Redwall Abbey

Because The Skarz pointed out that more people are likely to read it if I post it here (thank ye for that matey). This is my first Redwall story and I haven't read a book in years, so there might be some inconcistencies. It takes place several hundred seasons after the events of the last book, so some small changes also exist within the abbey. Now, without further ado...Now I haven't read Redwall in a long time and the accents are alllost one.I will try to replicate it with some characters but not all of them. This story is kind of based of Outcast of Redwall, but not entirely. I always liked the vermin in the books and tended to like them more than the uhum Sue-ish good guys. They were more realistic-save and except that they were all pretty much bad guys.

I don't want to write a 'good vermin' fic. I want to write a 'vermin' fix. What makes them 'bad'? And things like that. So without further ado let it begin!

The Good Vermin

The warrior stood atop the walls of the abbey, looking down at the praising populace, showering him with flowers. In his paw he held the sword of Martin the Warrior, high above his head, behind him the defeated villains were kissing the dirt and begging forgiveness.

"Fret!" The town cried. And he showed off his huge muscles.

"Fret!" The ladies swooned, and fainted clear away.

"FRET!" Abbot Martin was yelling into his ear.

Fret was not like most abbey-beasts. Most denizens groomed themselves daily, Fret was practically forced to take baths. Most Redwallers ate with polite attitudes while making smalltalk. Fret spoke with bulging cheeks, tearing at his food like a hungry animal. Most Redwallers got up early, Fret would have slept all day if he could. But then again, most Redwallers weren't ferrets.

The ferret woke with a start, remembering painfully that he was supposed to be learning the abbey's history.

"You were sleeping." The old mouse scowled darkly. Abbot Martin was a light brown mouse, his whiskers long and crooked. His habit was a bright red.

"No!" He replied too quickly. "I was-"

"And you drooled all over your copy of the History of Mossflower." He seemed to be scowling even deeper. Then turned away from the ferret.

"As I was saying, Mathias defended Redwall against Cluny the-" The old mouse snapped his fingers at a hedgehog near the front of the class. The young hedgepig opened and closed his mouth. "Cluny the S-s-spatula!" This was from Grollo, the large chubby hedgehog was as dumb as a doornail in Fret's opinion. Clad in black pants he went bare footed, for he could not find sandals big enough for his feet. Though as the Head Cook's son he was skilled at naming any culinary equipment.

"No! Matiya!"

Matiya was a red squirrel about as tall as Fret and infinetly slower of mind. He was the best fighter of the abbey's youngsters, but he was also the most pompous and-Fret practically gagged at the word-chivalrous. He wore a grey vest and pants, an empty sword case hung at his size. (His wooden sword had been confiscated). "Cluny the Scewer!"

"NO! Come on this was your homework." The abbot seemed to be torn between Momchillo, a small brownish yellow mouse with humongous ears sticking out the side of his head, clad in a darkish brown habit; and Fret, the black-footed ferret with his sinister a looking black 'mask', wearing a dark grey habit. He went for the mouse.

"Mathias beat Cluny the Scourge, in single combat."

Fret frowned, he had been hoping to get that question.

History was by far his least favorite subject. It was easier for Momchillo, with his proud mousey grin, to learn and remember all the heroics his kind were remembered for, with heroes like Martin the Warrior, Mathias the Warrior and others it was easy for him, all he had to do was imagine himself with a different name. Fret had none of his kind to look up to-the way history said it they all ended up dead or missing, and before that they had all been villainous scum.

"And Mathias's first son was named, what? Fret?" Asked the abbot.

"Um-", it had been a mouse... And Slagar the Cruel had kidnapped them-but Slagar was really called Chickenhound and he was a fox and... "Martin?"

The abbot bit his lip. "Momchillo?"

"Mattimeo."

"Correct."

Fret scowled and slouched. He had known about Cluny the Scourge and Slagar the Cruel, but not about Mattimeo. Why couldn't it have been another question? Why couldn't it have been a ferret wearing Martin's armour, and waving the sword around his head and defending Redwall? Fret imagined himself in his mind's eye, banishing the cheeky grin off of Momchillo with a wave of his sword.

"Fret! Stay awake!"

"How was History?" Constance asked, as she picked up the young ferret. She was somewhat chubby, and taller by a head than her 'son'. She was a mouse, and wore a lighter green habit.

"Great." He lied. That was another oddment. Lying was easy for him, and came naturally. Sometimes he lied so convincingly he wondered whether he was telling the truth.

"You are a horrible little liar." Was Constance's reply. The young ferret frowned.

Of all the people in Redwall Abbey, Constance was the only one who seemed to truly care about him. There was Jon Connington... But there were times where Fret felt that that mouse only acted the way he did because Constance made him. She had raised him from mischievous dibbun to rude youth, and yet loved him like he was an angel.

"I'm not lying! I'm great at History!" He snapped. Fret snapped often, something in his chest seemed to always force him into defending himself. And that defence came out as snapping.

Constance rolled her eyes, and turned him towards their home, pushing him forwards gently. "And I'm a dibbun. Fret you really mustn't lie, it's not what we do here in the abbey."

Fret snapped again. "But I'm not lying!" But he was lying. He was awful at History, he hated history and he wanted Abbot Martin to just go die in a hole! Well, maybe die was a tad harsh.

"Dearie you hate history and wish Abbot Martin would stop being a stick in the mud." Sometimes it felt like Constance was also abnormal-how else would she be capable of understanding his complex mind?

"Yes momma, but it's not my fault. He gives Momchillo all the easy questions! And he only asks me when I fall asleep in class!"

"You fall asleep in class?" Constance chided with a wide grin on her face.

"No! I don't!"

As the two travelled further down towards the mousemaid's cottage, arguing back and forth that Fret was not bad at lying, and that that was offensive to lying! Jon watched from within. He was a grey mouse, smaller than Constance by half and a head bellow Fret. Clad in old, grey armour with a round wooden shield strapped to his back. At his side, buckled and ready was a shortsword. He waved merrily at the duo and walked over to them, beaming.

"Sweet sister!" He hugged her round the middle, before turning to the skinny ferret. "Ah, Young Fret! What ho? Still want to give Abbot Martin a kick up the-"

"Jon!" His sister exclaimed.

"I don't want to kick him! I want to get him to shut up!"

Jon nodded knowingly and hugged his 'nephew'. This was another oddment. Most of his age adored getting babied by their parental figures, and while Fret didn't mind that affection from Constance, he heavily disliked it from Jon, and thus cringed at the feel of the mouse.

"I got you something!" The grey mouse said suddenly, and withdrew a round metal thing, with a string. For a second Fret hoped it was a club, with which he could repeatedly whack Momchillo with. Maybe the next time that mouse tried to lock him in the latrines he could get a black eye... Then his uncle flicked the metal Bob, which spun downwards, and with another flick it spun upwards. It was a toy.

"Thanks. I love it." Fret replied as the mouse placed it in his paw. He was unable to hide his apparent disappointment and dislike.

Connington frowned. But waved away the bad mood. "We'll call you for dinner. Have fun!"

Much to his chagrin Constance gave him a large, wet kiss on his forehead fur. Before shooing him away with a 'have fun sweetie!'.

Fret turned away, feeling grumpier than ever. Constance understood him... Or rather most of him. She lived amongst other mice and nobody treated her like filth, most people treated Fret like an unpleasant smelling slug or some other slimy thing that must be avoided at all costs. But the youngsters loved him-they loved to bite his tail, to pull at his small ears, to try and pull off his 'mask'. And those his age loved him even more. Grollo loved to sit on him, Matiya loved to demonstrate his skill at swordplay on him, and Momchillo enjoyed laughing at him while the other two pretended he was vermin and they were abbey heroes, giving him his due for trying to sack Redwall. One time he had been Cluny the Scourge and was forced down a latrine, another time he had been hung over the wall until 'Slagar the Cruel' told them where their young ones were. And both times the trio had gotten nothing but a trip to the abbey's kitchen to scrub pots and pans.

Seething from the past injustices Fret flicked his paw, the circular item rolled down, but with another flick it rolled upwards. Despite his disappointment Fret came to love the toy. It was entertaining, the up and down swaying of the circle at the end of the string. And distracting too. He idly watched the maids of his age, picking berries, and felt something in him melt as his heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a pretty albino. He blushed and continued with his toy.

"Hey Fret!" Matiya's paw landed on his shoulder and squeezed tightly. He and the ferret were the same height, but the squirrel was unimaginably more powerful. "What's that new toy you got?" Momchillo and Grollo were not in sight.

"Let me go!" Fret snapped.

"But you didn't answer my question." He sneered.

"My uncle gave it to me!" Fret retorted.

"Let me see it!"

"No! It's mine!"

"He stole it Matiya. You have to take it back by asking nicely." Momchillo turned the corner.

Fret was infuriated. This was not fair. It was his, his uncle had just given it to him. How could they suggest he stole it? "Come on vermin, give i"-the toy doubled as a cheap weapon, Fret unfurled it quickly, so that it landed on the mouse's nose with a loud THWACK! Momchillo fell on his rump and started crying. Fret slumped, he knew what was coming, as the maids gasped and rushed over, the albino giving him a look of utter disgust.

"Why do they always gang up on me? I can take that stupid mouse just fine if Grollo and Matiya aren't there to save his tail!" He complained, ripping the skin of an innocent potatoe he seemed to especially loathe.

"Well darling, they just don't like you." Constance said soothingly.

"It's not fair! I had to crawl through excrement for a whole day and all they had to do was wash dishes! Then I hit him on the nose because he was being a total prat, and I have to clean the dishes, clean the latrines out and polish Martin's ugly sword for three days!" He threw the potatoes into Constance's cauldron with so much anger it bounced back and got him on the nose. "And I had to give that toy to that stupid mouse because he picked on me!"

Fret had been ranting since the Badgermum-he didn't call her by her name- had proclaimed his punishment. The punishment wasn't what truly bothered him, it was that the maids had all vouched along with Matiya, that Fret had attacked Momchillo for no reason, and had hit him multiple times, while cackling madly. It wasn't fair. They had seen Matiya grab him, but had still lied-it had been Fret's word against all of theirs, and everyone was convinced he was a liar anyways, so his word wasbas good as dust.

"Fret calm down." His mother chided. "We all get what's due to us one day-"

"No you do! Because you're not a liar!" He now was violently chopping the watercress. "I'm a lying, sneaky, good-for-nothing ferret! All I get is that stupid mouse's ugly grin!" The knife missed his next target, a pile of carrots, and left a gash in his finger. He hastily dropped the knife and placed his finger in his mouth, tears welling up behind his eyes as he tried to blink them away.

Constance walked forwards and hugged him. "I'll have a word with their parents. They might not like you, but that's no excuse for hurting my baby."

"They didn't hurt me!" Fret snapped, again feeling the need to defend himself. They hadn't hurt him, the albino had. She had vouched for her fellow mouse rather than the innocent. So had the others...

"Of course not,sweetie." Constance murmured, rubbing the back of his head. "Now, wipe away those tears-"

"They're not tears! They're allergies!" Fret snapped. But he was lying again.

"Of course. Now wipe them away and let's chop up those carrots."

Fret picked the knife up again. But he paused. "Why are there no ferrets in Redwall?" He asked.

Constance stopped and paused for a while, thinking of the easiest way to describe the situation.

"And why do they say I'm a vermin? I don't do rotten things!" Except lying. But they think I lie anyways, even when I tell the truth.

"Dearie, I have no idea why they would call you that. They just feel the need to be able to push someone around." She replied, glad for once that his tongue was quicker than his head. She hadn't thought of an answer for the first question.

The door opened and Jon Connington walked in, though now he looked a little more serious. "Oh there's my favorite nephew!" He said, throwing a fake smile at him.

"I'm your only nephew!" Fret snapped.

Connington seemed to deflate. "Look, son, I heard what happened. I'm sorry about the to-"

"I don't care about the stupid toy! It's that stupid mouse, he won't leave me alone!" And the maid... Her pristine white fur wouldn't leave him alone either...

Connington seemed a little hurt by his nephew's rude reply, but beared with it and changed the subject. "Anything I can do to help?" He asked Constance.

"You can start by throttling that fat, ugly son of a-"

"FRET!" Constance yelled.

"WHAT!?" The ferret snapped.

"You're bleeding thick!" The ferret looked down at his paw and found it dripping with blood. He went pale after that. "Here. Come with me." The mouse ushered him to the safety of his bed, where she lay him flat on his back. She bandaged it quickly, and gave him another big, wet kiss on the forehead. "Try and rest up dearie. If you're still hungry I can bring you the soup later and some bread rolls." She gave him another kiss and left him. He sighed, feeling uncomfortably grateful for his mother's support. Uncomfortable? Why was he uncomfortable? Weren't young ones meant to be comforted by a parental figure? He loved his mother. It was normal, wasn't it? Why was he so different?

[close]

Chapter Two, In Which A Field Trip Is Discussed

Fret is a good lad!" Connington continued.

Abbot Martin 'humphed' sceptically and tried to close the door in his face. Connington was persistent and clambered in through the window.

"He is! He really is! The others pick on him because he's different but deep down he's a sweet kid-"

"Who lies more often than not, falls asleep during lessons and is always quick to snap at people and resort to violence! He is a vermin Connington, and nothing you say or do can change that." The old man finished heavily.

The mice stared into each other's eyes for a long time.

"The nature of his kind lives inside him. For now he lies to get himself out of trouble, how long until he uses it to cause some?" The old abbot continued.

"That's poppycock! Nobody believes him anyways! And whether he deserves it or not he needs to get out once in his life. He deserves to know what's hidden behind those great red walls. He's old enough!"

"And you expect the Skipper of the otters to let some vermin-pup in, because he 'needs to see something?' No,the boy will stay inside as he always does, and when he's older and eventually gets banished then he can see the outside world all he wants!"

"He isn't Veil Sixclaw, Abbot. He's my nephew-"

"Adopted! His parents were raiders and pillagers and murderers-"

Connington cut short the old man. "My sister is not a raider, pillager or murderer. He's coming this season and if he behaves, next season too."

"And the Skipper-"

"And I have known each other since we were welps, I don't think he'll refuse me."

"And the boy's mother?" The word 'mother' sounded especially forced.

Connington deflated. "Uh, well I suppose you should tell her that-"

"You convinced me to let her precious dibbun out of the safety of our abbey. Yes, shall we go now?"

Connington grew pale. Constance would probanly throttle him if she heard it put that way. "Maybe I should speak to her first?"

"Excellent, excellent! When she insists he goes, he may go." The Abbot pressed his advantage. The battle was won. Constance would never let go of that ferret, not even if her life depended on it.

Fret endured his punishment like he always did. He complained non-stop.

"It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair." He would repeat out loud as he scrubbed the grease off the pans, his paws elbow-deep in hot, stuffy, soapy water. He only shut up when it looked like the cook was going to throw him in as well. Then he continued muttering under his breath.

"Fret!" Rang the familiar cry. All day people had been asking him to do 'favours' he had no choice but to accept. That and the old mole kept asking him whether he saw her pies.

"No! I didn't see your blueberry-cream-coated-custard-filled-sweet-pies!" He snapped, turning to his uncle. He looked surprised for a moment, but was quickly annoyed again. "What do you want?"

"Tsk tsk, your manners always were awful. Still I think you'll be happy to hear what I got you-"

"If it's the stupid toy I don't want it!" The ferret snapped. "It's boring anyways and that ugly mouse can keep it!" Yet another lie. He had liked that toy.

"I wasn't talking about the toy. I was talking about the little excursions you dibbuns have twice a season. You can go."

The ferret eyed him suspiciously. "I can? But... I'm getting punished and-"

His uncle waved away his doubts. "Fret, you're old enough to know what's outside this abbey." He placed a paw on the ferret's shoulder and for a moment Fret wanted to hug him, until he realized that was a soppy thought and pushed it away.

The first trip had been when Fret had been four seasons old. He had not wanted to go, but then Momchillo and Matiya and Grollo had gone on and on and on about how wonderful everything was beyond the abbey. Then he had wanted to go, but his momma had been worried and decided he had to be older. He wanted to go so badly, to see Mossflower woods and prance around in fields of flowers and see the rivers and climb the trees where so much had happened. He had given up a while ago though, why all of a sudden? How?

"But we have to convince your mother first." Came Connington's voice.

Easier said than done.

"Momma please! Everyone's always gone except me! I'm already different enough as it is!"

"Fret, it's, it's dangerous! You can't swim and otter-food burns! You could drown! Breathe fire! Get lost! No, you're too young!"

"But momma-" He whined.

"No buts! I'm sorry Fret, maybe next season."

"You always say that!" Fret complained. "And I'm old enough. I'm not a dibbun momma please!"

"But your finger's still hurt! And your chores and-"

"Please momma, I'll be good! I promise. I won't lie, I won't fight, I won't do anything bad ever, ever, ever again!"

Constance watched him plead, a knot tightening around her heart. He was right, he wasn't a dibbun anymore. He was older... Soon he would be taller than her...but he was not old enough! Not yet!

"Fret, how about you run along now. My sister and I will talk about this."

The ferret gave his mother one last pleading look, before walking out with deliberate slowness.

"Jon, he's too young and-"

"He's old enough. All he's ever known is the abbey-"

"And the otters! They're too loud and rowdy and he's vermin to them-"

"And almost everyone here. He needs to see the world with his own eyes. Let him go."

"But, what if he, you know-"

"He'll come back. I promise you, he'll come back and he'll thank you and-"

Fret walked away from the house. He was torn between the hope fluttering inside him and the dread building up. She would let him in the end. Of course she would, why shouldn't she? And then there was the prospect of putting Redwall behind him. He could walk along Mossflower Woods, teeming as it was with critters great and small, wild and tame. He could smell the air of the forest he could spend hours on end staring at from the walls.

Then he tripped and fell on his front and Momchillo was sitting on his back, idly flicking the stolen toy over Fret's face.

"What ho, vermin? Hast thou smelt sour cheese, for thy strides are long and bouncing."

That made no sense. "If you're going to speak Shaggspearian you might as well do it right."

"A vermin lectures me on the art of speach. This day is stunning to behold!"

Fret zoned him out. He would not let the mouse ruin his mood. He would not.

"We're going to the otters this time. Maybe we can bring back some ferret soup for you?"

"Ferret soup? That's bad even by your standards. And you won't have to. I'm coming too!"

Momchillo blinked, and the toy sailed out of his grip and into the ferret's waiting paw. "Wait, what?! Since when?"

"Since today." Fret couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice as he spoke.

"Oh Momchillo, you've caught yourself a carpet! Budge up for the maids!" Came Matiya's voice, but Fret pulled out and dusted himself. Matiya was flanked by some ugly mole and the albino. His eyes felt like they were warming up just looking at her.

"Momchillo. Helloooo. Is something wrong?"

"He's coming?" The mouse pointed at the ferret. It was all he could do to not grin from ear to ear.

"Coming? Coming? He's-"

"Going to meet the otters." Fret said casually, playing once again with the odd toy.

Everyone blinked at him. "Oim bi thunkin' this moight'n be an joike."

Fret felt his furs shiver. He hated mole speech, he hated mole speech, he hated mole speech. "Why would I joke about that?" The ferret replied smugly. And so he left them, and made his way back home.

His momma still looked grim, but Connington was looking very proud of himself.

"Are you sure you want this?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yes! Of course I do!" He replied instantly.

She sighed. "You can go."

"Yes!" Fret whooped and without thinking threw himself into his mother's arms. She returned the hug just as he began to cringe from his sudden 'mushy' behaviour. Still, he was so excited he didn't let go for a long time.

Fret counted the days until they left. Nothing could dampen his spirits. Not the soapey water, not Abbot Martin.

Then the day finally came and for once he woke up early and was preparing breakfast.

Constance blinked at the sight of him, sporting an apron over his habit, buttering toast and sending a 'Good Morning' her way.

"Good morning." She replied caustiously. "You woke up earlier."

"Yup!" He said with such a large grin. "And I made breakfast momma!"

Constance blinked again. Why was he acting so strangely? When had he learned to cook toast?

"So momma, I'm gonna get ready for the trip."

Constance lost her appetite and stared at the ferret with apprehension. Was he too young? Would everything be okay?

Then Connington waddled in with another loud 'good morning', a bundle wrapped up in his paws.

Constance eyed it suspiciously. "What is that?" "A gift for my nephew, of course." And he held it up. It was a large brown robe with a hood large enough to hide Fret's whole face. Then in a voice he knew wouldn't carry, he muttered. "This way nobody tries to hurt him."

Fret was the first dibbun waiting outside the gates, flicking the odd toy he had decided to call a yo-yo for no good reason, beyond being bored.

The next to arrive was the young mole who had accused him of joking. They gave each other such long looks of disapproval as they looked eye to eye.

"You are coming." Grollo, the large hedgehog that was the cook's son blinked at him.

