isn't that right?"

"Aye," a voice called from the crowd. "Brekkist feels like it's takin' forever."

"Aye! Where's the vittles!?"

"Stupid slaves! Give us our food!"

Paws banged on the tables again, this time, demanding nourishment. Iska looked into his brother's eyes again. The wrath still lingered, but the paw that held the stiletto pulled back a bit. Finally, with a sigh, Karvas put away his weapon.

". . . I am famished, yes," the elder prince admitted. He then snatched away his throwing dagger, returning it to his sleeve. "And give me that, you thieving little insect."

Iska smiled coyly before looking up at Urz. The wolverine was still fuming, though the cub was unsure if it was because of the slight against his mate or simple hatred towards Karvas in general. It was hard to tell with the beastly general. Gorehund seemed unfazed by everything going on, sitting back with her arms folded. Iska wondered if she was as eager for the useless bickering to stop as much as he was. His pondering was answered when Gorehund tugged her mate's arm.

"Why don't you go check on the food?" she suggested. "Take that anger out on some slaves?"

"Without crippling them, of course," Iska made sure to add.

Grunting, Urz did as he was told, and skulked into the kitchen. Iska leaned back into his chair and had a long, deliberate swig of honeyed milk. Karvas examined his brother over the rim of his wine mug. The tense shoulders, the greedy gulps, the bristled coat. . .

The lad was struggling not to unravel. Karvas smirked.



The galley was bustling when Urz strode in. Slaves moved in and out with grog and empty mugs, hugging the doorframe to avoid contact with the general. A brick hearth supplied the army with its hot pottage. Over the flame, a sweating vole stirred the contents of a heavy iron pot, while nearby pans seared dried fish. Cooking cloths were waved frantically, pushing the gathering smoke towards the open windows. A rat soldier named Glikk was positioned in the kitchen and currently had the squirrellad slave pulled into a corner. The young one covered his face with his arm, sobbing bitterly.

"Right," Glikk spat. "Still cryin' over the song, are ye? Bah! Every other beast's done their cryin' an' moved on. 'Urry up an' join 'em, 'fore I really give ye sommin' t'cry for."

The young squirrel gasped and hiccuped, trying to force himself to stop. His legs quivered uncontrollably. Urz approached, feeling a twisted satisfaction as the lad looked up at him, horror shining in his moist eyes. The other slaves halted their work, and seeing that one of their own was in danger of the wolverine's wrath, an aging mouse rushed over to shield the squirrel.

"The s-smoke's overwhelming him, I think," the mouse said, peering up at the general through round crystal glasses. "I-I'll bring him out into the hall for a bit, l-let him c-calm down."

Glikk snorted, raising his cutlass and aiming the butt at the squirrellad's head. "Excuses, excuses. The brat needs a good whackin'." The mouse pulled the squirrel beneath him.

"Don't!" wailed the mouse. "Please!"

Near the hearth, Kell gritted his teeth. Since entering the kitchen, he had moved with purpose, snagging a bottle of flammable walnut oil and dumping soaked rags on the floor near one of the preparation tables. Finding the right time to ignite the rags made him hesitant, but the threat of violence against his friends pushed him to act. This had to be done now. He looked around, meeting the eyes of his fellow slaves. His hard expression was their cue to get near the galley door. Kell slipped off his tunic, feeling the heat of fire against his fur. He caught the eye of the vole cook and gave a sharp, final nod.

"Go," he whispered. "Good luck, my friend."

"I pray we'll meet again, Kell," the vole replied, rushing to join the others.

Kell scooped up glowing, wooden kindling into his tunic. The heat seeped through the fabric, though the mouse did his best to ignore it. "We will, either at Redwall or the Dark Forest."

THWACK!

The older mouse was struck, falling into the squirrel's arms with a frail groan. The younger slave wailed. Glikk cackled. Urz, however, noticed the movements of the slaves in the corner of his vision. Turning his large, blocky head, Urz could see Kell, the troublemaker, set apart from the other slaves.

The mouse unleashed his battlecry as he tossed the kindling into the oily rags.

"Death to the Undras!"

"No!" Urz roared, but it was too late. Fire ate the oil with gusto, growing fast. It crept up the leg of the nearby table. The slaves began fleeing the kitchen, as did Glikk.

"Fire!" Screams rang out. "Fire onboard!"