Fret grinned so evilly it made the hedgehog shudder. Then came the albini, who 'humphed' at the sight of him before joining the mole. The ferret's heart tightened at this. He had done nothing to her, yet she looked at him like he was less than dung.

Then Connington came followed by Momchillo and Matiya, both looked apalled that Fret was amongst them.

The grown-up mouse addressed the children. "Right! Off we go!"

Fret was slightly confused as to why Connington was there, but then he figured that his momma had forced him to do it.

Then the gates opened, and for the first time ever Fret walked through them.

[close]

Chapter Three, In Which Drama Ensues, And The Skipper Almost Kills A Kid, Not Because He's Evil Or Anything, He Just Does Not Like Vermin And I Needed Drama

Mossflower was endless, or so it seemed to Fret. The trees rustled gently in the breeze and sent golden leaves floating slowly downwards to pave the path in front of the group. The floor was soft and crunchy and there seemed to be no greater pleasure than to kick at a large pile of the leaves and watch them scatter.

It was cold in a refreshing sort of way and the colours gleamed and shivered endlessly on. The trees were like beasts, all gnarled and wisened and old brown wood that seemed to smile as they passed.

Fret felt the wind blow lightly into his face, his fur rustling in the breeze. He felt the leaves crunch under him as he walked, trying to take in everything, to remember everything from the wind to the wood. He felt the hood of his cloak get pulled up above his face, throwing him into shadow.

"Uncle!" He snapped, trying to take the cloth off of his eyes so that he wasn't walking blindly.

"Sorry, but we wouldn't want you catching a cold now would we? Best keep the hood on."

Abbot Martin was talking about history again, but nobody listened to him.

The albino and the mole maid were giggling continuously. Connington was whistling and occasionally stealing looks in his nephew's direction. Momchillo, Matiya and Grollo were singing like drunk soldiers and laughing at what the trio probably thought were the best jokes in the world, but Fret knew was dull, unsophisticated humour.

Then, every now and then the ferret would spot a nut. A hazel or an acorn or a wallnut. He would pick it up and smash it into a tree until it cracked and he could enjoy the goodness within at a leisurely pace.

Abbot Martin was going on about some Lutra-lady who had misplaced her pearls, and Fret was bringing a hazel into a tree with sufficient force to dent an axe. Naturally the hazel stood still. He was going for the fifth hit when he heard someone behind him.

"Tsk, tsk. You abbeybeasts always were a shade too slow, if I might say so. Here lad, give it here."

He stood with a long, streamlined form, well-toned with muscles. He had a long, jagged scar along his gut, and was missing a finger on his right paw. But he still looked charming.

Fret handed the otter the hazel, which was crushed in a strong paw in less than a second. The shell cracked apart and the otter handed the ferret the nut.

"Skipper! Long time no see, old friend!" Came Connington, stepping in front of Fret and holding out his paw for the otter.

Skipper roared with delight at the sight of him. "Ah Jon, you old rogue! It has been too long? What, three seasons?"

"Indeed! I'd have come sooner, but my sister insisted I stay close to home after that business up north."

Skipper laughed so hard spit flew through the trees, a bit of it landed on Fret's hood, and he was now glad his uncle had gifted the cloak to him. It would have taken forever to wash that off his fur.

"Do you 'member that shrew? The one that became the Log-a-log after he barged that varmint off the cliff." The Skipper wiped his eyes. "And little Queens, oh bless her soul, remember when she caught that rat, barged him into the tree until he pis-"

Abbot Martin thought it best to intervene, so as not to damage his pupil's ears. "Skipper, it's nice that you could come and join us." His voice had an edge to it Fret thought had only been reserved for him. Evidently not.

"Oh, of course. You know how much I love little'uns. Ah, bless my soul. You're adorable, the lot of you." He was staring at them all, and the majority found themselves blushing. Fret frowned instead, nobody in their right mind described him as adorable-except his mother and uncle, but they were never in their right minds anyways, but his look went unnoticed. Matiya had not blushed either, instead he had scoffed and muttered something along the lines of 'I won't be so 'adorable' when I'm splattered in the blood of my enemies', or at least that was what Fret had imagined he would have said. The hood was hampering his hearing. He was about to remove it when Connington whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed the spit off properly.

"My my Skipper, you ought to be more careful. At this rate you could get us all infected!"

Skipper was annoying, Fret realized. He was full of stories of chivalry and gallantry, and daring odds he had narrowly managed to save himself from. Naturally the other children listened eagerly to the tales, asking constant questions such as 'how did you know the sword would break through his armour?' or 'was she really as pretty as you say?'. He looked and sounded like a hero, but Fret found himself having a large dislike of the otter chief. It felt the same as all the stories he hated in history, too nonsensical. With ridiculous odds, and the victory of Redwall and the Abbey undoubtable. It was just the same story with different faces.

To his surprise though, his uncle wasn't listening either. He felt like asking why, but decided he wasn't bothered enough. There was an itch behind his ear, and he bent his paw back to scratch it, and tripped over his uncle's tail. He fell face forwards, and climbed back up, his hood still on, but the itch forgotten. Connington looked sheepish, but wasn't looking him in the eye. Fret supposed it must have been an accident.

He stayed at the back, cracking his wallnuts and listening to the others enjoying themselves.

Eventually, after his head had begun to throb of the Skipper's appalling musical talent, they came upon a settlement. Otters everywhere greeted them, and many had an eye for Fret, in his large hooded cloak. But he ignored them and kept cracking his wallnuts. It was an odd place to live, with tents made of blankets and old sails, or upturned canoes from which came snores and peaked out the occupant's long, slender tail. Otter spears lined the place like a fence, their infamous javelins racked up against trees. There were a pair of younger ones who were hurling rocks at a target with their slings. The target, however, had not been hit once.

"So who's hungry?" The Skipper cried to raccuous roars of 'me', 'me', 'me'. He chuckled, and whistled. The two otters who had been playing with the slings raced over. "Angus, Andrew, give the kids some stew, I have plenty to catch up with me old abbeydweller pals."

The Skipper took the two mice with him, Connington weakly protesting that he 'ought to do something'.

"Ah, abbeydwellers." Said the otter that was Angus or Andrew, Fret could not tell them apart.

"Blessed lil' dibbuns."

"Right. After you m'lady." The otter held out his paw for the molemaid, who blushed, took it and then they were all skipping away, Fret trailing behind the group. There were no wallnuts here.

The twins took them to a large stream, where crystalline water rushed past small, shining stones. There, already smoking, was a cauldron over a flame, with little pots piled around.

The stew smelled strong, and peppery. Fret sneezed audibly. Momchillo peaked inside the cauldron, tip-toeing on Grollo's head so that he could look into it.

"It's not ready yet, but I expect there shan't be a problem with that. So abbeybeasts, we are Angus and Andrew, young un's of the otters and the bes' slingers you'll ever know."

Matiya scoffed arrogantly. "A sling is a weak weapon. Bows are better."

The otters shared a sly smile, then launched into a story. "We knew a varmint once upon a season."

"Aye, an' he said the same pretty thing."

"They was also the las' words that came out his mouth before two rocks flew into his head."

"An' the ferret breathed no more."

"Why did you kill him?" Fret snapped, annoyed. These two were worst than the redwallers, and dumb as dirt if they thought they could hand feed them all their rubbish.

Angus shrugged. "He was up t'no good. All varmint are."

"Oh really, he insulted you so you killed him?" Maybe this was why his mother never let him leave the abbey. If this was the fate that befell all ferrets...

"Well if we hadn't, he'd have killed us."

"Yeah, listen lad, I get it might be too gory for you, but all ferrets are rotten to the core. The best thing for them is to be killed." The other children were silent as the grave, watching Fret and the otters uncertainly.

The words stung so strongly it was as if the otters had both slapped him. He knew they hadn't killed anyone, he knew it was just another dumb story. But he was sick and tired of dumb stories and dead vermin. He rose to his feet and threw off his hood.

Both of their jaws fell open. Fret glared at them. "We're all bloody rotten, eh? You're just too bloody stupid to think! If you had killed a ferret then how come neither of you could hit a larger target?

Angus stammered inelligibly, but Andrew managed to form words. "You-you're a af-ferret."

Fret clapped for them, slowly and deliberately. He felt stronger now, from the shocked looks on their faces. He felt invincible. Then Matiya started laughing at the otters.

"What's the matter? Scared of this little'un?"

The other children laughed too, as if Fret was nothing to be scared of at all.

The otter twins went beet red. "Just haven't met one who could talk."

"Yeah, most are dumb as dir-"

"But still sufficiently dangerous to warrant killing them? Or did you just sit there wetting yourselves?" Fret snapped again. The dibbuns were laughing at the otters, Fret was making them laugh. He felt like he was flying, untouchable, soaring above them all.

Then Angus rose and glared down at him, and courage flew out faster than a candle in a storm. "Your kind are nothin' but bloody butchers and angry lil' people who steal things you can't make for yourselves."

Fret found courage in the urge to defend himself. "And you're so scared of lil' black and white people that you kill them so that you don't wet yourself!"

Andrew was growling, but Fret ignored the danger signs, such was his need to defend himself.

"I'm not a thief. I'm not a vermin. I am a ferret. You are just a stupid, slimy-"

Andrew lunged, leaping over the cauldron pot. He fell on top of Fret, his fist raised. Instinct made the ferret lash out first and his claws sliced through the otter's skin and fur on his cheek. Blood dribbled down, and the otter forgot his anger at the pain, and rose, touching his cheek with his paw.

"You scratched him." Angus muttered, dumbfounded.

"He went for me first!" Fret snapped, but there was a pleading tone to his voice, he hadn't meant to lash out it has just... just happened. He felt dread rush into his stomach. Noone was laughing now, the camp was quite, save for the crackling of the fire. He knew the way this would end. He started it. He always started it. No matter what he said he was going to be punished for attacking Andrew. The others would lie and he would be made to scrub the roofs. But that wasn't the worst part. His paw was still coated in otter blood, the faces around him were shocked, fearful even. "I-I-I didn't. I'm sorry, I just.. I couldn't" His throat was choking up, the pressure in his chest had never been stronger. He needed to lash out, to explain, to, to-

"VARMINT!" The Skipper thundered forwards, and charged at the ferret. Fret froze in fear. He whimpered weakly, he wasn't vermin, he wasn't, he wasn't... Then why had he attacked Andrew? The otter raised his spear. I'll die. He's going to kill me. I'm going to die. The thought made his heart hammer and his eyes wetten, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was so scared.

Then, before the spear could hit him, Connington's small, grey form flung into the otter's side, and the sharpened wood missed by an inch. Fret was still frozen in place, his eyes watering. He was shivering. He was so scared.

Connington, despite his smaller size, had the Skipper down. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" He was bouncing on the otter's chest.

"What!? What on earth!?" Abbot Martin had joined the screaming. "Skipper!? What? This is madness, madness!" He looked like he was having a heart attack, his brown fur standing on end.

"Varmint! Varmint! Var- Connington! What are you-doing?!"

"Stop! You insane lunatic! Think! He's a child! Look at him!" The little mouse slapped the otter chief hard across the face.

That brought Skipper to his senses. He took a deep breath, glanced briefly at Fret, who looked utterly petrified and then glared at the older mice. "What in the seven seas are you playing at?"

"Well, you see he's a member of our-" Martin began, eyeing Fret with what looked like pity.

Connington cut him off, and hopped off the otter, placing a firm paw on the ferret's shoulder, and patting his nephew on the back. "He's my nephew."

The Skipper opened his mouth, closed it and then tried to form words. "Bu-wha-wh-your sister, and who did you, how on earth-"

"He's Constance's son." Connington replied firmly. "And my nephew."

"I-I, he's a varmint!" The Skipper replied, baffled.

"He's not!" Connington snapped, sounding a lot like his nephew.

"He's a ferret!"

"So?" The mouse was becoming more and more firm with every word.

"So he's varmint! What do you think you're doing with him over here?!" Skipper barked, spit flying out his mouth.

"He's my nephew and may go wherever he pleases!"

"Not if I say so. Have you forgotten everything Jon? What his kind do?"

The mouse hesitated. "I believe judging someone based on their species is wrong."

"Truly? Your nephew's different, eh? He has blood on his paw, I see."

Connington was not ready for that, he had been so caught up with the whole situation he hadn't even noticed the blood.

Andrew explained. "He attacked me, sir."

Connington opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"Aye, we was just joking and he went mad-"

"Liar!" Fret snapped. "Liar liar liar liar liar!" He was crying. The tears were rolling down his face, thick and fast. He pulled out of his uncle's grip and trudged away, sobbing incoherently. He tripped on the hem of his cloak, got up and continued walking away.

He could scarcely see ahead of him, with the salt water falling down his face. The clearing was silent, but for his receding footsteps and occasional sobs.

Connington glared so fiercely Angus and Andrew had the grace to look abashed. "Yes, I'm sure that is exactly how it happened." Andrew bit his lip. Then the small, grey mouse scampered away. "Fret! Fret, it's alright. Fret!"

[close]

Chapter Four, In Which A Ferret Named Fret Meets A Weasel Named Sharpfur And A Rat Named Greyclaw

"Fret! Come back! Skipper just overreacted a litt-"

"A LITTLE!" Fret snapped, rounding on the small mouse.

"Okay-a lot, but-"

"BUT NOTHING!" The ferret yelled, gesticulating wildly. "They hate me." He whined. "They all do, they always have! I'm just-just vermin!"

"You're not vermin." Connington soothed, trying to pull his nephew into a hug.

Fret pulled away. "I'm going ho- to Redwall. I'm going to Redwall."

"Well that's fine. We can get this whole incident smoothed over before anyone can get you into any more trouble." Jon said, relief flooding over him.

"Uncle... Can you just... Leave?" Fret asked, biting down the urge to yell 'leave me alone'.

Connington paused, considering the situation. On one paw it was best to get Fret home safe and sound. On the other his nephew had just had a traumatic ordeal... The small mouse sighed.

"Okay Fret, but don't go running off now. And- stay out of trouble and-are you sure you don't want me to come?"

Fret nodded.

He sighed again. "Just... Go home and tell your momma I'm sorry."

Fret nodded again and scampered off back the way he came, until Connington was out of earshot. The ferret made sure he wasn't being followed, then took a different path.

He was sick of it all. They all lied and made him out to be a villain, they hated the very sight of him. The Skipper had tried to kill him... And the root cause of it all was that he was 'vermin'. He was not vermin, but that was all they saw when they looked at him. If that was all they would ever see him as, why should he go back to scrubbing pans and falling asleep in lessons? He could learn to fight, become a travelling warrior-a tourney knight. He could wear steel so thick nobody would know what he was. Suddenly an image came to his mind. Fret, all clad in armour, winning a tourney at Redwall, being respected by the other dibbuns, getting cheered for by the grown-ups... And best of all was the look on their faces when he removed the helm. He could almost hear Constance yelling through the din. 'That's my son! That's my son!' Then as thoughts turned to his mother the image vanished. What would become of her if he left? A part of him wanted to yell that she didn't love him, that it was all a lie- but the other part refused to listen. So much of her life had been dedicated to him.

He lay against a tree, his arms crossed over, fuming. He didn't want to go back to the stupid abbey, but he couldn't just abandon Constance-then he was no better than the vermin everyone thought he was.

"I told him he shouldn't come, but Connington refused." Abbot Martin wheezed, trying to relax the tense atmosphere that surrounded the otter captain.

"Aye, he's a stubborn one. Since when did he have a pet varmint anyways?" The Skipper agreed.

"He's not a pet." The small grey mouse snapped-sounding remarkably like his nephew. "As I told you before, he's my nephew."

Both Abbot Martin and the Skipper humphed.

"Tell me Jon, how many ferrets have besieged Redwall?" The old brown mouse asked.

"More than I care to count, but Fret was not one of them, nor will he ever be." The grey one shot back.

"Aye, mayhaps he'll just be a cutthroat." The otter captain remarked darkly.

"If you treat him like one what do you expect? You tried to kill him."

"He harmed one of mine!" Skipper replied, a low growl building up behind his throat.

"Oh yes, good graces, look at them splashing-oh the scars! Certainly more traumatic than staring death right in the face." He pointed pointedly at the youngsters, currently laughing and splashing in the river. "They don't look very 'harmed' to me!"

"ant you and your sarcasm." The burly otter snapped, for he had nothing better to say.

"Where is the boy now, Connington?" Abbot Martin asked, once again trying to lighten the mood.

"On his way back to the abbey."

"Unaccompanied, alone and on his first outing to Mossflower woods. Tsk, tsk and you expect him to go home? Well, your faith is commendable. Shall we give him a little test? If he returns to the abbey then he is as you say, a good lad-if not then I suppose it was better this way."

Connington looked like he was about to explode. "Fret is going to go home and if he doesn't I will personally march through the Dark Forest and back, dragging him if I have to. He is my nephew!"

"Perhaps we ought to change the subject." The old mouse managed to squeak.

"Have you forgotten Jon? What the varmints done to me? And Rowland, you remember Rowland don't you?"

"I haven't forgotten." The small mouse snarled.

"I think you could do with a reminder."

What was that noise? It was a continuous compilation of grunting and labored breath that cut through the pleasant noise in the forest. Curiosity made Fret want to investigate, but he proceeded with caution. There were many legends of Mossflower Woods. Of cats, and owls and snakes. He crept close to the river, and peered cautiously from the bushes. It was not a cat, an owl or a snake.

A dark grey rat-for no mouse would hold a weasel- was holding a weasel, who was pulling on a thin shaft of wood with an even thinner rope poking into the water.

Fret realized what would happen a second before it happened. The shaft snapped loudly and the two fell into a tangle. Curiosity tightened it's grip on Fret, who had never seen either kind before.

The weasel slipped free of the tangle with practiced ease. "Dammit Grey! I told you the stick wouldn't last!" The weasel scurried over to the river. "I'll get you next time you bloody kipper!" In response the water splashed over him. "Ack!"

The rat had sat up, and was sniffing madly. When he spoke Fret was surprised by how mellow his voice was. Soft and gentle. "Do you smell that?" The rodent stood up, and crawled around, his nose sniffing the shore.

"All I can smell is defeat." The weasel commented, drawing a dirk and picking at yellowing teeth with it, before spitting into the river.

The rat stopped in front of Fret's bush, giving a wide grin that showed off his unevenly sized buckteeth. "Hullo!"

His cover blown Fret stood up. "H-hello." The rat's eyes were wide and warm, and his face looked familiar.

"Ah, a ferret." The weasel interjected.

"I'm Fret." The ferret said politely. Neither seemed to be any older than he was. The weasel was small and thin, about the size of his uncle, yet more elastic. His fur was a bright oramge, but looked like it could redden easily. The rat was taller, but not quite as tall as Fret. He was wider though, and his tail a fat, pink worm.

"He's Grey, I'm Sharpie." The weasel seemed bored and walked back to the river.

"I never smelt you before." Said the grey rat, Grey.

"Me...neither." It felt strange, talking to a pair of strangers. There were rarely any strangers in Redwall, and even less who would speak with him.

"Do you live here?"

"More or less." Fret responded, still unsure.

An awkward silence descended, and was broken by loud splashings of water as Sharpie hurled pebbles into the river. "I'm gonna starve to death!" He whined, falling dramatically to the floor.

"But you had breakfast-"

"Grey, I'm starving now!"

"There are nuts in the woods." Fret offered, trying to be helpful.

Both vermin burst out laughing. Sharpie got to his feet, cackling like a clown."Do I look like a bloody squirrel to you?" He fell back to the floor, his legs kicking wildly as he laughed half-madly.

"No, you don't." Fret said, not knowing why they were laughing so hard. Nuts were nice...When the weasel was left only chuckling occasionally he supplied the reason.

"A few seasons ago, when I was a dibbun, a squirrel maid with twelve kids and no eyes thought I was one of hers-until she tried to shove an acorn down my throat. I put up a good fight and all, but in the end I had to swallow. I bet she would have kept me if her kids didn't point out how fluffy my tail wasn't! After that she kicked me outta a tree, lucky I landed on Grey really."

The squirrel maid sounded like Blind Agatha-who had once called him cute-before she learned that he was a ferret. After that she had whacked him on the head for 'lying'. Connington had covered his eyes while Constance dealt with the squirrel. Blind Agatha had since avoided their cottage.

"What about you tubby, tell him a funny story." The weasel chided, poking his friend in the belly.

"Er okay. Well I don't have any parents and stuff, but Sharpie's family took me in. His ma makes good soup-"

"I said funny! Make us laugh Grey, laugh!"

"Well once we tried to go fishing with my tail, coz he said it looked like a worm. It was a good idea I suppose, but the fishes weren't interested. Then an otter bit it and Sharpie dragged him onto land. I don't know who was more surprised really."

"Well that was progress." The weasel said, patting his friend on the back. "How old are you Fret?"

"Er ten seasons, roughly."

"Me too!" The rat said, grinning again.