As Rushlet predicted, chaos traveled the army in a wave. The vermin, who moments ago were demanding food and drink, scrambled to their feet. Some rushed for the mess room door, uninterested in stopping the slaves in their quest to save their own skins. Others rushed to the kitchen in hopes of stopping the fire and ensuring their survival. Gorehund, Prince Iska, and Prince Karvas were also on their footpaws.

"To the upper deck," ordered Gorehund urgently, pointing with her claw. "Both of you. I'll deal with this."

Iska, however, had his suspicions. There had not been a kitchen fire aboard the  Seavixen since its departure from the Isle of Sanctus. He thought back to when Kell entered the kitchen, the rebel who called for retribution against his family. Iska hurried to the kitchen, barking a command to Gorehund as he did so. "The slaves, Gorehund!"

The she-general looked around, and sure enough, the last of the slaves were slipping out of the mess room. Even the bards had gone. She snarled, and charged after them, tossing soldiers aside with her heavy paws.

"OUT OF MY WAY!" she roared.

Prince Karvas was left. He licked his chops, nostrils flaring at the scent of rich, nutty smoke. That smell called him. While others screamed and shouted, he walked towards the kitchen with growing anticipation. He had to see it. He had to touch it. He pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers, matching Iska's pace as the cub crawled between the legs of larger beasts. Soon, both princes arrived on the scene. A group of soldiers were struggling to bring a barrel of water over and snuff the fire out. Urz, meanwhile, chased Kell about the cramped space. On all fours, Kell leapt up the tables, crying out as the heavy paws of the general smashed wood and scattered kitchen utensils.

"Give up!" Urz's voice caused Kell's ears to ring. "There's nowhere to run, mouse! Accept your death!"

Kell found himself on the burning table. Panting from heat and exertion, he looked around for a weapon. A knife was abandoned, its steel slick with fish oil. Despite his blistered, stinging paws, the mouse stood tall and raised it like a mighty sword. From where he stood, Iska watched the metal glow orange, and his chest began to tighten. Karvas' silver robes entered his vision. The elder fox seemed to float as he walked, entranced by the flames, blind to the panic of his soldiers and the standoff between mouse and wolverine.

Iska lunged after Karvas and grabbed the hem of his robe. Unable to temper his voice, the cub's commands were shrill. "Stop! Someone, put out that fire! Capture that mouse!"

"Let go of me, Iska!" snapped Karvas. He whipped around and aimed a kick at the cub. Iska held on, choking back a yelp.

"Get. . . Karvas!" Iska managed to spit out between blows. "Get him. . . out of here!"

Looking between each other, the soldiers decided to listen to the young prince, fearing him far more than they did Karvas. Two ferrets, a rat, and a stoat stepped in, dragging Karvas back. The elder prince struggled.

"Stop!" he shrieked. His eyes were wide, pupils dilating with a desperate want. "No! No! She's calling me! I must go to her! I need to touch her! LET GO! LET GO!"

Like a fussy dibbun, Karvas ranted, raved, kicked and screamed, even as he disappeared into the mess room. Iska lay still, dazed and recovering. Footpaws thundered past him, and as his eyelids grew heavy, he could hear a scuffle.

"You might as well kill me! I'm done being a slave! But I warn you, I won't make it easy!"

Iska's ears twitched at the growls of Urz and the grunts of Kell. Water splashed as the fire was tended to. Creatures shouted over each other. Iska smelled blood. . .

"Ack—!" Iska's eyes snapped open at a gurgling croak. Looking up, he saw Kell with Urz's paw gripping his neck. The mouse stabbed madly, but gravity and sweat tore the knife from his paws. It clattered on the floor. Still, Kell struggled, swinging his footpaws and angling his head to bite where he could. Urz continued to squeeze the air from the mouse.

"Don't kill him," said Iska, sitting up. "We can't make a martyr of him." Looking around at the other, lingering soldiers, he waved a hand. "Find something, tie him up. . ."

Urz grumbled, but passed off the semi-conscious Kell to his underlings. He would have preferred to kill the little rebel, but he supposed there were larger issues to focus on. With a final splash, both Kell's fire and the hearth fire were doused. Kitchen twine was used to bind Kell's paws. Iska stood up, ignoring the stinging brought by Karvas' kicks. Arming himself with his rapier, he made for the galley's entrance.

Yet as Iska began the charge to the upper deck, he could not get the image of Kell out of his mind, standing there with the fiery blade. Even now, his nightmare attempted to stall him. A voice murmured in the back of his head. It was not Renvoll's, but Martin's.

"Let them go."

"Never," Iska said under his breath.