"Ha, I'm ten and a half!" The weasel exclaimed.

"That's coz you've got your family to celebrate with you." The grey rat pointed out, sounding sad.

"My family celebrates your one too-remember that giant cheese tart we got off that mole!"

They both started laughing again.

"What about you Frettie? Who looks after you?" The weasel asked.

"Well I live in Redw-er wood. Redw-"

"You live in that cursed abbey?!" They exclaimed, though the rat had left out 'cursed'.

"No, nononono, that place is baaaaad news." Sharpe began, Grey nodding feverishly. "I mean, sure the food's good, but that place is full of woodlanders! There's a badger as well I heard! Do you know what badgers do to you when they're angry?"

"They go all crazy and rip out your bones and use your skull as a drinking cup!" Grey supplied, sounding worried just thinking about it.

"Exactly!" Hissed the weasel. "And it's haunted."

"Haunted?" Fret sniggered. "The badger makes us scrub dishes when she's angry, anyways she'd need a bigger cup than your skull. And now you're just trying to scare me."

Both looked dead serious. "That crazy mouse who built the place. Matinn or something, he still walks around the abbey, and lashes out on any and all verminfolk who enter. They say the sword he weilds burns any vermin who so much as touches the blade."

"You're better off coming with us." Grey supplied. "You can share our room even. We share everything, except for his dirk, that's his and-"

"I've lived in the abbey all my life, and I was never attacked by anyone...Called Martin." Everyone inside Redwall hated him, yet here he was, refusing to go with two strangers, who had in five minutes treated him better than almost everyone he had ever met. How come rats are the vermin, when an otter tried to kill me for no reason and the rat's offering a place to sleep?

"C'mon." Whined Grey Claw. "He'll let you use it from time to time, he lets me use it. And his ma makes good soup and she's really sweet and doting and I can get you a-"

"I have my own momma and I don't give a fig about whatever you can get me!" Fret snapped. Grey looked like he was about to cry.

"Now you've done it!" Sharpie hissed. "Look tubby it's okay, he didn't mean to snap at you. Right Frettie?"

"Right." Fret supplied, the weasel's glare was enough to kill, but the dirk was somewhat more threatening. "I didn't mean to snap it's just that-" Everyone in Redwall hates me and I'm here snapping at relatively nice vermin. "It's been a long day. I should really be getting back right about now." He faked a yawn. "Nice meeting you two." And he scampered off, utterly confused as to why his feet were taking him back to the abbey.

"Well... To put it bluntly we'll never see him again." Sharpie summarised. "Nononono don't cry Grey. It's okay. Ghosts can't get to us because they can't swim."

"Er, neither can you." Grey added.

"I was comforting you, you fat oaf." The weasel murmured

[close]

I haven't finished reading it yet and it looks like you'll write more but I find it good so far and I encourage you to keep on writing for there are very few good ''vermin'' in Redwall and I enjoy reading about them.

Chapter Five, In Which Fret Returns

"I am hers and she is mine." Said one tall mouse, thick and muscled.

"I am his and he is mine." Replied another, just as tall.

Then they spoke in unison. "From this day, till the end of my days."

Then as the two mice sealed their love with a kiss, the cheering and the music broke out. The drums were beaten, horns were sounded and everybeast was stomping their feet and clapping paws.

Connington smiled as hard as he could-ignoring the constant pang in his chest. He had to be happy for them. Rowland was his best friend and Constance... Was like a sister. The Skipper gave him a hard slap on the back.

"Cheer up Jon! Your day will come soon." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Agatha's been eyeing you the whole time."

"I'm fine Skip... Just worried is all... Mad-Eye Marik still had half his horde-"

"Aye and a javelin through the rear- I should know, I put it there meself." He roared with laughter, patted his friend on the back again and went to join some otter girls.

But Connington was not relieved. All the Skipper had done was infuriate the ferret. Constance was tripping around as she danced with Rowland... She had never been a good dancer... And Rowland, he looked drunk with love, and was constantly stepping on somebeast's tail. If only he could be happy too...

"He was my friend too Skip! Or are you forgetting that?" Thoughts of Rowland hurt him more than any blade ever could.

"You know what they did to him! To Constance's babes! Your neices! Your nephews! How could you?"

"Fret had nothing to do with that!"

"His kind did! All of his ilk! They butchered them all! Do you remember?!"

Abbot Martin was beginning to feel threatened in the warriorbeasts' presence. He was no fighter himself, and the emotions were running so high it was a wonder the two weren't going for the kill already.

"I remember everything! And I don't remember Fret having anything to do with it!"

"I only recognized him for his tail. Bent a long time ago when he was a dibbun. And I saw that ferret poke so many holes in little Chesters..." The otter took a deep breath. "They smashed Fleece into a tree and threw his wailing body into the river. They'd have killed Constance too if they could!"

"That was gruesome Skipper-gruesome and unforgivable. But Connington was correct when he said that Fret was not one of them. He might have not been born even."

He had been a babe back then... A little thing, alone and helpless. Of course Constance had taken him in and raised her as her own, her family did the same with me.

The air was tense from the silence as the Skipper thought this over.

"Tell your varmint I'm sorry Jon." The otter growled. "He shouldn't have been born one of them. But he could hardly decide that. I overreacted is all... But you know our history Connington. Don't go bringing him here again!"

Jon nodded, eager to return to the abbey. "No worries old friend."

"But you be watchful of 'Im. Maybe he ain't a varmint yet-but if you ain't careful he'll be one within the season. He's got bad blood in his veins."

"I'm aware of your thoughts Skipper." Connington said frowning. "And yours Abbot. But I stand by what I said- Fret is a good lad."

The otter then shook his head, forcing a chuckle. "It's been a while since we disagreed on anything, eh?"

Connington too managed a grin. "Too long."

Constance was pacing her cottage.

She had found Fret mewling like a newborn. He had been alone and helpless, and she had found her heart rushing out to him. Alone and cold and hungry and helpless. Blood ran down the wall, and a corpse lay on the ground. She had killed a dozen fighters to get this far, but she could not bring herself to bring her axe down on the child-ferret or not. Instead, she had pressed him against her cold armour, and rocked him backwards and forwards, until the wailing and whimpering stopped and he was fast asleep. Then when they had found her in the morning, still clutching the frightened babe she had announced that he was hers. The large mouse had to endure cries of outrage and gasps filled with shock. But no amount of sense would make her let go of the babe. She had been reminded, half-a-hundred times, of Veil Sixclaw, who's own mother had called him 'evil' after all was said and done. Constance had replied with a 'ant Byrony, and his name is Fret- not Veil!' For nine seasons she had watched him crawl and waddle and walk. She had seen him cry, made him laugh and recieved more of his snapping than anybeast.

She had lost three babes... Three beautiful babes, before fate had handed her Fret. She had lost three and couldn't bear to loose a fourth. That was the root cause of her pacing.

What if things didn't go well? The Skipper had loved her like a sister, yet had hated vermin of any kind with a passion. And vermin or not-Fret was a ferret. Would the Skipper mistreat him? Would he jump to conclusions? Surely if Jon explained everything properly... Yet Mossflower Woods were huge, and certainly large enough to get lost in. Then the door opened and Fret walked in, looking as worried to see her as she was relieved to see him.

Fret almost cursed his luck. He had wanted to sneak into his room quietly, so as not to alert her of his arrival. Naturally she was there already.

"H-hi momma."

"Oh Fret, you're back already!" She wrapped him in a hug before he knew what was happening. He recoiled from the movement inwardly, but was also glad to be safely home again. "How was the trip?"

The question pressed into him like a hot iron rod, and out of instinct Fret responded. "It was great!"

Constance didn't fully believe his words, but in all honesty she was glad for the reassurance-forced or otherwise.

[close]

Chapter Six, In Which Fret Leaves

The first snows were a soggy thing, and made the damp soil muddy. Winter was the season Fret hated most. Since food was scarce and snows made it hard to travel everybeast flocked to the Abbey. The cottages were emptied and everybeast lived within. That meant that for an entire season he had to endure everyone's near constant gaze. And that wasn't the worst. The Guosim shrews turned up more often than not, and many had given him queer looks. One had even asked loudly who had painted a poor mouse black and white? The jest had fallen flat. The otters never turned up, thankfully. They travelled further south where it was warmer. Badgers, hedgepigs, moles and their annoying accents. And there was no way to avoid any of them. Some like Blind Agatha stayed well away from him, others approached cautiously, but rarely stayed longer than it took for him to snap at something they had said. The abbeybeasts who lived with him tried particularly hard to keep him out of the way, and for that he was glad, but with so many mouths to feed it was hard to focus on one ferret. Connington was swarmed away by others who fancied themselves warriors and Constance was busy with cooking, and cleaning. She was also swarmed away by other mice and mothers. But there were no vermin to swarm him away. It got even worst when the ground hardened into ice and the snow set. And it was on one such day, on the morning of the Great Feast of Winter, that Fret's story truly began.

He was idly flicking the toy, when a great pile of snow fell on top of him. This was followed with laughter. His head broke free of the snow to glare at the usual cast. Matiya clambered down a tree clad in white, and grinned as he admired his work.

"You make a great snowbeast Fret." Momchillo commented, grinning at his own wit.

"Very clever." Fret snapped, climbing out of the snow and shaking himself free, before digging a paw in to retrieve the yo-yo. Then a ball of snow caught him on the side of the head.

"Let us do battle vermin fiend!" The mouse shrieked, Fret threw a pawful of snow into his open mouth.

"No thanks." The ferret responded.

"Aw, why the long face? Cheer up for once matey and you might even enjoy yourself!" Matiya poked him on the nose.

"I don't find getting frozen very enjoyable." And he brushed off the squirrel's paw.

"You'd only be frozen till the feast." Grollo pointed out, throwing a snowball that was aimed for Fret at Matiya. "My dad made pies and soups and cheeses-"

"Your dad is the cook." Fret snapped. "I know he cooks."

"What's that noise?" Momchillo asked, his ears twisting around.

"Your voice." Fret responded dryly. But then he heard it too. It was... Music?

"Dad got friendly with the beer again." Momchillo sighed.

"Those aren't any abbeybeasts. They're the-"

And then Fret could hear the words playing out clearly as the singers approached the doors.

"We're the long patrol." Came the loudest voice, followed by a chorus of roughly twenty voices.

"The Long Patrol, the Long Patrol! Merry old souls, we're the Long Patrol, come one come all, welcome to Redwall. Be ye thin and tall or fat and small, we're the Long Patrol! We serve till we're dead and cold, the wise and old, the young and bold, we're the Long Patrol!"

The doors opened wide as twenty hares marched through, their movements in perfect coordination with the tune.

Matiya stared at them almost worshipfully. "The Long Patrol!" He squealed, overcome with excitement.

Fret was somewhat less excited, but used the opportunity to sneak away from the trio. His last encounter with any famed vermin-fighters was still fresh in his mind. The Skipper almost ran him through with a spear. He shuddered. That had been traumatic. Still the trip had been decent in the end. He had told nobeast about the weasel or the rat, however, they would just come up with their own endings, the way they always did.

He passed Martin's fabled sword and the tapestry. He paused to eye it with disdain. Martin the Warrior, leaning on his blade while a score of vermin fled before him. He snorted. Whoever had made it left out Martin's army, and the dead bodies of both. Somehow he felt that that many vermin would have just flattened the mouse.

"I suppose your magic sword saved your tail." If Fret had a magic sword the first thing he'd do was slice up Matiya's wooden one. But the only magic sword was Martin's and the abbey had had no warrior for generations, and had never had a vermin for one either... Ever. He was almost tempted to take it, to try and spin it around, to prove that he wasn't a vermin... That he was a-

"Ferret." He snarled into his reflection in the sword. "I am that is." The words inscribed on the blade certainly felt different than they must have to Mathias, when the mouse had beaten Cluny the Scourge and saved Redwall. Fret saw them as another cold reminder, forged a thousand seasons past- that he could never be one of them.

"You're just a dead mouse." Fret spat at the still-smiling warrior.

"We're all dead meat in the end. Even if we had a pretty blade."

Fret leapt a foot in the air at the sudden intrusion. The Badgermum was one of the few whose meer presence made him mumble a lot more than snap. "Oh, Miss, I-I didn't mean anything, I was just er-daydreaming is all." He was reminded horribly of the bloodwrath, how some warriors went mad in battle and tore any in their path.

"I am that is." She murmured. "Enjoy the feast." And with that she dismissed him, and he wasted no time leaving. Before he shoved it to the back of his mind he couldn't help thinking that Fret sounded somewhat like ferret.

With nothing better to do, Fret climbed up to the walls, and found himself staring out into space. The land looked neater, he decided, when it was carpetted in snow.

But no neat backdrop could crush his inner turmoil. Everything had gone back to normal after the otter's visit. The back of the class in History, falling asleep at the endless tales of some abbeybeast's great deeds. Abbot Martin was softer, that much was true, but that didn't stop him from giving Fret the harder questions. The only difference was that the mouse encouraged him to study harder, and even helped out from time to time. But no matter what Abbot Martin tried Fret was heavily reminded that he didn't fit in.

One ferret, scores of mice, shrews, squirrels... And he was the only ferret. He was different, too different. Yet what was so different about him that nobeast wanted anything to do with him? What was the wall between him and everybeast? His snapping? His laziness? He shook his head clear, he was a ferret...he just had to accept that. And after him... The rest of the abbey.

It was dark, and snow covered Mossflower Woods as Sharpfur leaned against a tree, waiting for his friend. He didn't have to wait for very long, as the rat fell on him a moment later, sniffing the air with his madly-twitching nose.

"Do you smell that?" The rat asked.

"All I smell is you." The weasel responded, wriggling loose of his companion's girth.

"It's like... Vittles!" The rat grinned so wide you could count his teeth. Greyclaw fell on all fours, his nose leading the way.

"It better be!" Sharpie snapped, following anyways.

The feast had separated him from Fret and Constance most wonderfully. Constance was dining with the ladies, laughing at their jokes and passing dishes around. Connington was seated opposite the Log-a-log and the Long Patrol. Fret he could not see, and hoped dearly that he was behaving and being treated properly in turn.

"And how come you ain't the abbey warrior Connie?" The grizzled, one eyed hare looked a monster, yet was more mannered then half. "A magic sword- someone ought to swing it, wot."

Connington smiled sadly. "Alas, I prefer shorter swords, and ones that aren't magic. Ghosts are frightening."

The hares hooted at this and banged the table. The shrew looked disappointed.

"Tis too large for a shrew matey, and too small for any these hares. You'd best start swinging it soon."

"In times of peace the abbey needs no warrior." The small mouse dismissed, in truth guilt kept the sword out of reach... Forever out of reach.

"Peace, eh? I don't want to frighten you mouse, but I'm afraid peace won't last long. I've heard that vermin are banding together in great numbers, flocking to the lands of Always Winter. We might well have a fight on our paws before next snow!"

"Good! I haven't had a good fight in years!" The one eyed hare joked, then pointed at the hole in his head. "I still need to repay the favour."

The small mouse felt his stomach churn, and even as the talk turned elsewhere he couldn't help but worry. If war with vermin was imminent, what became of the vermin within Redwall?

"I don't think we should be here." Grey gulped as he stood in the shadow of the abbey's red walls.

"Nonsense! Ghosts can't harm us coz we're not grownups yet, anyhow we have my dirk."

Grey sighed with relief.

"Now, to vittles and beyond! Grey, sniff it out!" And the weasel tossed his dirk into the air, watching the blade glint in the darkness.

It was as Grollo had promised. Every table was piled with so much food it was a wonder they didn't break. And yet Fret was not hungry. He sat, slumped and bored out of his wits, next to him was a little shrew of the Guosim, who seemed positively frightened of him. Opposite him, positively pigging out behind a mountain of food, was Grollo. Momchillo was on his other side, laughing uproariously at a young hare sharing there table.

"For the night is dark and full of turnips!" He yelled, stabbing into a turnip with his fork. "We must pray for some carrots!" And he wiggled his long ears. Everyone except Fret laughed. "So fellow youngsters, when we are all as big as we can be, what do we desire? What shall we use ourselves as? A dibbun must plan ahead, no?"

"I'm going to be the greatest abbey warrior ever!" Matiya exclaimed, stabbing a turnip himself.

"I'll just cook stuff." Grollo shrugged, before diving back into his dinner.

"He who leaves his destiny undecided is the wisest of them all." Momchillo tried to quote something Abbot Martin had once told them.

"I'm going to be the Log-a-log!" The shrew squeaked.

"And what about you?" It took the ferret a while to realize he was the one being spoken to.

"I'm going to sleep." He snapped instinctively. Had the hare been implying something?

"Fret here is the number one spy in the abbey." Momchillo said seriously.

"Aye, you'd think he's a mouse more often than not." The table laughed at what he thought was a pathetic excuse for a joke. Deciding that he could distract himself with food he reached for a baked apple as big as him. Only for the hare to snatch it away and start juggling it along with a turnip and a carrot. He was also singing, though so horrendously Fret did not hear the words.

"Are you actually a ferret or are you an otter painted like one? You know, like the Mask." The shrew asked innocently.

Fret felt an eye twitch in annoyance. "I'm a ferret."

"You see, an impressive spy. You never know what he is. I swore yesterday he was a rat." Matiya joked.

Fret reached for a bowl of soup. Just as the turnip fell inside, throwing the contents of the bowl over Fret and the shrew. The Guosim boy shrieked with laughter and licked the his fur. Fret though, was scowling.

"You did that on purpose." The ferret accused.

"I did not!" Scoffed the hare. "Besides, you look better now."

"Aye and much tastier." Matiya added.

The table laughed once more, but Fret was not amused. He left the table after that, leaving a trail of creamy soup behind him. He heard laughter, and was sure it was directed at him. He left the hall, hot and angry.

Grey had sniffed out a miniature dent in the wall, and had dug in, sniffing madly, leaving Sharpfur to toss his blade into the air as he waited for the vittles to show up.

The snow was cleared to form a path towards the wall. It was dark and cold, but Fret liked it better than the Hall and all the laughter. He was just a joke, as usual. The joke, the vermin. He kicked at a pile of snow and sat on the edge of the wall. It was cold and freezing and he was sure the soup was freezing over him. He should probably be getting back... He was about to leave when he spotted a bright glint in the moonlight. He leant forwards, and almost slipped over the edge.

"Careful Fret." Came Matiya's voice, as the squirrel caught him by the back of his habit and pulled him back. "You ought to be more careful, you almost fell right off."

"I didn't!" Fret snapped automatically. He shivered and pulled himself free of Matiya's grip, turning to leave.

"Why are you always in such a bad mood?" The squirrel shot back as Fret turned to leave. "Was it something I said?"

Fret paused. Did this squirrel honestly have no idea what he put him through? No! He was just pretending! "It was a lot of things you've done!" Fret snapped.

"A couple of jokes? Pshaw, what's wrong with you? Learn to laugh a little. Tibbers got as much soup on him as you did, and he didn't run off crying about it."

"I wasn't crying. And he doesn't have to deal with stuff like this every day!"

"Stuff like what?"

"Like you! Like being vermin! Like being a liar! You've lied so many times to get me in trouble, but I'm the liar. Nobeast's as hated as me and you're asking what I go through?" Fret exploded, the emotions he had surpressed since the trip with the otters came boiling to the surface.

"Hated?" The squirrel looked confused. "Nobeast hates you." The squirrel's response came to him like slap to the face.

"The Skipper tried to run me through! You and Momchillo and Grollo hate me just for existing!"

"Hate you? We don't hate y-"

"Liar! Liar liar liar liar liar!" Fret yelled, his voice echoing in the darkness.

"Fret..."

"Go back to your feast." Fret finished, in a quieter voice, spinning on his heel and walking away.

Matiya stood there, the same confusion painted on his face.

Fret was seething as all the memories came rushing into him. He was Slagar the Cruel and Cluny the Scourge. They didn't hate him? He almost laughed out loud. Nobeast loved him. Where was Constance? Where was Connington? Love! Now he did laugh. They hated him, why did everyone go out of their way to pretend they didn't? Something else glinted in the darkness, and he hated it. If not for that stupid glint he wouldn't have exploded.

His momma loved him. Connington liked him. But he was just too different for all the rest. The hare's question rung through his mind... What would he do when he was older?

"I'll be a ferret." He snarled, peaking over the wall in search of the maddening glint. Then he slipped on an icy ridge, and fell right off, his habit tore against a parparet and, arms flailing madly, he screamed into the cold, empty night.

As tempting as it was to follow the sound of music, Grey knew better. Where there was music there was people, and although the vittles' smelled the strongest from a grand hall, he followed another scent, down a flight of stairs, past a shiny sword and a fancy tapestry, and into a smoking hot kitchen. His jaw fell slack at the sight of all the food. He licked his chops, rubbed his paws, and jumped right in.

Matiya walked back into the feast room feeling a lot less jovial.

"He's not sore about the soup is he?" The hare asked, sounding somewhat guilty.

"No... He just needs... To think." The ferret's face was yelling into his own. Was he lying? He had never thought much about Fret, aside from him being queer, and snappy... But hate was putting it strongly. They weren't mates exactly, but Fret had grown up with them. They couldn't hate him. And they didn't.

"Nevertheless I shall go apologise!" The hare exclaimed. "He's in the cellar?"

"The wall."

"Thought so!" And the hare skipped off.

"Is he really a ferret in Redwall?" The shrew called Tibbers asked. "Aren't they mostly rotten."

"I've never met another ferret." Momchillo pointed out. "But Fret's just grumpy, not rotten."

"Normally he eats a lot." Grollo commented. "But he's a bit messy."

"He's just as rotten as you are shrew." Momchillo summarised. "Though somewhat less apetizing."

And again they laughed.

"Ferret!" The hare whistled loudly. "Here ferrety ferrety Frettie! Aw, come on matey, don't be a spoilsport! It was my mistake. I swear you may soak me in any dish you like-so long as it's not that otterly spicy one. Here ferrety, ferrety, Frettie!" But nobeast replied. He hopped around the wall, and found no hair nor hide of him.

"Constance dear, there's some pie down in the kitchens. Could you get them for me?"

Glad for an excuse to leave the hall, she nodded. The music was pounding her ears wildly, and she had already stuffed herself silly. Talking was entertaining and all, but she had to surpress a yawn one too many times. She hoped Fret was alright, and would have checked on him, but found no way to do so without leading him to some form of humiliation. She passed the sword of Martin the Warrior and the tapestry and smiled. The mouse's spirit guided them all.

She proceeded further down to the kitchens and heard a clatter as something fell to the floor. Probably the cook, that hedgepig was always a clumsy one.

"Excuse me, Brother-" But she found herself staring...not at any cook, but at a head, poking out of a half-eaten pie.

The rat gulped the pie. "Hullo." He said nervously, waving a paw at her.

The eyes... The tail... She placed a paw over her heart, and stumbled backwards, falling on her back with a loud clatter.

Grey Claw gulped, and heard doors opening and closing. "Constance! Do you have that pie?"

And he raced away, barging out the other door.

"Constance?" Rosebrush, Momchillo's mother, a brown mouse, poked her head from the door, and gasped at the sight. "Somebeast help! Something's happened to her!"

[close]

Chapter Seven, In Which Fret's Friends Go To Look For Him And They Get Kidnapped

All Matiya could feel was a hard lump in his stomach. Everywhere he looked he could see Fret on the wall, yelling wildly. Did I hate him? I didn't hate him... I never did... I don't.

The air around the abbey was solemn and serious. Mother Constance was broken. She was pale, quiet and frozen. She didn't move, nor did she speak. Her heart was weak they said, in worried voices. Brother Jon had gone mad, it seemed. He had stayed by Constance's side constantly, until someone had brought him news of Fret's absence. Then he had run around the abbey like a madbeast, as if in a panic, searching for his nephew. He had circled the walls so often that Blind Agatha had brought him meals up there, not that he ate much. All they had found of Fret was a piece of his habit. No body, no prints, no scent. The snow had covered the last two, but they had dug for the first. Matiya wondered whether or not that was a good thing. Then the small mouse had cracked like an egg, and lost himself in despair, after having searched Mossflower so thoroughly his paw-prints could be seen in every inch of snow. He ate nothing for a while, and had grown sick and cold. Then the badgermum had physically forced him to eat something.

Tibbers the shrew was practicing with Jack-is-Lucky, the hare. His thin rapier was faster than the hare's axe, but packed less of a punch, and the hare had made him surrender several times over. Momchillo and Grollo watched with solemn faces, though Momchillo had the ghost of a grin on his face. Then again he hadn't heard Fret that night. None of them had. Jack-is-Lucky had hopped back into the hall, unable to find him. But then they had heard Rosebrush's cries and had come running. The Long Patrol had scouted the area in search of the culprit... But they had not found anyone there.

"Yield!" The hare demanded good-naturedly, his axe barely held above the shrew's chest.

Matiya had a wooden sword hanging from a scabbard at his side. What would Martin have done? Or any other warrior in his position? They would have convinced Fret that they didn't hate him. They'd have some way to tell him the truth. All he had done was look stupid. But if they had failed, like him... They'd have found Fret by now. Then Matiya grinned as the guilt left him. He would bring the ferret home if it killed him! Like a true hero!

Fret realized three things before he woke up. One, his head was sore and throbbing. Two, he was on a somewhat soft floor. Three, Grey was sniffing something.

"What are you doing here?" Fret snapped, sitting up and making his head spin like a toy.

"Hullo Frettie!" The rat responded, good-naturedly, waving at him.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in? What about the ghost?" He was in a dimly lit room, lying on a carpet of silk.

"This isn't your bloody abbey!" The weasel said, shrieking with laughter at his confusion.

"B-but-" It made no sense. One moment there was the feast and then Matiya had caught him at the wall and then he had slipped on something cold, and fell off the abbey.

"You fell down the abbey, almost flattened me, then me and Grey took you back home." Sharpie explained, catching his dirk as it fell through the air.

"What were you doing at Redwall?"

"Vittles!" Grey exclaimed, chewing on a slab of cheese he had been sniffing a moment ago.

Disorientated as he was Fret didn't know how to react to that.

"You were meant to bring some to me too you greedy lump!" Sharpfur snapped, making Grey look sheepish.

"I told you, a mouse walked in and fell down. Then somebeast was coming and I ran away! It wasn't like I ate... Much."

"Grey, you ate enough food to last me the whole of winter! And you licked all the soup off of him!"

"I offered to let you have some." Grey pointed out, staring at his feetpaws in shame.

"I wasn't going to lick soup off a dead body!"

Fret tuned them out, his head still turbulent and dizzy.

"Do your feetpaw work?" Grey asked him suddenly.

"I guess..." He tried to get up, and a black spot covered his vision, but after a while his eyes readjusted and aside from the constant throb of his brain he felt no pain. "Where am I?" Fret asked, clenching and unclenching his claws to bring some sense of feeling back into them.

"Mossflower Woods. Do you want to see our camp?" Grey offered.

"Camp? There's more of you?"

Sharpfur giggled. "Welcome matey, to the humble camp of the Honest Bunch!"

"It's cold." Hawthorn complained, as she trailed behind the band, shivering madly.

"Aye, it's winter." Jack-is-Lucky replied, not noticing the underlying tone of a whine.

But the albino vole would not be disuaided. She had heard the boy's mad rush to go in search of Fret and had in turn followed them out to attempt to stop them from getting lost. "Brother Jon failed to find him, what chance do we have?"

"Your mouse went alone. In the Guosim we know that we must work together."

"Fret's our... Neighbour." Grollo summarised awkwardly. "We can't abandon him."

"What he said." Momchillo added, with a cheeky grin, before giving a loud, fake sigh. "Hawthorn, my beautiful queen. Do not fear, when we have spotted his black and white hide we will drag him back to Redwall-and all before supper!"

"Oi thunk he moight hab run awaywards." The mole, Roseheart, who was her constant companion, suggested.

That was what Matiya feared most of all. That Fret had ran off into the night, hating them all. What if some monster had come out of nowhere and made the ferret his dinner? What if he had sworn vengeance on the abbey and had ran off to make his horde? No...That...wasn't Fret. He wasn't evil. He couldn't be evil. The group was quiet, save for the crunching of the snow.

"Why can't you just accept he might be dead?" She sighed in frustration. She had never liked Fret. He smelled funny and was rude and scary. And in the tales of old his kind attacked Redwall ever-so-often.

Matiya paused and looked at her with deep-rooted confusion. "Do you hate him?"

"Hate? No, that's a bit much..." Ladies never hated anyone, not unless their family had been harmed. "But he's not worth risking our lives for!"

"Anybeast is worth risking your life for my fair lady." Jack-is-Lucky finished. To which the other boys said 'aye'.

"Noit Frettie." The molemaid bristled, shivering.

"''Aye!' Mes amigos, bonjour and welcome to Mossflower!" The children turned to the new, accented voice.

It belonged to a large and slender stoat, pale white fur glittered and red eyes glinted with amusement. From a belt hung a rapier, two daggers and one short, straight sword. He was accompanied by a shorter, chubby and pouchy-faced pine marten who had no weapons on his own belt.

"Ah mates, how nice of you to come along! We're looking for a friend of ours. Black and white fur, about yay-high, sort of on the snappy side?"

"Friend or foe? What is a hare wanting with a ferret?" The stoat asked, leaning against a tree.

"How do you know he's a ferret?" Matiya asked, fear prickling down his spine as he glanced repeatedly at the silent marten.

"A squirrel sees things his companions do not. Bravo, mais you must permit me to tell you half the truth. Your amigo dropped down for a visit."

"You kidnapped him." Momchillo gasped.

"Oh, non non, monsieur if it weren't for us your ferret would be a frozen corpse. We saved his life, and now we may even take you to him!" The Long Patrol's teachings kicked in, and noticed the underlying threat.

"Ho-ho mate, if you think we'll come quietly then I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, wot. But no hare of the Long Patrol will be taken by the likes of you." Jack-is-Lucky freed his axe, Tibbers drew his rapier and Matiya, feeling slightly abashed, drew his wooden sword. "Give us our companion, friend, neighbour and you will be left with your lives."

"Long Patrol? Hum hum, do you know a monsieur with one eye? He owes me a few fingers, you see." And he held up, half his paw was missing, and he had two claws and his one thumbclaw left.

"Why, he's my father matey!" The hare roared as he dived forwards. Tibbers was just as quick on his feetpaws and dived forwards, rapier pointed at the stoat's chest.

The white-furred fiend lazily swerved away from the axe-swing that would have split his skull open, and parried the shrew's blade with his own rapier. His rapier's flat blade rapped the hare's knuckles, and his grip on the axe weakened slightly. Then he deftly parried another swing from the little shrew and sparks flew. He drew his straight sword, and parried both weapons with his own pair. Then the flat of the sword and rapier dealt a stunning blow to the hare's skull, making his head ring like a bell. Then Tibbers was thrown onto his back, and in a spray of red, with a cry of pain, the rapier pinned him to the ground through the shoulder.

Hawthorn screamed in terror, and the molemaid fainted clear away. The stoat grinned widely.

"Tsk, tsk I thought the Long Patrol was better than this." Then he drew the rapier free and spun both blades in a circle around him.

Matiya ran at him, swinging his wooden sword madly around him. The stoat sliced the wood clean in two and pressed the rapier's point against the squirrel's throat.

"Nobeast moves!" He ordered. "Or are you wishing for more spilled blood? Deathglare, get the rope out."

The silent pine marten withdrew a rope.

"So you just do whatever you want?" Fret asked, perplexed by the freedom his companions had. T

The camp was small-ish, with twenty patchwork homes. There were holes in the trees, with blankets draped over the entrance. Overturned boats made strange sights, and one pine marten, whom Grey had described as 'scarier than Hellgates' lived in a newly made home of piled snow. They were all vermin here. An elderly pine marten called Sick-eyes who was the resident seer, and so wrinkled and old she looked akin to a folded paper. Gulash, a huge rat that had chased all three of them after Sharpfur had hurled a snowball at his back. Sickletail who was the weasel's mother, and had tried to make Fret eat an extra portion of food. Sharpfur had three elder and four younger siblings, the last one was just a babe, the others mere dibbuns. But older than him he had Heartrip, Redtail and Blizzard, vicious, argumentative and just as snappy as Fret. There was Deathglare, the seer's cousin, whom Grey had warned him about. He never spoke, but his pouchy face could not hide his eyes, which made you shiver just to look at them. Then there was Threeclaw, the blade master, who Sharpfur had insisted could turn anything into a weapon.

Here he was everybeast's 'mate', and when somebeast said something mean it was considered weak to not snap back with your own well-chosen insult. Here, Fret fit right in. Nobeast cared what he smelled like or what Mattimeo's son's uncle's nephew was called. Nobeast cared that he was a ferret. Yet he knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay. Connington and Constance would be worried sick about him, and he couldn't just leave them. Yet every time he thought of the abbey, he couldn't help but feel a twist of his innards. If only Redwall treated him like vermin did...

"Well, I suppose so, so long as we stay away from the otters, the shrews, the abbey and come back alive than yes, we do what we want." Grey was different though. To Fret at least, the chubby rat was different. He didn't snap, he didn't argue, he was soft-hearted and sweet, and scared to death of being alone.

"Ma found him in the river. He was just a dibbun, trying to tread water and ma took him in. I reckon his parents dumped him off some boat. First while he didn't even sleep at night, too scared we just left him behind. That's why he started sharing my room." Sharpfur had explained.

Indeed the rat followed the weasel everywhere. No matter how bitter, rude or snappy he could be, Grey did as he was bid, sometimes wrongly, sometimes with uncertainty, but he did it all anyways.

Fret rubbed at his temple, trying to think of a subtle way to return to the abbey. The largest issue he was faced with was the abbeybeast's reactions. What was he meant to tell them? That he had been nursed back to normal and saved from a snowy burial by vermin? They hated him enough as it was, and would probably throw him out if they heard it put that way. So he ought to lie, right? But what lie? What could satisfy the badgermum?

"So, are you sharing our room, or do we have to make one for you?" The sudden question twisted a knife in his gut. How was he meant to break the news to simple-hearted, simple-minded Grey Claw? Mayhaps he ought to be blunt...

"I-I can't stay Grey." He explained slowly, desperate not to snap at him.

"Why not?" Sharpfur demanded. The little weasel had a habit of demanding things. "Your precious abbey threw you off the wall. Listen to me mate, that ghost got you I swear it. If ye go back then yer a deadbeast."

"And why would you care?" Fret snapped loudly, he had not meant to at first-but he had had to protect himself from the weasel's tone.

"Because Grey here doesn't want to see your hide hanging for the birds!" The weasel retorted.

"They're not going to kill me. Anyhow you can't stop me leaving!"

Grey sat in the snow, sniffing loudly. And Fret felt a mix of guilt and anger. Why was the rat so hurt by the one fact. They barely knew each other.

"Blood runs thicker than water, ferret." Sharpfur scowled, hovering protectively over the rat. "Remember that."

"What does that mean?" Fret snapped. Why was such a big deal being made about all this? He had a family in Redwall, even if he had nothing else.

Before Sharpie could open his mouth to respond a pair of vermin approached. A brown, chubby pine marten with a pouchy face made Fret shiver. The other vermin was a white stoat with red eyes, humming a tune.

And tied by their paws to a rope were the abbey young'uns, wearing confused and frightened expressions. Matiya looked directly at him with visible pain and a look of betrayal.

"Haha, was I not telling you we'd bring you to your amigo?" The stoat asked.

Matiya slipped free of the rope around his paws and dived for Fret. The squirrel and the ferret rolled through the snow. Matiya ended up on top, a fist crashing down into his face. Each punch was punctuated by an angry yell. "Traitor! You evil! Lying! Son of a-"

Deathglare freed Fret from the squirrel's wrath, and threw Matiya to the ground, where Sharpfur pointed a dirk at his throat. The ferret was a mess. His face was dark and blotchy, a tooth had been knocked free and blood was flowing freely from his nose. Grey Claw helped him up timidly. And Fret stumbled on his feet, lost completely in all thoughts, though there was one that swam near the surface of his mind.

He couldn"'t go back to Redwall...

[close]

 In Which More Drama Ensues

"We're the Honest Bunch, A crew, not a horde! Welcome aboard! Honesty's not our best policy, but we'll stand beside ye! It's what we do! So join us, why don't ye? It's fun and games til someone kills ye! Come on matey, take a swig, take a swing and fall right in!"

Despite the band of vermin's loud, cheerful song, Fret could only feel a pressure in his chest that would not leave. As if a giant was holding him tight and would not let go.

He couldn't return to Redwall. If he returned and lied about not seeing anyone, and if anybeast even believed that, then sombeast would go searching for their young. Then if they were never found their ghosts would haunt him till his dying day. And even worse, if they were found and it was known that he had seen them... Then he was vermin and at best he would spend his days rotting in some dark tower. And if he stayed with the vermin? Then he would become vermin in turn. The last possibility was to leave and somehow take the others with him. But then what? Constance would call him a hero, Connington too maybe, but everybeast else would think he had just gotten cold feet. And what if the Guosim wanted to avenge the little shrew's wounded shoulder? Then they would descend with all their force on the vermin camp.

A grizzly image flew into his mind, of Greyclaw, gurgling blood as a rapier's handle stuck out of his throat. Fret felt himself turning green. He couldn't do that. Not to the vermin who had treated him like a friend. Another image flew into his mind. Matiya was dying from an axe buried in his skull, yelling 'traitor' at his face. He had to choose between his kin and his kind. His kin had never accepted him, his kind had, yet he had grown up with his kin, hating them, and loved the kind he had met this morning. It should have been an easy choice, but he couldn't bare to make it. If he chose kin then he would go back to being hated, and if he chose kind, then his kin had been right all along and he was just another vermin who had stolen their children. Slagar the Cruel indeed...

Yet he had to do something. And it was that knowledge that kept him so miserable. Why did he have to be the one with the difficult choice?

"Ye look miserable."

Fret turned and snapped at the one who spoke to him. "I'm freezing my tail off! Go away and let me be miserable!"

"Do ye want a hankie? Are ye gonna cry?" The other ferret mocked. She was taller than him, and better dressed, with a rapier hanging from her belt.

"No! I just need a fire is-"

"You are a horrible little liar. You want to go back to yer abbey, but yer scared they won't want ye."

It was as if she had read his mind. "No! No I hate the abbey!" It was only half a lie, the abbey meant Constance...and he loved his momma.

"If ye go back without the dibbuns, they find us, if ye come back with the dibbuns then my boys wasted their time, and what if the shrew get prickly about a shoulder cut? They blame you, don't they?"

"Leave me alone!" Fret snapped. The thoughts were bad enough in his head, to hear them thrown at him aloud was utterly painful.

"I do have a hankie if ye need it." She laughed. "I'm sure dem abbeybeast's treated you all fine and swell. Mayhaps I should let you go back to them. Tonight, but for now coz, make yerself at home." She punched his shoulder. It hurt quite a bit, probably more than she had intended. "Now come on, join the fun."

Connington was broken. He had failed her. He loved her more than life itself, yet he had lost them all. All her babes... And mayhaps even her as well.

Jon Connington loved Constance more than he should have. His father had been sickly, and his mother long since passed, when her family had taken him in. They had raised him like their own. Bloomsworth and her crinkled eyes, Corgan with his loud stories. And Constance. Small and shy and young, he had wanted to hide away and blend into the backdrop. She had taken none of it, and had dragged him (sometimes literally) everywhere with her. She was much larger, and technically his sister, but he had loved her more than that. She was his constant support, had helped him become the warrior he had dreamed of becoming. And she had chosen Rowland.

Chosen was putting it strongly, after all she had never known that he loved her. And how could he tell her, when she had not been there to drag him into place? She had married Rowland and he had tried harder than ever to be happy for her. She loved him like a brother, yet she was more than a sister ever could be.

He had been jealous of Rowland since the first time they met. The mouse was everything he was not. Big and strong and loud, and determined to become the Abbey Warrior. Constance and him had done it all together, and he had been there the whole while. Rowland had never known of Connington's plight. How he had been wracked with shame. How could he envy his best friend?

He had failed to tell Constance how he felt. He had failed to squash the snake of envy from his heart. And he had failed to protect his nieces and nephews.

Jon, Rowland, Constance and the Skipper had destroyed a vermin horde led by the infamous Mad-Eye Marik. They had crushed his fleet at sea, with a single boat loaded with oil. Rowland had fired a single, flaming arrow at the boat, and the warlord had been forced to swim right at their waiting forces. Blood had reddened the water and the Skipper himself had sent the ferret packing in humiliation.

Then their had been the wedding, and a knot was tied between his best friend and the one he had to call sister. He had left, to travel, he had claimed, but truly to put himself away from them. They were happy together, the love was true and beautiful and he did not belong there, not when he could not bare to see them together.

But he had never been strong of will, and had returned, only to leave once more. That's when he had met them, his nephews and nieces. Blackgrin, who had loved to smile so much, Chester's, who had chewed on chestnuts, Skip, who had been half a fish in the water.

And they were all dead now. Mad-Eye Marik had returned and nobeast was spared. Chester's had died from half-a-hundred sword thrusts. Blackgrin had had his skull crushed in. And Skip had been thrown into the river. And Rowland had died, half his face had been torn off, and three arrows were buried in his back. But there was no other beast with a tail like that.

He had failed them all, and when he saw Constance, warm paws wrapped over the silent ferret-babe he had vowed to make it right. That Fret would grow old and happy. That Constance would not loose another child.

And he had failed. Constance, Rowland, Chesters, Blackgrin, Skip and now Fret. He had failed them all.

The little weasel circled the squirrel.

Matiya had yelled and shouted and called them all cowards and rogues, their songs had drowned out his yelling, for a while but eventually it had gotten on Sharpfur's nerves. The little weasel, backed by the entire crew, had volunteered to prove them not-cowardly, and had asked for single combat. Matiya had asked for raw steel, and to his surprise the weasel had agreed. Though after a while he had tried to backtrack. Tibbers was being healed by an animal that looked more like folded paper, and could have been considered warm, if not for the fact that one of her crew had injured him in the first place. Then a circle had been made, and the two circled.

The sword was straight and sharp, Threeclaw, the half-pawed stoat had lent it to him, the weasel's dirk was smaller, and jagged. The mustelid seemed fearful of the larger, better-honed blade. Indeed Matiya half-expected him to yield at any moment.

The weasel dived forwards anyway, just ducking a swing of the blade. A rat in the crowd was not looking, his paws over his eyes. Momchillo looked torn between hissing at the foebeast and cheering him on. The rest were scared out of their wits.

His smaller opponent parried the larger blade with his small one, and rolled away, snatching up a pile of snow and hitting the squirrel square in the face with it. Sharpfur seized the moment, and struck, his dirk freed the sword from the squirrel's grip, and a moment later Matiya was on his back, a blade pressed against his throat.

"Haha, coward my teeth! Chew on yer tail abbeybeast!" The weasel exclaimed. And the band of vermin laughed. Threeclaw retrieved his sword.

"I'm un poco disapointed. Non non, Redwall should be better than this!"

Sharpfur sheathed his dirk and hopped off the squirrel. Matiya got to his feet, hot with shame.

"You're a dirty great snake! Let us go! We haven't done anything to any of you!" Hawthorn yelled.

Sharpfur did not appreciate being called a 'dirty great snake' and rounded on the insolent vole. "Snake, eh? You ought to be careful, snakes eat pretty little maids ever-so-often." The vermin crowd laughed once more.

"You're so brave, taunting a lady tied by rope! Release me now, or I shall make you a lady!"

'Oooooooooh', went the Honest Bunch.

"Ye think I'm scared of the likes of you?" He probably was in all honesty. But as the song said 'honesty was not his number one policy'.

"I know you're terrified!" She shot at him.

'Oooooooooooh!' In all honesty it was hard to tell who was more of a child.

"Fine then. Your turn. Get a knitting needle ready, I'm going to shove it down your throat!"

The rope was sliced free and Hawthorn was given a spear. Sharpfur circled her again, and Grey closed his eyes once more. This time however Matiya was behind him. The burly squirrel caught him from behind in a chokehold, and Hawthorn swung for the rope tying her friends. Instead, she hit the big rat Gulash, square on the knee.

He was a simple minded creature with a huge temper. Yelling in pain he freed the spear and threw it aside. He drew an axe, and charged, roaring. The young'uns shrieked, Grollo was pleading, Momchillo was crying, and Hawthorn fell backwards. Threeclaw tried to step in but was sent flying away with a vicious backhand swing. Hawthorn was on her back, the rat's axe raised above his head, ready to be brought down. When Fret's metal toy slammed into his eye, threw his aim off and the axe hit the snow. The rat turned to the ferret, who gulped audibly. Sharpfur was purple in the face from lack of air, and Greyclaw was sobbing into his paws. Hawthorn watched, transfixed, as Gulash lunged for Fret, now frozen in fear. That would have been the end of him, had another, taller and prettier ferret , not barged the younger one aside. Gulash missed his lunge, and was pinned to the snow by several vermin.

"What do ye think yer doing, eh? We're in enough trouble without you slicing her head in two! Squirrel let go of that runt or I will split your head in two!" Matiya let Sharpfur go, the weasel fell to his knees, gasping for breath, shooting a look of deepest loathing at the squirrel. Deathglare was wrapping the rope around the squirrel. Fret found his feet, and stood up, dazed by yet another close encounter. Instinct had made him lash out, he had barely registered the toy, or the force he had used.

Sharpfur was leaning on Grey Claw, shame filling him at having been beaten by the abbeybeast. "It's lucky Fret fancies you princess, else I'd be skinning yer bloody hide."

The vole looked ready to strangle him, and gave Fret a look with enough venom to make Asmodeus jealous. "I don't need the help of vermin!"

The words hurt more than a hot knife. "I just saved your life!" Fret snapped.

"You hit your friend. I'm sure people like you do it all the time." She shot back.

"People like me?" He whimpered. He didn't know whether to yell or to cry. He would get more sympathy from them if he cried, but the Honest Crew would think him weak if he did that.

"Stinky, lying, no good traitorous scum! Redwall gave you food, clothes and a fire. It gave you an education, taught you everything you know now! And you repay them by leading their young'uns to your band of pirates!"

"So what?" Sharpfur was more confident now that he could breathe. "You treated him like vermin, well vermin's what you'll get, pretty-face."

"I wonder how many shades darker your face can go." Hawthorn whispered coldly. Then Threeclaw pulled her away.

"You is needing to learn to control your tongue one day, little miss, or else it'll lead you six feet under."

"Abbeybeasts, eh Frettie?" Sharpfur commented. He did not notice the pained expression on the ferret's face.

"Frettie?" Asked Grey, uncertain.

"Leave me alone." Fret snapped, turning to leave.

But Sharpfur had had enough. "Why do you even care what everbeast thinks! Vermin are vermin, abbeybeasts are not! Evil in the skin, good from the cot!" He pointed at the ferret's frozen back. "If you spend all your life getting beast's to like you, you'll be the most popular deadbeast in Mossflower! Stop caring and grow up or go back to your bloody abbey!"

"Momchillo! Dinner's ready!" Rosebrush's voice echoed through the hall. Through the bell tower. Through the walls, through the snow-covered ground.

"Rosebrush, what is it?" Came Blind Agatha's voice. "Have you seen my son by any chance, the youngest one?"

"No, I haven't." Rosebrush replied. And soon Redwall rung with the names of missing children.

"Matiya!"

"Tibbers!"

"Jack! Wot! Jack!"

But nobeast replied.

[close]

Chapter Nine, In Which Grey (me) Realizes That This Story Was Really Angsty At First

Fret felt like a vegetable. Frozen in his choice. He went to bed, sore and tired and in want of sleep, and when he woke he begged for sleep, but his tears were the only ones who heard him. He was vermin. The simple fact made his heart burn and fresh tears well up. He was vermin. No matter what, he was vermin. That was all he'd ever be. No matter what he did.

The Honest Bunch probably thought him a weakling no doubt. Always crying and wallowing in misery. But nobeast understood him. He was different. Too different. Neither abbeybeast, nor vermin could ever call him one of them. And that was the root of his tears. Alone. He'd always be alone. Sad and alone. He was crying again.

"Fret." It was Grey. The rat approached cautiously.

"Go away!" Fret snapped instinctively. He needed a sign. An answer to the question that plagued his mind. What should he do?

"Frettie... Why are you crying?" The rat swallowed cautiously. He didn't want to open a wound.

"Because everybeast hates me!" Fret responded. It was half a whine, half a snap. He did not know why, but he opened himself to the rat. "I didn't do anything rotten, but I've always been vermin to them. Now you've gone and kidnapped them, and I can't go back home. Else I'd just be vermin!"

"Frettie... Mayhaps you ought to consider joining us-hold yer paw... Just look. I mean... Mayhaps you'll miss those in the abbey, but you'll have me and Sharpfur with you. And the others. And your friends, well the captain's got to decide what to do with them, not us, but don't fret, captain's nice. She don't actually skin beasts, just says she will. She might even let you all go back."

"And I'll go back to being hated Grey. I don't belong in Redwall, Grey, I don't belong with you."

"Then where do you belong?"

"I don't know!" Fret whined. "Nowhere. Alone." The ferret shrugged. "I don't even know."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here." Grey Claw confessed. "I can't fight as good as Threeclaw, I'm not scary like Deathglare, I'm not smart like Sharpfur, I'm not cruel. I can't tell stories, wrap bandages. I eat too much, I'm too kind. I don't fit in either Frettie... But they keep me. They laugh at me, with me, pat my stomach, gimme food. They love me...But I'm different. Just... Try to...not cry a bit. We mean what we say here... Just try to... Jump right in..." He finished lamely, twidling his thumbclaws.

Those words and Sharpfur's own buried into Fret's mind. Indeed, they pushed him to his resolve.

Her name was Thornflame, and right now she had a headache like no other. The black rat was tall, and sinewy, lightly armed with cutlass and dagger. His message had been written in blood, whose she didn't know nor cared, but the crimson writing sent shivers down her spine-not that she let him notice.

"Longclaw, King of the Frozen North, demands our presence for his coronation?"

The rat was impassive, and drew his dagger.

Any other member of her crew would have reached for a weapon, but she was not so easily frightened. The rat stabbed at the table, scratching a simple answer into it. 'Yes.'

A mute... Naturally. "Is there anybeast on your boat that still has a tongue to use?" She growled.

The rat scratched another word into the table. 'No.'

She felt another shiver coming, but hid it well. "And if I refuse?"

No word was needed to explain the simple truth. The rat moved the dagger along his throat. She grimaced.

"I will give my answer in a moment. I have my officers to discuss this with." The black rat bowed, and left, leaving the dagger on the table. A moment later Gulash, Threeclaw and Deathglare walked in.

Gulash was the oldest in her crew, a large rat, almost as silent as the beast that had just left. Foul-tempered, angry, yet he had once strangled a badger bare-pawed-or so he claimed. Threeclaw was the best fighter, a sellsword of some notoriety that stayed with them for the fun of it. He had the annoying habit of making up words to use. Deathglare was not a fighter, but his mind worked quicker than anybeast. His voice was low and soft, almost a whisper, so whenever he spoke, the room was silenced.

The albino stoat was humming to himself as he read the letter. "Forgive me, Capetan, but nobeast has ever cqlled himself King of the Frozen North."

Deathglare frowned very slightly. "It's a trap. Anybeast can see that."

"If I refuse them, then we fight now, against a ship full of mutes." Thornflame rubbed her temple.

"Ah, that is excellent! Having no tongue, means they can't plead for mercy." The ferretmaid was not sure if he was joking or not.

"If you accept you follow them into a cave, with larger numbers and greater odds against us. What King would want anything to do with us anyhow?"

"Exactly, we aren't a threat to him. He has no reason to harm us. And mayhaps all he wants is to mark his teritory." She shot up, determined to speak her mind.

"It is colder up there. Moreso now than afore. We can't travel. We have young to look after and raise. We have food aplenty."

"What would you have me do?" She snapped.

"Flee. Turn tails, travel south. To someplace warmer." Deathglare advised.

"Scared?" Threeclaw sneered.

"Very. Who slices the tongue of a loyal crew, I ask you? Not a petty sellsword, he who does this can call himself king, and it wouldn't be a lie."

"So we must flee? And the rats? What becomes of them?" Maybe it was the truth of his words, or the way he said them that made her shiver.

"Slay them. Flay them. Steal their ship at night. It makes little difference. But we cannot go north."

Gulash grunted in agreement, and Thornflame grimaced. "We'll go south then. Make sure the rats are dealt with. We'll need their ship." The smile she gave was evil.

Bella rubbed her forehead, and itched at her muzzle. It was snowing hard and fast outside. And the news made her ill. All Gone... All the young un's of the abbey were missing. Fret had vanished first, and his disappearance had broken Constance and Connington... But now...

The one eyed captain of the Long Patrol's son had gone, as had the Log-a-log's. The foremole's daughter, Blind Agatha's youngest child, Rosebrush's only child, Hawthorn the eldest of two, Grollo the cook's son. It made her chest heavy, and breathing hard. Abbot Martin had fainted at the news. All his students had vanished.

The Long Patrol wanted to leave the abbey, but the snow had piled thick and heavy, and the doors would not open. The hares had naturally made a third option and their ome-eyed captain had taken a team of his best, and climbed down the walls with ropes. Now those still within the abbey were left to worry.

And then the tales poured out of panicked beasts. First a ferret had vanished, then the others. Had the ferret done something wicked?

Bella could not blame them for their suspicions. The young ferret had always been unfriendly, but she could not imagine him harming anybeast... At least not til he was older. Then it didn't take much imagination.

She had to be fair. For the sake of all beasts. The crowd before her were scared and thick with worry. She raised a paw for silence.

"Our young'uns vanished all at once. Mayhaps they are merely locked out by the same snow that locks us in, and are out there in Mossflower, awaiting our rescue. In that case you have nothing to fear. If they ventured further they may have found shelter, Either way we shan't know until it stops snowing. Then we will venture out and find them, and bring them back, unless the Long Patrol has beaten us to it!"

And if they are perished? The last thought was left unsaid.

"I know in mine heart, as you should in turn, that no harm has befallen any of them." Her words lifted the cloud of worry off of everyone... Except herself.

Thornflame was surrounded. Their were maybe twenty rats in all, but none wore armour, and judging from their relaxed postures they weren't expecting a battle. Their captives were in Sick-Eye's tent along with the younger vermin. Gulash stood beside her, leaning on his axe. Threeclaw was in front. Deathglare was no fighter and scared of blood, he had volunteered to secure the ship.

"Your King is no King of ours!" She declared loudly, beaming.

The tall rat's glare made the smile on the ferretmaid's lips impossible to believe. The rat freed a dagger, and sliced open his own paw, letting the drops fall like rain into the snow. It was an act of war.

Gulash's axe freed the rat's head of his body, and scattered more blood into the snow. The headless corpse twitched madly and fell back, spraying the ground crimson. The other rats were a minute too slow on the uptake, and a minute was all Threeclaw needed to put a rapier through one, and a dagger into the other. Thornflame ducked as one rat made a mad lurch towards her, swung too high and died gurgling on the blood that spilled from his throat. She stole his dagger and threw it at another rat, killing him instantly. Threeclaw's paws were a blur as he danced through the black wave, making blood fly in a gruesome spectacle. Gulash knocked one rat aside, and cleaved another in two. Sickletail parried a blade that had almost slverminornflame in two. Heartrip, another weasel, was not fast enough to block a cutlass, which sliced into her shoulder. If not for her tough bones, and Sickletail's knife slicing into the rat's tail, she's have lost an arm. Heartrip finished him off with teeth and fang, biting into the rodent's throat and tearing out his windpipe.

The remaining mutes scattered and fled into the trees. Threeclaw felled one with a dagger, but his next one missed by an inch, and the rats made good their escape. Thornflame smirked at Heartrip, the younger weasel freed the saber from her shoulder. She was feint from all the blood, and gore speckled her muzzle, but she had slain a rat.

"Get that tended to. Sick-Eyes will be with the captives. Deathglare, the ship is ours?"

The pine marten didn't even try to smile, he merely nodded as if his neck was stiff. "Speaking of the captives, what shall we do with them?"

Fret made his move the moment he noticed the oncoming battle. With nearly the entire Honest Bunch busy, they stood a chance at escape. He burst into Sick-Eye's tent and stared directly at the seer, he let panic creep into his voice.

"It's Sickletail! She's bleeding out! I dunno what happe-"

"What?!" Sharpfur was the first one out, dirk drawn, moving with remarkable speed. Even vermin loved their mothers after all. Sick-Eyes followed in a bit less haste.

"Is she alright?" Grey Claw asked, so quietly Fret almost didn't register it.

"I think she's dying." Fret said flatly.

Grey Claw burst out, sobbing, and left the tent.

Fret held back a laugh, the fools had taken it in. Hook, line and sinker. Now he had something important to do.

"It would be such a pity if she died." Momchillo commented dryly.

Fret almost cowered from all their collective glares. "L-look... I-"

"Chumming up with your vermin, are you?" The hated mouse responded.

"No!" Fret snapped. His resolve was weakening at every moment. He had convinced himself that Constance would believe him, no matter what the others said. And the others would know he was friends with them if he freed them, right? He couldn't snap. He wasn't meant to. He just had to convey what had happened. "I fell off Redwall-"

"And got saved by your new mates, huh?"

"No! I was out cold! I didn't ask to be rescued. I was going to come back-"

"To steal us at a later date. What have I ever done to you?" Momchillo barked, and Fret hated him. So much pain would have been avoided, if only the one, angry mouseling could have held his tongue.

"I'm not vermin!" Fret snapped. "I came here to-"

"Join your crew! Did you 'jump right in?'"

"Let me speak!" Fret half screeched, half pleaded. They needed to know he was not vermin. That he was helping them.

"I don't need the words of a liar and a traitor to befoul my ears! You sold us out! We grew up together you black-"

Fret reached for a knife. Action spoke louder than words, right? If he could cut the rope then maybe they would understand. He raised the knife.

"Fret, please!" Matiya screamed. Hawthorn shrieked 'NO!', Jack struggled madly, Tibbers whimpered, and Threeclaw deftly disarmed the ferret.

Instinctively Fret backed away. "I-I-I".

"You. You. You will be telling me what you intended to do with the knife. Cut him, or the rope? Come now amigo, don't lie to me." The stoat's rapier was at his throat, and Fret took another step back.

He had seconds to work. He could tell the truth and get scewered alive and die knowing the others knew he had died a goodbeast. Or he could lie and grovel for mercy. He chose the latter.

"I wanted to kill him!" Fret said, so suddenly it came out as yet another snap. "I was going to kill him... For all the wrong he's done to me. I hate him!"

Fleetfoot One-Eye was not the strongest, nor fastest, nor did he have the most experience. The one thing he had to truly brag about was his hearing, and it was not difficult to hear the yelling coming from an otherwise invisible tent of snow. Further away a small battle was taking place, but it was between some ferrets, weasels and so forth, against a band of black rats. He nodded at his hares.

"Stay here chaps. I will return swiftly." The other hares nodded.

Captain Fleetfoot was as silent as death as he crept through the snow, leaving barely a track in the snow. Silence was his ally. The yelling was continuing, but there were more voices, and panicked ones at that. Then a soft voice he recognized vaguely. Then a response. He caught the last words only. "I hate him!" Entranced by the voice, the crunch of snow beneath his foot was audible.

"Go to hell traitor!"

"Shut it mouse! I heard something." Then the voice he vaguely recognized, and a face he loathed, climbed out of the tent.

Threeclaw and One-Eye took one moment to register each other. Then, as one, they raised their voices.

"EULAILIA!"

"LONG PATROL!"

And their steel moved as if on their own. The stoat blocked the saber with both his blades, and swung at once from two angles. One Eye saw the vermin coming at him. They were outnumbered.

To Fret's misfortune the young ferret had stumbled backwards, out of the tent. Captain Fleetfoot swung recklessly, and Threeclaw was forced to step backwards. Then the hare caught Fret by the scruff of the neck, and pressed his blade against the ferret's throat, just as the other vermin and hares showed up.

"One move!" It was an old trick, yet one that seldom worked on vermin. Yet Threeclaw fidgeted madly on his feet. Evidently his old adversary had a small scrap of honor. "Are the young'uns in the tent?"

"Oui." The stoat said, still fidgeting madly.

"Lumber, set them loose." The other hare obeyed swiftly, but found his way barred by a large rat with a poleaxe.

"Long Patrol? And what quarrel have you with us?" To Threeclaw's relief Thornflame was there now. To take command of the crew.

"Not quarrel. Just our babes. You'll excuse the whole hostage thing, wot, but we're to bring our young back home. I'm sure they enjoyed their visit, but alas, supper is almost upon us."

"Ah." The ferret eyed Fret with a smile that radiated cruelty. "I'm sure the abbybeast you're holding is so excited for the prospect of supper." Her smile widened at the hare's faces. "Oh, you don't know." She grinned widely. "Or am I lying?"

The Honest Bunch broke into laughter. And it was in that moment that Captain Fleetfoot made his move. He threw Fret behind him, with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and swung at the ferretmaid. Threeclaw parried the attack and then battle was upon them all.

"Death, Gulash, get the prisoners! And get to the ship!"

Fret landed hard on his back, wheezing for air. His world spun and him with it as he frantically climbed. Flee for the boat or Redwall? The boat or Redwall?

"Frettie!" Sharpfur was squeezing through the battle, narrowly avoiding death from every angle. "We need to move! Captain's orders!"

Fret was dizzy. "Captain?"

"Thornflame, now c'mon. We need to move!"

Redwall, or the boat? Redwall or the boat? The hare had thrown him aside, and the vermin was helping him up.

"We?" He needed an answer, but couldn't think of one.

"Come on!" Sharpfur yelled, clearly desperate to leave.

Goodbye momma. Fret bit back tears, and took the weasel's paw.

[close]

Chapter Ten, In Which I Cringe At Earlier Me's Writings... What Was I Thinking?

The battle was not in the Long Patrol's favour. The vermin band outnumbered them almost three to one, and some had tried to circle around the tent and hit them in the rear. Lugger was rolling on the ground, two weasels and the ferretmaid were stabbing him with little knives. Cornelius Tufthurry was duelling three at once. Threeclaw and Fleetfoot were at the center of it, their steel ringing as it met time and time again. The hare had discarded his halberd in favour of a cutlass, and he swung it so quickly that it seemed he had four blades in paw instead of one. Threeclaw was slower, but with two blades he was easily able to keep up with the hare's furious blows.

Deathglare undid the final knot, Gulash lingering impatiently outside of the tent. Momchillo struck fast, headbutting the pine marten with vicious savagery. Taken by surprise the marten stumbled backwards, and before he could make a noise the mouse and Tibbers and Jack-is-Lucky pounced on him, fists raised and brought them down in quick succession.

Matiya sliced the rope off of him, the other young ones were quick to follow his example. Momchillo held a paw for silence, and in a furious whisper spoke.

"If we all rush out that way, we can make for the woods. Then we rush for Redwall. Jack, can you help Tibbers?"

The hare nodded and picked up the shrew, hoisting him up to his shoulders.

"Right. On three. Two-"

"Wait! What about Fret?" Matiya whispered suddenly.

"What about him? He tried to kill me!" Momchillo whispered back. "Anyhow who cares. Let's go home, the other vermin will look after him."

Matiya looked around at the faces. Grollo, Roseheart and Hawthorn looked like they shared the same sentiment. Jack and Tibbers were irresolute.

"You said anyone's worth risking your life for!" He hissed.

"Well..." He looked sheepish.

Matiya felt defeated. But guilt pressed him further. "Do you hate him?" He whispered at them. "I mean..." The looks on their faces were that of anger. "Before all this..."

"Fret just sold us to slavery."

Words were not Matiya's strong point. A warrior, a true warrior would have been able to convey his meaning to them. That he felt guilty of Fret's predicament. 'Liar! Liar liar liar liar!' "Well... We were never really nice to him."

"Nice? What do you mean we weren't nice to him?"

I didn't understand him either, only that something rubbed him the wrong way. "We called him vermin." Matiya refused to look any of them in the eye.

"This isn't all about the bally soup, is it?" Jack sounded thunderstruck and guilty.

"I mean... Sitting on him... Rubbed him the wrong way..." The looks he got were either confused or dumbstruck. "And we locked him in the latrines that one time."

"That was a joke!" Momchillo hissed angrily. "Does this look like a joke to you?"

"What about that time we hung him over the walls!"

"If you want to discuss every joke we've ever pulled on him can that wait till we get back!"

"What if Grollo had dropped him!" There, he had it. He had them convinced.

"Then none of us would be here!" The mouse snapped. "Maybe we pushed it a little, but we were playing a game! Does this look like a game to you!? Forget Fret and let's go h-"

He turned to leave and saw a very angry Deathglare staring at them. His eyes were spinning, and the world under Matiya spun.

"Run to the boat." Deathglare's voice said in dull monotone. The children did so, except for Momchillo.

"No! He's controlling you! Listen to-" The pine marten brought his fist down onto the mouse's head. Then Momchillo's world was black.

"You overgrowing rabbit!" Threeclaw swung at Captain Fleetfoot's feet. The hare hopped back to avoid the blow, and went in for a strike to the head.

"You stinkin' bogdweller." Threeclaw parried and lunged.

"Mangy cur!" Fleetfoot blocked and slashed.

"Poxy gnat!" Threeclaw ducked and jabbed.

"Fish-fingered yellowbelly!" Fleetfoot diverted the attack and made one of his own.

"Raving lunatic!" Threeclaw flattened himself and slashed.

"Madbeast!" Fleetfoot dived away, and swung.

"Slow-footed fiend!" Threeclaw rolled and slashed.

"Long-eared fool!" Fleetfoot parried and chopped.

"Lanky lackwit!" Threeclaw parried, and their blades held.

"Captain, the vermin are fleeing sah! Should we give chase?" Corporal Higgins was holding up the bleeding Lugger, and was barely standing himself. The other hares were dazed and bloody, but the vermin had more injuries, and judging from the bloody footprints, more injured.

Threeclaw stabbed suddenly, aiming for Fleetfoot's foot. The hare was taken by surprise and slashed wildly. The stoat turned tails and raced away, laughing madly. The Captain ignored the Corporal's dazed 'sah?' and gave chase.

The spell was broken once they were on board. Jack's first move was to pounce on Gulash, and sink his teeth into the rat's shoulder.

The big rat yelled and stumbled to the ground. Overcome with battle mania Grollo slapped at a weasel with a wounded shoulder. Hawthorn chose a small rat as her target (well small compared to the other rats). He turned to her just as she pounced, shoving him to the deck, before slamming a fist into his unprotected nose. Desperate she raised a fist once more, only for a weasel to pounce on her.

Jack did not fare well against the battle hardened rat, who reached him off and shoved him onto the deck, bringing a footpaw down onto the lagomorph's nose in quick succession.

Grollo was choking the weasel, who's face was purple as she tried to scratch at both his paws with one of her own.

The weasel had taken her by surprise, and now the two were rolling on the deck, clawing and kicking at one another. Sharpfur tried to tear at her ear, but her kicks kept pushing him away.

"Stop!" Thornflame yelled. Grollo stopped, and let go of Heartrip, the injured weasel gasping for breath. Gulash stopped mid-swing and Sharpfur stopped biting, but Hawthorn's footpaw connected with his nose.

"Why you-" He clutched his nose in pain, muttering mutinously in anger.

"Gulash tie them to the mast, all of you on your feetpaws! We're moving now!"

The command was like a spell, and the vermin set to the work, pulling the sail open and raising the anchor.

"No!" Captain Fleetfoot bellowed in rage. Threeclaw pounced and caught the anchor by the edge, cackling madly.

"Stay alive hare, I still owe you some fingers!" The albino stoat laughed, then shrieked as one paw was crushed against the boat.

The ship was moving fast down the river. Fleetfoot chased after it on the riverbank.

"Kids! We're coming kids! Keep your chins up we'll save you! Just... Stay alive!"

The vermin jeered from the deck of the ship, and the old hare growled hatefully. He would get them back... And those vermin had better be ready for when he did.

"This is all your fault!" Momchillo snapped at Matiya.

"My fault?" The squirrel looked stricken.

"If we had just ran away when I said so!"

"B-but Fret-"

"Is one of them!"

Fret's ears drooped. Grey Claw on the other paw, looked ecstatic.

"You're staying?" Fret looked at his happy face and felt more lost than ever before.

Sharpfur grinned and stepped between them. "What did I tell you Grey! He'd come around."

The rat hugged Fret and by extent Sharpfur, who was now pinned between them. "So, are you my brother now?"

Fret slumped low, still in Grey's grip. He had no choice. He never had a choice.

A few hours later...

Gulash walked up to the mast and smacked Momchillo across the face. The children screamed, and the mouse went limp. Gulash undid the knot and pulled him loose. He pointed at the ferret and grunted. Fret understood, his fur tingling nervously, he rose and followed the large rat into rhe cabin.

Thornflame was smiling in that way that made Fret shiver. It was almost as bad as Deathglare's vacant expression. Threeclaw was smiling from the shadows, one paw on the hilt of his rapier, the other cocooned in bandages. Gulash closed the door behind them both, still dragging Momchillo by the tail. Fret suddenly felt very nervous.

"Ah, Frettie, that's your name right?" Thornflame's voice made his furs stand on end.

"Y-yes." He stuttered, his claws fretfully twiddling with each other.

"And do you 'fret' much?"

"N-no. Not really."

"That's excellent. Ferrets fretting, Silvertongue would make a song of that." The others laughed.

"Haha, yeah..." He trailed off as the laughter died out.

"Now, Fret. Threeclaw said something about you. You hate this mouse?" She pointed at Momchillo. Fret stumbled backwards.

"N-yes! Yes I-I do! I hate him very much!" He said, nodding feverishly, hoping the lie would be enough to placate them.

Thornflame smiled and drew a dagger. Fret tried to take a step backwards, but Gulash stood in place, preventing the ferret from backing out. "Excellent. Now, you said you wanted to kill him? Was this true?"

"Yes!" He snapped desperately. The walls of the cabin seemed to be closing in on him. "I hate him, he's always been cruel to me!"

"Of course." She tossed the dagger and caught it by the blade, holding the handle in his direction. "Take it."

The approaching panic made Fret accept the dagger in a shaking paw. Deathglare was impassive, Gulash still held Momchillo, Threeclaw's lazy smile. It all made Fret shiver.

"Now. Kill him." And she pointed at Momchillo.

"Wh-what?" Fret gulped. "N-no-"

"But you hate him, don't you?"

"I do! B-but you need him!" He said, grabbing at the first excuse he could think of.

"I don't care about one mouse. You hate him. Kill him."

"I-I-I-" His paw was shaking madly, he was sure the others could see. He doubted he could kill the mouse, even if he wanted to.

"You. You. You. Kill him. Go on. You'd have done it before."

Fret dropped the knife. "I-I can't-"

"But you'd have done it before, surely it should be easier now." They were playing with him, he realized, and he let out a whimper.

"I lied! I lied! I lied!" He gulped audibly. "I was going to free them... T-t-to bring them back t-to R-Redwall." Thoughts of Redwall were painful. He tried desperately to stop shaking.

Gulash placed a strong paw on the back of his neck. He wondered whether death would be a relief.

"Fret, thank you for your honesty. Now, you have nothing to fear. Your friends are our guests. We will not harm them. They are hostages, to allow us safe passage past Salamandastron. We will sell them to woodlanders for food and drink. As for you? Mayhaps we'll sell you too. Or mayhaps you'll join us." She shrugged. "It's your choice. You ought to think about it."

Gulash's grip tightened.

"But... If you are ever inclined to betray me again..." She smiled her dark little smile. "We'll see how strong Gulash's grip is. Understood?"

Fret nodded weakly. "I-I-I-"

"You. You. You. Get out."

"Bloody blighters. We'll catch up to them fast though, never fear. Take care of Lugger, it's all we ask, wot. They'll be travelling south Moss River, the current can take 'em fast, but they'll have to stop at night or sink their boat."

"We are good with boats. And if they have as few as you say we can go doublequick." The Log-a-log stepped forwards with a score of shrews. Fleetfoot smiled a little.

"Well chaps, it's Mattimeo all over again, if I may say so myself."

"I'm coming too." Connington's voice brokered no argument. He was clad in an old chain suit, with some signs of rust, a round, wooden shield was strapped to his back. A sword dangled from his hip. He had failed them all, but if Fret was out there then he'd live up to his promise to the Abbot. He'd go to the Dark Forest and back and drag his nephew home if he had to.

Bella smiled wrily. "Good luck friends, may the fates beut she left that unsaid.

Constance was sleeping when he entered. Good, she'd probably strangle him.

"Constance... I'm not going to fail this time. I... Failed you, and Rowland and your babes," his voice cracked weakly, but he found his resolve. "But there's a chance to save Fret, and I won't fail him... I can't fail him." Jon found that he regretted coming to say goodbye. "I'll be back... See you soon."

And with that he left.

[close]

Chapter Eleven , Which Is Much More Tell Than Show And It Shows

"No! It's mine you greedy glutton!"

"But you just said you were full."

"Then why did you ask?"

They did this every day. The first time Fret had made the mistake of telling them to share. The whole crew had laughed at that joke, and in his shame Fret had been reminded of the feast in Redwall. And thoughts of Redwall made his stomach twirl like a dancer. Three days, they had been sailing for three days. Though it had been four days since the feast.

"Fret, tell Grey that he had the pasty yesterday."

"But you had it yesterday, and the day before that."

Fret tuned them out. The abbey youngsters hated him. They had believed what he had lied to Threeclaw about. That he hated Momchillo, that he had tried to put a knife in him... Hate was such a strong word. He had never liked the mouse to begin with, and was tempted to hit him, especially now, when held back by rope, but Fret doubted he could put a knife in anybeast, and Thornflame's harsh lesson had only confirmed that reality. Unfortunately, the mouse had not been concious at the time.

"Gimme the pasty today and you can have it tommorow."

"You always say that."

"I do not!"

"You said it yesterday, and the day before that..." Greyclaw replied timidly.

"A pasty!" Sharpfur's three little sisters pounced onto it, and in a moment all that was left was a crumb.

"That was mine!" Sharpfur snapped, then Cheesenibbles, his baby brother, bit his little tail. "OW! Owowowow Grey pull him off!" Grey obliged, pulling the smaller weasel off.

"Cheese, Sharpfur isn't edible. Go an' ask ma for some food. You three go with him."

"Okay matey!" And together the band crawled off, leaving Sharpfur to nurse his tail.

"Why do they always listen to you?" The weasel whined. "I actually am there brother!"

"Like you spend your days listening to elders. Tsk, tsk. Come Sharpfur mon copain, let's practice in poco." Threeclaw approached with this usual swagger.

The weasel pounced to his feet, dirk drawn. "Har-har! This time you'll be eating splinters!"

The albino stoat, despite having to use only his left paw, soundly defeated him. A few moments later the young weasel was spinning around, clutching his head dizzily.

"I was telling you to duck." Threeclaw commented. "Grey, would you be wanting to try?"

The young rat shook his head. "N-no si-Threeclaw."

"Ah poor Grey, he still thinks this is the bloody Long Patrol, where you say 'sah' and 'wot' like an overgrowing rabbit."

"It's not faaaaaair!" Sharpfur whined, readjusting himself. "You're older."

"No you idiot, you keep missing your lunges." Matiya seemed to especially hold a grudge against Sharpfur.

"That didn't stop you loosing!" The mustelid snapped, his fur bristling.

"You fought dirty." The squirrel replied.

"There is no such thing as fighting dirty squirrel. And you can take your dignity and throw it overboard, you tried to strangle me from behind."

"Would you like to go again?" Matiya challenged.

"I hope you don't beat up Fret again, that tooth was special to him." Sharpfur grinned, showing that none of his own teeth were missing.

The squirrel shot a glance at Fret, and guilt boiled over him. Had he created this? Fret shrunk. "Are you up for it weasel?"

"That is not happening." The stoat stepped between them. "Redwaller, you may be desiring a fight, but we're in a mess because I wounded the shrew. I'm sorry but I cannot let you fight mi amigo, else you might be hurting soon after."

"You're sorry for not letting him strangle your pet, but you're not sorry about holding us captive?" Momchillo's voice was so dry it could dehydrate an apple.

"You are not being captive. You are being guests. Capetan has already been explaining to you. We will catch woodlander boat, and sell you for food. Your kind and brave woodlanders bring you back to Redwall and mi pienso que we are all happy."

"You don't tie guests to masts." Momchillo responded.

"Really? I wasn't knowing. I'll be remembering next time." The stoat chuckled. "Do you have food? Are you cold? Dry? Mayhaps un poco uncomfortable, mais you have what you are needing. If you are behaving we'll even ungag the hare. We are honest, mi amigos, we don't want you dying, cheer up a little and mayhaps we can have some adventures together. Sharpfur on your feetpaws, now we are moving quicker, yes?"

Later that day...

"And stole the honey from her hare, the hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

Silvertongue's sole talent was singing. And sing he did. Sharpfur's father looked almost exactly the same as his son. Taller by a bit, the weasel strung his loot as he danced around the deck, his voice echoing in a fine melody.

"The hare smelled his honey in the air, in the air, in the air, he smelled it there!"

Then the whole crew sung up. "The hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

"He chased the weasel from here to there and there to here! And smelled the honey in the air!"

"The hare, the hare, and the weasel fair!" The crew bellowed back. And then a cacophany of hoots and cheers filled the deck.

Silvertongue grinned, and bowed to the applause. Then Sickletail put her arms around him. "You were excellent, my weasel fair."

"And you, my honied hare." He responded in the same voice.

"Use the cabin if you're going to get all lovey-dovey again." Sick-Eyes snapped, making her way past the two.

"What about you abbeybeasts? Do you know any good music?" The weasel inquired, his mate and him pulling away from each other.

Sick-Eyes sat next to Tibbers and began undoing his bandages. "If I hear any more music out of ye, I'll shove your head up that loot. Snap at me and you'll be needing bandages."

Silvertongue backed down, and went to join Gulash and Threeclaw at a fire the two had built on-deck.

"I can't stand his bloody loot. Every time he sings that stupid song another one of his babes shows up, and I can't stand them either!"

Sharpfur snarled at her. "Right back at ye, ye sack of bones."

"You'll be a sack of broken bones if you don't shut yer trap!"

Sharpfur shut up.

"Now, now hare, I'm going to ungag ye. Behave yerself or it shall go back on."

Jack-is-Lucky was quite at first. "That song was in poor taste ole chap."

Silvertongue grinned, and approached. "It's a fair shanty I say. Know any yerself?"

Jack burst into song. "O vermin if you dare, come and visit us someday. Bring all your friends and weapons with you 'll find a good warm welcome, let nobeast living cold steel was never good enough for you. You won't find no helpless beasts all undefended. Like the old ones, babes, and mothers that you've slain. And you'll find that when your pleasant visit's ended. You'll never ever leave our shores again. All you cowards of the land and you flotsam of the sea. Who murder, pillage, loot, whene'er you please. There's a Long Patrol a waitin', we'll greet you cheerfully. You'll hear us cry 'Eulalia' on the breeze.'Tis a welcome to the bullies who slay without a care,All those good and peaceful creatures who can't fight. But perilous and dangerous the beast they call the hare. Who stands for nought but honor and the right."

Then the deck filled with laughter and hooting. Nobeast but Fret could stand upright, or look at the hare without laughing like half-madbeasts.

"What!? This isn't bloomin' funny!" The hare scowled.

Deathglare sent a chill down the hare's spine when they made eye-contact. "Old ones, babes and mothers?" He shook his head and for half a moment he wanted to laugh.

"We are not butchering you, babes." Silvertongue pointed out. "And mine mate is a mother, and Sick-Eyes is the oldest one!"

"Mayhaps we're not dead yet, but we're tied to a mast and are for sale like a slab of fish. Tell me, what beast ties babes to masts!"

"We do." Silvertongue grinned. "Pretty song." And then the crew laughed like madbeasts.

The vermin went below deck afterwards, or into the cabin, leaving Fret to laze on the deck. These times were the worst of all. He was left alone with the others to watch and loathe him while he slumped into a depressed pile of fur.

He tried very hard to keep Redwall out of his mind, but he knew almost nothing that wasn't related to the abbey. Food reminded him of the feasts, or Constance filling their whole hut with steam. She had always tried to instill manners into him. She had insisted he use a fork and knife and spoon like a civilized beast. Constance made things worse. He saw her face in his dreams, asking him to come home. And in his dreams Fret was always whimpering that he couldn't. Thoughts of his uncle were almost as bad. Connington was telling him that he wasn't vermin, that he never would be. And Fret's mind responded the way it always did.

Look at me now uncle. What do you think I am?

Jack could feel the lack of joy around him, and hated it. "Now, now chaps and chapettes, we mustn't let our moods fall down, wot. The Long Patrol has never lost a fight I should say, wot, yes yes, we'll be alright and good."

But the sombre mood would not leave.

"Come on chaps, let's make the best of a bag bargain! Who knows a good story?" Honestly the depression was starting to get to him.

"I know one." Momchillo said loudly. "Once upon a time, Redwall Abbey took in a young ferret babe. They raised him, and loved him, and in the end he lead them all to slavery."

Fret curled up further into a ball.

"That was the worst story I have ever heard!" Sharpfur commented. "Then again, you abbeybeasts don't have many good tales, do you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hawthorn fixed him with a cool, piercing gaze.

The weasel took a step back from her gaze, despite her lack of freedom. "That you muckers don't know how to tell a good story."

"Burr we're moighty good at it oll methinks."

Cringing from the moletalk, Sharpfur held up a paw. "Your stories all have: your magic sword, some undefeatable fighters, the good ole evil vermin and yer happy endings." He listed, grinning toothily.

"Oh please-like you could come up with a better story." Momchillo snapped.

"I could. All vermin do! We all write the stories of our lives." Sharpfur said, puffing out his chest.

"Very eloquent." The mouse's sarcasm was palpable.

Sharpfur chuckled, and poked the mouse's nose. "My point is, yer stories are all the same. Every vermin's different. Our tales are realistic."

"Well you all end up dead, so yes. Very realistic."

"Everybeast ends up dead." Sharpfur shrugged. "But I ain't dying anytime soon." And with that he walked off, his tongue poking out mockingly.

"I'm going to kill him." Momchillo growled. "One day, I'm going to kill him."

Sharpfur sat down next to Fret. "Seasick?"

Fret was glad of the excuse, and nodded weakly. He couldn't show any weakness around any of the other vermin.

"It happens. If yer gonna puke, stick your head overboard." The weasel advised.

"Wutt if oim feelin' loike oim about to emptea moine stomach?"

"Then yell 'bucket' and hold it in." Sharpfur withdrew his dagger and began tossing it up and down.

"Make sure to get some on him." Hawthorn advised.

"I heard that." Sharpfur snapped.

"Good. I wouldn't want to catch you off guard. Again."

Sharpfur's fur bristled in anger. "Listen vole. If you don't close yer mouth, I'll cut yer tongue out!"

"Sure you will. You're just a scared little rodent." All eyes were going from Hawthorn to Sharpfur.

"Scared? Pah! Of you! Pshaw! I'll gut ye here and now."

"Then get it over with you gutless coward!" She yelled.

Greyclaw burst out from the cabin, the little weasels hanging from his ears or clutching at his tail. "Is something wrong?"

"We are being held against our will by a pack of stinking rats! What do you think is wrong!?" Hawthorn was red in the face from yelling.

Grey was slow on the uptake. "Er..."

"Ignore her Grey. She just wants to count the trees in the Dark Forest." Sharpfur growled.

Fret, feeling a twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with the rocking on the boat, climbed up and threw his head over the side of the boat.

"Better out than in matey." Sharpfur said, patting the ferret on the back.

"Rat. How long until you get sold into slavery?" Momchillo turned his head to Greyclaw.

"Er... Never?"

"Really? I thought so too. Until you know, I got sold into slavery. I'd be careful if I were you. Fret has a habit of selling his 'mates'."

"Frettie?"

"He's going to lead you to a ditch and leave you there to rot!"

Grey looked stricken and turned to Fret. The ferret was in no position to tell him otherwise. "You're abandoning me?" He said in a hollow voice.

Sharpfur was on him in a heartbeat, piggybacking on the rat to stroke his head. "Nononono the mouse is just lying. We're mates Grey, I would never dream of getting rid of you."

"But he said-"

"He's just a mean, mean mousie. Nobeast's gonna separate us."

Momchillo opened his mouth to argue, but Sharpfur was quick on the uptake. "Can you smell that?"

"All I smell is you."

"Mmmmm, vittles. Ma's cooking. Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute."

Grey nodded weakly and walked back into the cabin, a vacant expression on his face. Sharpfur walked up to the tied mouse, and grabbed him by the front of his habit, his small claws outstretched and hanging dangerously close to his face.

"You hit a nerve mousie." He growled dangerously low. "Say something like that again and when I'm done with you your own mother wouldn't recognize your stinking tail." The weasel let him go and skulked off, slamming the cabin door shut behind him.

That night...

Fret shivered on the deck. It was cold and raining and Silvertongue was singing loudly. Something tasty was cooking, but Fret had no appetite. He couldn't keep anything down anyways, so what was the point of eating?

His fur was wet and filthy, and he was shivering like a madbeast.

"Why are you here?" Matiya asked him suddenly. Fret looked up. The captives were drier than he was, with the sail acting as an umbrella. They were warmer too, all snoozing next to each other. Matiya, it seemed, was the only one awake.

Fret looked back at the deck feeling even more miserable.

Matiya tried a different tack. "You remember the feast at Redwall?"

Fret wondered whether the squirrel was tormenting him on purpose.

"You remember at the walls... What you said to me?"

The ferret nodded.

"Well... I don't hate you."

Fret sniffed and stared a his feet. He didn't have the energy needed to snap. "I already know what you think. You don't have to lie anymore."

"No... Fret. I'm serious. I don't hate you. I never did."

They stared at each other for a long time.

"It doesn't matter. I can't go back anymore. I just proved you all right. I was vermin all along."

"And what does that mean? So what if you're vermin? Look Fret... I've probably said a lot of stupid things to you. I've done stupid things to you-but I never meant anything by them. It was all just a game. I didn't realize I was hurting you when I-"

"Whacked me sore with your stupid sword?" Somehow he could snap again. "When you said I was Ungatt Trunn or Badrang? When you laughed while your brothers tried to pull my mask off?" Fret stood up. "If you didn't know then you're an idiot and if you did then you hate me same as everybeast else."

"Then I'm an idiot! I'm sorry Fret... I didn't know that it bothered you so much-"

"Bothered me? Your lying bothers me! You didn't know? How could you not know?"

"You never said anything! I'm sorry! I was a stupid squirrel and I didn't think! "

Fret stared at the squirrel. His mouth open.

"We were looking for you the day they caught us. If I hated you would I go looking for you?"

Fret was dumbstruck. He blinked and thought up more arguments. It's a trick. Was his first instinct. Matiya was lying to him. But the squirrel's face said otherwise.

"I'm sorry."

Fret's jaw fell open. "I-I-" Another thought popped up and his ears perked up slightly. "So... The others..." Had he been wrong all along? They had come looking for him too.

"I... Don't know."

Fret's ears drooped. "It doesn't matter now. I can never go back."

"Don't say that. We'll get back, okay?"

Fret sniffed glumly. "You might."

There was a short pause. Matiya chewed on his tongue,, trying to choose the best words for the dripping ferret.

"Are you cold?"

"No." Fret lied instantly. He sneezed loudly. "N-yes."

"Come here. It's not so wet, and it's warmer."

Fret hesitated.

"Come on. You're going to catch a cold."

The ferret shook himself mostly dry. He walked over and slumped next to the squirrel.

An awkward silence descended.

"So..." Matiya wondered how long he'd have to string words together to save the day. "Were you going to... Kill Momchillo?".

Fret gave the squirrel a quick glance. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. He's being nice! And that was exactly why Fret lied. Since when was Matiya nice to him? "Kill... Not really. I was..." Going to free you. "Hurt him... But kill is a little... Much." Vermin are vermin, and you'll always be one. He knows it and you know it.

Matiya sighed. "I can't speak for the others. But... It's okay. I forgive you."

Fret almost smiled, but his own thoughts prevented him from doing so. A goodbeast would have told him the truth. You're just a vermin, and you know it. Mayhaps he'll forgive you now, tied to a mast and lonely, but what about when he's all safe and sound? Do you think he'll give a fig about you?

Fret didn't know the answer, but at least it was warmer there.

[close]

Chapter Twelve, In Which Sharpfur Becomes A Murderer

The deck was clear when Matiya made his move the next day.

"What do you think of Fret?" He asked cautiously, expecting a full on rant from them all.

Momchillo sighed in frustration. "Why are you suddenly obsessed with him? We went to bring him back to Redwall, because you convinced us to. We would have gone home if it weren't for your obsession with him back at the tent. And now, you want us to talk about him. Okay. Let's talk. Why do you care so much?"

"Well... Fret is a... Complicated beast." I should have payed more attention to the recorders. Talking is so difficult.

"Oi. He be moighty difficult to be a thoinkin' about."

"He thinks we hate him." Matiya finally blurted out.

"And we do!" Momchillo snapped. "Or did you by chance not notice that we are tied to a mast?"

"I'm angry at him too!" Matiya shot back. "But-"

"And before he sold us to slavery he was mean and weird. He kept looking at me!" Hawthorn added.

"Well yeah but-"

"But what do you expect? He's vermin Matiya!"

"But he was hurt when-"

"When what? Everybeast feels pain you idiot! Stop acting like he's our friend. He's with them and that makes him an enemy!"

"But he's a good enemy-"

"The only good enemy is a dead enemy." Sharpfur grinned.

"Don't you have some village to raid?" Grollo grumbled.

"Me? Nah, I'm too little." He chuckled, laying safely against the mast. "Please continue debiliating vermin psychopathy."

"We're not 'debiliating' we're 'debating'." Matiya corrected icily.

"That's what I said!" The weasel snapped.

"Liar. Liar, liar, liar, liar!" Hawthorn sung in sing-song.

"One day my lying tongue will save yer pretty hide. Shut it princess."

Before Hawthorn could reply, Matiya interrupted. I swear the word 'liar' should be burned off the dictionary! It's going to drive me mad. "Look Fret has problems expressing himself. It's why he gets all snappy sometimes-"

"Bahahahahaha!" Sharpfur was thumping the floor with his legs as he laughed his head off. Matiya desperately wanted to kick his tail.

The squirrel tried to continue explaining. "He thinks that everyone hates him because he's vermin-"

Sharpfur started laughing even louder.

"And it's hard to explain to him that we don't. This thing was an accident! He's as captive as we are-"

"Stop!" Sharpfur shrieked from under his laughter. "I'm gonna wet meself hahahaha!"

"Nothing is funny!" Matiya bellowed, making the weasel squirm harder. Then he stopped and waited for someone else to resume the conversation. Everyone was silent, save and except for Sharpfur, who was still laughing. Eventually he composed himself. Giggling occasionally he opened his mouth to say something-but his words fell short when something ploughed into the underside of the ship and he fell on his rump. Suddenly very annoyed.

"Hey! Do you miiii-oh um hello." He gulped weakly as a massive rat clambered silently onto the deck.

The deck became deathly quiet as the rat approached slowly, an axe hanging loosely from his belt.

Sharpfur flattened himself against the floor of the ship. "P-please great one-t-take them! I'm just the watch-beast. Mercy, great one. Mercy."

The rat stomped forwards, giving a dark chuckle. He made to unbuckle his axe.

Sharpfur was quicker, and pounced forwards, his small claws freeing his dirk and plunging it into the invader's throat.

Hawthorn screamed. Rosebrush almost fainted. The rest were drawn to the loud, gruesome spectacle and could not look away.

The big rat struggled weakly, but Sharpfur was quicker, sliding and twisting and sawing his dirk into the flesh, while blood emptied itself all over, spilling around his paws, splashing around his dirk and staining his cloth. The battle was over though, the second the dirk tore the rodent's windpipe. The rat fell, gurgling and twitching frantically as blood filled his lungs and the air he gasped in flew back out his throat.

Nobody could stop staring at it. Sharpfur was shivering, though it was not cold and was wide-eyed and horrified by the sight. Evidently the young weasel had not killed before. He looked wordlessly at the bound woodlanders, his mouth open but no words coming out-his cocky demeanour entirely gone.

Then a hundred hooks flew from the side of the ship and sunk into the wood. From the way they strained it was evident someone was climbing aboard.

Sharpfur froze,his eyes wide with fear. The dirk remained in the rat's throat.

It was Matiya who reacted first. Complain all they wanted, the vermin hadn't been cruel to them-there was no telling what these other ones would be like and it was not a risk the squirrel was willing to take. "ALL PAWS ON DECK! YOU'RE UNDER ATTACK! ALL PAWS ON DECK!"

Sharpfur looked at him, utterly speechless.

"Cut us loose!" Jack hollered at him. "We're no good being sitting ducks!"

Sharpfur didn't move. Then the first black rat popped it's ugly head overboard just as Threeclaw burst from the cabin, armed with his broadsword and rapier. The stoat wasted no time cleaving the rat's head in two, and was just as fast at slicing the ropes. But he was not fast enough to prevent a fight.

Fret woke from his first-thankfully dreamless sleep to the sound of shouting. Confused he sat up suddenly as the crew around him suddenly milled about in a drastic frenzy. Threeclaw shot up to the deck first and soon everybeast was arming himself. What was going on? Gulash gave him an accidental shove and barged past, the rest of the Honest Bunch came racing out, hollering madly.

Then he heard a distant voice yelling about 'attack' and stood up with a jolt. Then Grey was looking up at him.

"Frettie! Where's Sharpie? Have you seen him?" Fret shook his head dumbly. Would it be the hares? Would they kill him? And Grey? Or Sharpfur...

"I-I don't know." Anything. It was tempting to sit and cry-but the only one who he cried to was Constance and she was back at Redwall... If I ever go back. I'm going to sit in the cottage and cry till it floods.

"Well, let's go find him to make sure he's safe- and and we can bring your friend too. The squirrel and them."

"He's not my friend." Fret snapped automatically. "I- it's-complicated."

"I heard you, you know. Talking to him. You want to go back, don't you?" Grey tried to hide the hurt in his eyes. He wasn't very good at doing it.

Fret opened his mouth, he didn't know how to respond. Luckily, he didn't have to. Unluckily, it was because a black rat dropped down from the deck in a shower of splinters.

The fight was the most gruesome thing any of them had ever seen. Even Sharpfur-who threatened to gut them all at least twice- was frozen by the gruesomeness of it all. Blood sprayed and fell like rain, vermin rolled around on the deck, clawing and biting. Heads lay slit and bodies fell and made pools of red.

Sharpfur had not moved an inch and Matiya had stopped yelling after he'd seen Gulash crush a rat's skull bare-pawed. They had all seen the Honest Bunch, singing their shanties and joking and laughing. But this reminded them heavily that they were surrounded by killers.

Freedom came in the form of an axe that missed Deathglare's skull and split the rope inbetween Grollo and Rosebrush. The mole had already fainted and now fell forwards as the rope no longer bound them.

Still stunned, the youngsters all shared looks of shock. Then suddenly, Momchillo was struck by a great idea.

"This thing has a dinghy, right?"

Tibbers nodded incromprehensively.

"Let's get out of here!"

The group blinked and then faint smiles grew slightly. Home, was tantalisingly close.

"Hey!" Sharpfur shouted distractedly. "Y-you're-"

"Leaving." Matiya finished coldly. "Going to stop us?" The weasel made no move to do so. "Guys, our best hope is to crawl towards it, otherwise we won't get far. Grollo, help Rosebrush, Jack-"

"Don't worry, I've got the shrew."

"Okay. Right. Let's go then."

And so they bent forwards and crawled forwards one by one, leaving Sharpfur to stand there trying to say something.

It was hard work, crawling. Matiya was at the back of the line and the constant movement of the rolling and clashing vermin was difficult to navigate. The dead bodies were even harder.

Matiya had always dreamed of fighting, of being the Abbey Warrior, of slaying countless villains with a mighty swing of his sword. Yet the stories had never been like this and he was starting to believe what Sharpfur had said about vermin tales being more realistic. He caught sight of Threeclaw, frantically battling three at once. He had never seen anything like it. With small, sharp and sudden movements of his paw the stoat could parry any attack thrown at him. And with broad stroaks and decisive jabs he ended any who faced him. He danced over the carnage, light on his feet and fast, not slipping on any stray guts, hopping nimbly above a still-breathing comrade. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen-and it was butchery. He found suddenly that being a warrior was perhaps not the best career choice. Matiya forced his eyes away and made faster work.

He reached the dinghy last. Tibbers, Jack, Grollo, Rosebrush and Hawthorn were ready to leave and already on board. Momchillo looked relieved at the sight of him.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." The mouse said, and together they joined the others on the smaller boat.

The dinghy was held up by two ropes to either side and now they lowered it, one rope at a time. Slowly, gently. An eighth of the way. Heave. Ho. Slowly, surely. A quarter of the way down.

"Wait!" Yelled Matiya suddenly. "What about Fret?"

The looks he got varried from Matiya's scowl to Tibbers and Jack's appalling attempt at not making eye contact.

"What about Fret?" Momchillo asked through gritted teeth. And for a moment Matiya was filled with righteous fury.

"Just because you don't care about him!" He snapped. "We left Redwall to bring him back. I'm not leaving without him!" He scrambled the ropes they had been tugging low with the worthiness of his species.

Momchillo growled. "Idiot. What an idiot!"

The rat swung at Fret first and likely would have killed him in one move had the ferret not managed to flatten himself backwards. The dagger stuck in the wood, and the rat left it there swinging bare-pawed he dealt a mighty blow to Fret's nose. He followed up by grabbing him by the throat and squeezing cruelly.

He had forgotten Grey, and while he himself was no warrior, if not for his mismatched buckteeth Fret would likely have died.

The black rat hollered as the smaller one's teeth tore into his shoulder. His grip loosened and Fret managed to slash open his cheek, creating three, short gashes on his face. Acting quickly, the rat kicked the ferret off of him, and tore his shoulder out of Grey's mouth. Pain fueled his power and with a vicious backhand the rat tumbled away.

Fret helped Grey to his feet as the black rat freed his dagger.

"What do we do?" Grey whimpered.

Fret noticed that they were right in front of the staircase.

"Run!" He yelled, dashing forwards and up the ship with speed he had not known he had. Then again he had never quite felt fear like this before either. He reached the cabinin record time and vaulted up, he snatched the trapdoor and prepared to slam it shut. Grey burst through, panting madly and Fret slammed the door shut as the black rat's face came into view. Then he bolted it shut and breathed deep sighs of relief.

"Frettie, are you okay?" Grey asked tenatively.

Fret nodded.

"Okay. Let's go find Sharpie." He said simply.

Sharpfur was in the same spot as before. He willed his body to move, to help, to do something... The look of pain and fear in the black rat's eye froze him once more. Why couldn't he move? He had hurt people before. Once, he had pinched Grey's belly until the rat had cried, yet that hadn't frozen him and he actually cared about Grey. Why couldn't he just move?

He managed to shift his paw slightly and promptly slipped on a pool of blood. He landed hard on his rump and the sudden feeling of something helped him regain control of his body. And it was a good thing too, since at that moment a black rat with a dirk that looked remarkably like his, noticed his existence.

Going back through the chaos was the hardest thing Matiya had ever done. The stench of death was thick and heavy and made his head spin around. He could see no familiar faces, probably since every face was splattered heavily with blood and gore. He thought he saw Threeclaw once, but he hoped it was not the stoat, for what he had seen was a writhing corpse. He stumbled forwards as a horrible thought gripped his mind. What if Fret was dead? He shook his head wildly and continued. The heroes never died-he tried to assure himself. But that was a lie. Felldoh had died. Boar the Fighter had died. Skarlath the hawk... The list went on and on.

It was then that he noticed Fret.

Fret spotted Sharpfur, scrambling and slipping away from a black rat. The weasel's face radiated a panic that had not been there before. Then again neither had the threat of death.

"Sharpie!" Grey yelled in anguish, trying desperately to reach his friend. Sharpfur dodged another knife and lashed out, sinking his sharp little teeth into the rat's stomach, his head tearing from side to side. Grey fell trying to get to him.

"Fret!" Fret turned and Matiya was scrambling towards him. "Fret, we're leaving. Come on we're at the dinghy! We're going home!"

Home. Redwall. It was so close he could feel it. Don't think. Just go home.

"Help!" Sobbed Grey as a rat advanced on him, dirk drawn. Fret froze. Go home. Forget Grey. Go home. But he could not forget Grey, Grey who had been nice to him, who didn't want him to leave.

"Fret! Come on Fret! Let's go!"

Fret barged the rat on the side. The rat turned to him and Fret lost his courage. He turned tails and ran, slipping, tripping, he ran away as the rat slipped and tripped after him. Then as he reached the dinghy he realized that he had run out of boat. He swerved to the side just as an axe plunged into the wood of the deck. He tried to run, slipped and tried to scramble backwards on all fours. The rat towered over him. Sharpfur was running forwards, tripped on something and fell overboard. The rat slammed a foot over Fret's chest, making him cough. The rodent bent to pull the axe free.

Sharpfur hit the dinghy's deck headfirst with an almighty thud. Dizzily, he reoriontated himself and blinked at the confused faces that surrounded him. He was followed by Grey Claw-who lannded right on top of him.

Matiya plunged the sword through the rat's throat, where the blade appeared on the other side,splattered in blood. The rat fell to the side. Dead.

Matiya was frozen for a moment, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins helped focus him. He reached a paw out to Fret.

"Come on. Let's put this... Behind us." He panted.

Fret reached out to take his paw. Then the ship lurched violently and Fret's skull hit the side of the boat and knew nothing more.

Momchillo was stunned. "What are you doing here!?"

Before he could get a reply the boat shook, launching the dinghy forwards. Then it swung back. Hawthorn hit the boat with her head and slumped. Jack lost balance and teetered. Tibbers grabbed him by the front and then they both fell. Then one rope snapped. The dinghy swung, now held up by the other and spilled Sharpfur and Greyclaw into the water.

"Matiya!" He shouted, holding onto the remaining rope for dear life. That was when the squirrel's form flew off the side of the ship. "Matiya!" He hollered desperately. Then the last rope snapped. The dinghy fell down and Momchillo was tossed into the air. The deck came up to meet him, it seemed. There was pain, and then he knew nothing more.

[close]

Chapter Fourteen, In Which I Start Developing My Side-Characters, Of Which There Are Already Far Too Many

Tibbers came to slowly. His eyes cracked open slowly. His shoulder hurt more than ever and his whole body ached. He had been swimming most of the night, making sure Jack-is-lucky didn't go under. He had no idea how he managed to do it, but he and the hare had made it to the riverbank before passing out. He didn't know about the others.

Rising slowly to his feet he stretched weakly. He moved to where Jack had been to check on the hare.

His and Grey's eyes met and both yelled in surprise. Tibbers lost balance stepping backwards and fell on his rump, Grey tried to bury himself into the nice winter jacket he'd dragged to the riverbank.

Jack sat up suddenly as a cold, wet thing shot itself down the front of his coat." Gaaaaah! Cold! Cold! Cold!" He tore open the front and Grey spilled out like a ragged doll. Jack screamed in surprise and jumped a foot in the air, his fur standing on end.

Grey heard the battlecries and curled into the sand, his paws over his head. "I surrender! I surrender!" He whimpered, waiting for an axe to end him.

Jack calmed his heart rate and steadied his breathing. "My hearts! Oh my... Oh my..." Then he shook himself dry and shivered. He coughed to regain his composure and straightened up. "Well chappie, you have surrendered and shall now be spared on my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

Grey sat up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he remembered all of Sharpfur's survival plans and began grovelling. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"But! You may be useful to us a hostage in the case that one of ours is still on board your vessel, therefore you are now a captive of the Long Patrol!"

Grey opened his mouth dumbly. He had no idea what that meant. He decided more grovelling was in order. "No! Pleeeeaaaase! Anything but that! Mercy!"

Well I say... Vermin must have quite a high regard for the Long Patrol. "It is the only way! Now, on your feetpaw! Chop chop!"

"Wait! We should tie him up!" Tibbers squeaked nervously. "In case he tries to run away."

"Nooooooo! Please! I'll do anything! Anything!" Grey pleaded. He hadn't even heard the shrew's suggestion.

"Now now chap! It's not too bad, wot. Just an extra precautionary measure!"

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Tibbers undid his bandages clumsily. His shoulder was a mess. The wound had a nasty shade of green around it, and the poked flesh was beginning to smell bad. "We can use this," the shrew suggested, holding the soggy bandage.

"Your shoulder looks bad. You should put some dockweed on it." Grey provided helpfully.

Tibbers gave his shoulder a glance and looked away again. "It's not important right now. Well, er, hold your paws out."

"And no funny business, wot!"

Grey nodded and did as he was bid. "Why are you bandaging my paws together? Your shoulder needs it more than I do."

Jack-is-Lucky blinked. Then regained composure once more. "Right well, uhum. Our comrades should be along this riverbank somewhere. We just have to... Find 'em. Right, Tibbers climb on my back., give the bandage here. Rat with us, wot. Now... Um... Don't try anything."

Grey nodded, then remembered something. "Where's Sharpfur?"

"The weasel, wot? Well, he's er-" The hesitation made Grey decide that it was something bad.

"Is he dead?" The rat's eyes were wide and quivering. Jack did not have the heart to hurt such a sweet little- kidnapper. He's a kidnapper. Remember that, Jackie. Now, we need to get him moving!

"Aye, he is, and you'll be dead too if you don't start moving." The hare said in as angry a voice as he could muster. "Now-"

Instead of cowing the rat into submission as he'd hoped to do, Grey Claw burst into tears and bawled like a newborn.

The dingy crashed into a stony bank, knocking sweet, blissfull sleep away from Hawthorn. The vole's eyes snapped open, and suddenly she was wide awake. Grollo was sprawled on the deck, half-awake himself. But the others weren't there. With a sinking feeling in her gut last night's hazy events returned.

Fret that cold-footed scum and Matiya the dumb fool. We'd have gone home if you hadn't tried playing the hero for that dumb ferret. She hissed angrily to bite back tears. They had been so close to going home. Away from the stinking vermin. She climbed up to the back of the dingy, where a bit of rope dangled weakly.

There's no point crying now. She thought. This is the river Moss. If we follow it against it's course we'll get to Mossflower woods. From there we'll find the abbey. They will help. We should be fine. We should be fine.

Then she caught sight of him, with bleared eyelids, barely clinging on to the rope, Sharpfur's claws tried desperately to fight the mounting exhaustion and retain his grip. Then he caught sight of her, and in desperation, redoubled his efforts to scramble onto the wood and escape the freezing current.

"Help me! Help! I can't swi-ack! Help!" He missed a scramble and almost disappeared into the water.

Hawthorn felt three things simultaneously. The first was a stab of pity at the pathetic sight of the desperate weasel, the next was anger, for he had been one of their captors and had prevented them from returning home. The third was a sense of justice. Sharpfur didn't talk half as tough in the water as he did on dry land. She remembered his stunned look at having ended a life and felt pity again.

"And why should I? You'd push me in quick as a flash." A small part of her wanted to cut the rope off entirely and be rid of him.

"N-no!" Unable to add anything he continued begging. "Please! Please! I can't swim. Please!"

"What happened to 'a good enemy is a dead enemy'?"

A large wave made him slip to the very edge, his claws only just holding on. "H-E-E-E-ELP ME!" He sobbed in panic.

Hawthorn hesitated a moment longer. He was their enemy. He'd have sold them without a second thought. "Why should I?" She snapped, all her anger coming to a boil.

"B-because I-I I know Mossflower! I can lead you b-back to your abbey! Just DON'T LET ME DIE!" Another large wave weakened his grip. The next would take him down the river, most likely to his death.

Hawthorn tugged at the rope, the weasel clinging on for dear life. With some effort the albino vole managed to get the little weasel onto the boat, where he shook himself mostly dry and wringed the water free from his tail, shivering madly the entire time.

"You'd have let me drown." Hawthorn complained.

The weasel scowled at her. "Yes I would have. Got a problem with that?"

"I should throw you back into the river." She growled, approaching him with clenched fists.

The weasel straightened up to his full height. Being a runt he was not much bigger than her. "Such a pity you can't pretty-face." He stuck his tongue out at her as he slapped water out of his ears.

"Yes, but he can." Sharpfur realized too late that Grollo was now fully awake. The hedgehog grabbed him by the back of the neck and raised him into the air.

"H-hey put me down! I w-was joking! Joking! Haha, come on, you can take a joke!"

"Answer my questions." The vole demanded, straightening up. "Is this the River Moss?"

"Um, no-yes! Yes it is!"

The vole glared at him. "Are you lying?"

"No! No I swear it's not the River Moss! This is the River S-styx!"

"There is no river Styx-"

"No there is-you woodlanders just d-don't call it that, yeah! You say some other name I-I dunno what that is!"

Hawthorn frowned and Sharpfur seized his advantage.

"Look, the river bends downstream, we just have to travel further down river and we'll be right back to where we started. Now put me down!"

He could be lying. But that made no difference. It was him against her and Grollo and his precious dirk wasn't there. In the end Hawthorn relented. "Leave him be Grollo. And weasel-if you so much as think of betraying us, we will dump you into the river, understood?"

Right, find the others and go home. Shouldn't be too difficult.

Sharpfur nodded feverishly, and as the two turned away he scowled, his fur bristling in anger. I hate woodlanders. Still, it wasn't all bad. He just needed to get his bearings and then he could ditch them.

Right, find Grey and go home... If there is a home to go to. If not make new home. Good plan.

Connington felt anxiety dance inside his stomach like a nest of sparrows. He hated boats enough when there wasn't a strong likelihood of death. But after the wreckage they had spotted...he was worried what they would find.

The shrews had made good speed, and One Eye had been sure they'd catch up with the vermin 'before a weeks crossed'. Well they had caught up to the vermin, but it wasn't what they had been expecting to find.

The ship had been torn apart, and floating lifelessly in pools of fading blood were countless bodies. Black rats lay lifeless more than any other beast, but vermin of every shape and colour were strewn about.

"Shrews! Dive!"

With an unnecessary cry of 'Logalogalogalolalog' the shrew dived into the water, dragging out still-twitching bodies by the dozen. A ferretmaid with a huge axe-head buried into her skull begged for mercy and Connington hardly dared refuse. It was horrible.

"Check every ferret." He asked, and as the Log-a-log conveyed the order he found he couldn't stomach the thought of Fret even being here, let alone being amongst the dead.

He had found the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew. There were no marks of fur, no blood, but no Fret either. He merely hoped the ferret didn't die.

Nothing. Dead rats. Dead weasels. Dead ferrets. But no Fret.

And a mole. It took three shrews to drag her above the water, and it took one quick kiss from a bashful hare to get her coughing and shivering.

Connington knew her. Well... He knew her father, who had most venomously objected to Constance's raising of Fret. But he doubted the Foremole would be gutted by his daughter's safe return. Though mayhaps the other parents would...

"There's one still breathing." A shrew called. "Don't look too good, weasel-fellow."

"Bring him here." The hare Captain commanded, he then fixed the others with a cold look. "Leave the interrogation to me! I've prized answers from spies, assassins, thieves, rogues-"

"Here ya go! There's three more like that." It was none other than Cheesenibbles, who looked shrunken and scared. The baby weasel's fur was dripping wet and how he had stayed afloat was a serious mystery.

"Well...have you ever interrogated a baby before?" Connington asked dryly, hoping that some humour could kill the sparrows as they fluttered up and down.

"No." The shrew proceeded to dump three more, slightly older but just as scared weasel-pups.

"I can't interrogate this! Porridge oats! I forgot they were young once."

The weasels stared with wide open eyes.

"Captain, what's the orders?"

"Well... Continue forwards for now. When she's well we'll ask the mole what happened. And then we should be able to send her back to Redwall."

Tibbers had grown up believing that vermin were heartless backstabbers. But he had also been taught that Redwall was a safe haven for all goodbeasts. He was surprised at having seen the ferret in Redwall, but hadn't let assumptions get to him. Then the ferret had apparently betrayed his friends, the people he had grown up with and that belief was rising again. And he was doubting them again.

The rat was apparently inconsolable, and though by now he had run out of tears, he walked alongside them in sullen silence. Jack had made one joke about the shape of rivers in general-which hadn't been funny- and Grey had been bawling again, whimpering about how 'Sharpie always hated water'.

He felt sorry for the rat. Especially since Jack's backtracking had failed miserably. He now believed that his weasel friend was dead, and any thought that reminded him of him sprung fresh tears.

Heartless indeed!

[close]

Chapter Fifteen, In Which The Good Ole' Conflict Starter Known As Amnesia Is Used

Sleep was such a blissful thing, thought Fret as he tried to delve back into the world of dreams. It had been a nice dream. He couldn't remember it, but it had been nice. Something to do with cheese...

"Fret! Fret are you awake?" His mother called.

No! He wanted to snap, but snapping would only make it all the more clear that he was wide-awake and his usual self. He just wanted five more minutes... with the cheese dream preferably.

"Fret? Get up! It's the Feast Day!"

Fret let out a groan so loud he was sure she had heard and climbed out of bed. He hated feasts, not because of the food-no he liked that, what he hated were the endless stares he got, as if everyone expected him to start jumping up and down waving a butterknife like a longsword. It was the one day each season where he couldn't avoid anyone. Where everyone was together for 'fun and merriment', while reminding him that he didn't belong in not-so-subtle ways. It reminded him that he was not one of them and never would be, no matter what his nuncle said or what his mother did.

"Fret are you awake?" He was now torn between answering honestly and diving back under his blankets. Each feast up until now he tried to blend in, but he had decided after the last time that it wasn't worth pretending. He was not an abbey-dweller, he was a ferret. But he was not vermin. No, vermin stole and looted and killed and murdered, Fret was just lazy...and a liar...and could use table manners...

"Fret?" Her voice was coming closer, she was going to check on him. He had to make his decision now!

He pounced back under his blankets, or rather attempted to. He jumped too hard and hit the head-rest just as his mother walked in.

Constance was big for a mouse, everyone said so, and it was so. She was tall, and more muscled than even the legendary Martin. Her fur was soft and brown. Presently she looked worried. "Are you alright?"

Unfortunately, he was in no position to fake sleep, so rubbing his head he answered that he was 'fine'. The last thing he wanted was to be molly-coddled where everyone could see. This had the opposite effect he wanted.

"Are you sure? That jump looked mighty painful." Constance was also the only person who he couldn't lie to. Somehow, she just saw right through him. She stopped grinning and gave him a worried look. "The feast's not so bad."

"Yeah." Fret agreed. "The food is good." Just nothing else.

"It's not going to be like last time."

"No." It's going to be worse.

"You'll try your best to not draw attention to yourself."

"Obviously." And have everyone stare at you anyways because you were trying to avoid attention.

"This time it's going to be great!"

"Yes." If great meant being humiliated and/or punished, than yes, yes it was going to be amazing.

"I mean, everyone's more or less used to you. And it's not like anyone new is coming. I mean we do this every season-"

At that moment Jon Connington burst into the room, looking like he had just run all the way from the abbey. They lived in the gatehouse, and he probably had, to be fair.

"Bad news! Skip's coming."

"He came last season and we didn't have any problems with him." Constance said. The first time he had come was five seasons ago and well...

*Flashback*

"That is my son you cretin! Point another sharp object at him and you will wish you were sorry!" Constance shouted, her fist repeatedly colliding with the otter's nose, while Connington watched from the background making awkward, half-hearted gestures of interference."

*Flashback*

"No, not the local Skip. Our Skip, the one from before...all this." He gestured at the gatehouse, but Fret was sure he had meant to point at him. He didn't like his nuncle much. Jon Connington always seemed to try too hard to understand him. He gave him presents every time he left the abbey, and they ranged from a stuffed otter he had mauled in his sleep, to a round metal bob with a string attached that did absolutely nothing but distracted the mind for a relatively long period of time.

Constance's eyes widened. "Does he-"

"Well...He knows I have a nephew just not..."

"That I'm a ferret."

"Well...yes, but that's not the point. The point is he's coming and well I thought you ought to...be told." Connington was everything his sister was not. He was smaller than even Fret with large ears and eyes and fur that was a dull shade of grey. Presently his tail swished about behind him as he stood with his mouth open. Fret knew this gesture to mean that he was frightened or nervous. He saw it a lot when he and his mother were in the same room.

Constance waved away the worries. "It's fine. We handled one Skipper, we can handle another, all otters are the same."

"Yes but you know how he gets and in the past, I mean Rowl-" He hopped backwards with a squeak as Constance snapped at him.

"I remember Rowland too. You don't need to remind me of him, and neither does he. Now Fret brush up a bit. We'll be waiting downstairs for you."

"Oh and Bella wants to see you." Connington pointed at his sister.

"I didn't do anything!" Fret snapped immediately. Bella the Badgermum had never liked him much. Or at least she gave off that vibe. "Sorry. Force of habit."

Constance frowned. "Will you be alright on your own for a bit?" Constance asked, chewing her lip.

"I know the way to the abbey." He nimbly dodged the question. That was something Constance had not been able to pin him at. Yet. It can't be worse than last time anyways. Last time had really been the worse. Utterly the worst. The cream pie issue hadn't even been his fault. But as the only one in Redwall who's very kind was inclined to do vile things, he naturally got the blame.

They left, and as soon as they did the ferret slumped dejectedly. This was going to be a huge pain in his backside, he was sure about that. But there was no way to avoid it, and if he suddenly disappeared than he would get the more suspicious members of the abbey all riled up. That had happened when he had been five, and there really was nothing scarier than a one-eyed hare finding you while you slept all curled-up in a cupboard.

Fret was taller than most of his peers, and thin, not due to being underfed but simply because his kind tended to gravitate toward lanky builds. They also tended to gravitate towards villainous pursuits but that was not his problem. He wore a black habit, simply because he liked the contrast in his fur. The black mask, ears and paws, the white face. Besides it was either that or a bright red colour and everyone else usually wore that one anyways.

He left the gatehouse, remembered to lock it, then strolled casually towards the abbey that was both his home and the place he hated the most on earth. Lucious and big, and made entirely out of the red bricks that gave it it's name. It represented lots of things that Fret didn't. Honesty, well his lies had never really hurt anyone, and it's not like they believed him in the first place. Chivalry, Fret thought chivalry was being a show-off and to be fair most of the time it was. And kindness, he wasn't evil but people just got on his nerves so much. He snapped almost all the time and while not trying to be unkind he certainly didn't fit into being 'kind' either.

Suddenly something bright red and burly fell on him. "Hello Frettie, how are you on this fine morning?" It was one of his least favorite people on earth. Matiya. The squirrel represented everything what Redwall was, and naturally was drawn to his complete opposite.

"Don't you have a nut to crack!" Fret snapped, trying and failing to push him off.

"Nope, all eaten over winter. So, looking forwards to the feast?"

"Get off of me!"

"Where are your manners?" The squirrel tugged lightly at his ear. It didn't hurt him physically but dealt a huge blow to his ego.

"You're so funny. Now get off."

"Not until you say please."

"Matiya!"

"I shan't do nothing until you say please."

"Please!"

"Rightey. I shan't do nothing!" The squirrel laughed at his own joke and rolled off of him. "I heard we're getting some new visitors. Otters from Southward."

At that moment Fret's least favourite person alive strolled forwards. He was a mouse and looked a bit like Connington (they were both diminutive anyways) except he had way bigger ears. "Halt vermin fiend! You may not pass until you tell us your villainous plot of today!"

"I don't have a villainous plot." Fret snapped, sitting back up. At one point he had played with them almost every day, but that had been before they had all learned what his kind were famous for. And anyways it was not like they had been the best of friends to begin with...

"Oh but you do! You have a history of these games in fact! Remember when we wer what, eight?"

That had been the age they had stopped playing together. And Fret remembered it clearly.

*Flashback*

"But my dad worked hard on those." Complained Grollo.

"We're only tasting one." Fret snapped back. Even back then they had irritated him beyond measure.

"He's right. I mean we're going to have some anyways. This is just a little extra." Matiya agreed.

They watched as Momchillo lead away Grollo's father, Redwall's chief cook, and then scampered into the kitchens. There they were, perfect, sweet and juicy wallnut-cream-filled pies. All of them licked their drooling lips eagerly. Fret, being the tallest, plucked a single pie from the pile and offered it to Grollo.

The hedgehog hesitated, grabbed it, then hesitated again. "I think we should just put it back and leave."

"But we already grabbed it."

"We'll have it at the feast Fret."

"Fine, if you don't want it, I do." Fret tugged at the pie. Grollo refused to let go.

"No! Please just put it back! Matiya tell him!"

"But we're already here!"

"No!"

Fret tugged again, the pie ripped in two and the ferret fell backwards, bringing the whole pile of pies down on top of him. When he emerged through the rubble he found Grollo's father glaring down at him. Naturally the others had all blamed it on him.

*Flashback*

"Then there was the time you misplaced the olive oil and the elderberry cordial. That was both funny and painful to watch."

Grollo, the plump hedgehog had joined them. "There was the time you locked my dad in the oven."

"There was that time your mother beat up my mother." Matiya added to the count.

"None of them were my fault!" Fret snapped back. He stood up. "Anyhow it's not like you care." He tripped over Momchillo's outstretched paw and fell on his face, just as a somewhat old otter bounced forwards with merry delight, accidentally crushing Fret underfoot in his apparent excitement.

"Oh, you're not dear old Jon. You certainly look like him." He winked at Momchillo, who gazed up at him with slight confusion. Matiya, in Fret's opinion, looked like an idiot as he gaped at the otter's well-defined body of thick muscles and scars. "Say, are you my dear sweet nephew I've heard so much about."

"Jon Connington?" Came Fret's slightly muffled voice. The otter stepped off of him, and not looking at who he was talking to he straightened himself up, letting Fret roll back into a sitting position.

"My brother in arms. My number one mate. My-"

"Yeah. I'm your nephew." Fret said bluntly.

Only now did the Skipper take note of him, and his jaw dropped and did the familiar wide-eyed stare of the woodlanders. "B-but you're-"

"Adopted nephew, if you prefer."

"DIIIIE VERMIIIN!" The otter lunged all of a sudden, and a spear formed in his paw, impaling the ferret. The children around him morphed into cruel, laughing faces.

The ferret sat up so quickly he felt the blood rush to his brain as his paws shot out against a wall to steady himself. The whole room was rocking from side to side. It was small and dark and the ferret let out a small whimper. The scariest thing was that he knew nothing.

Matiya came to coughing a large amount of water. So much water he wondered how he was even awake to begin with. Getting weakly to his feet the squirrel found to his delight that he was apparently unhurt. He shook himself mostly dry, and searched the surroundings. No Momchillo, no Grollo, no Hawthorn... no Fret. They had been going home! A part of him wanted to sit and cry, but that would get him nowhere, and anyhow warriors were made of tougher stuff. No tears were needed, only blood and sweat. And a sword, but he didn't have one now anyways. The river must have washed him ashore, for it coursed and twisted like a snake besides him. Well, the Spirit of Martin was defenitely looking out for him today! He did a few quick stretches to make sure he was in mint condition, clicked his neck and punched his fist into his waiting palm.

"Right, find the others, get them back to Redwall. Forget this all ever happened. Good plan." He marched forwards, picking up a large stick he could use as a weapon in case the need arrised. That was when he spotted the large trail of blood that lead deeper into the forest, standing out vividly against the snow. It could have been anything, and normally he'd run, but after all he had seen he knew he had no way to tell whether the beast at the other end was friend or foe. As silently as he could Matiya followed the trail.

Please don't be Momchillo. Don't be Hawthorn, Rosebrush, Tibbers, Grollo or Jack. Or Fret. Or the rat Grey... he had been nice. If it was Sharpfur he'd put him out of his misery, but with how much blood had been spilled he doubted he'd be able to do anything beyond that.

It was none of the ones he had thought of. His white fur soaked in crimson, the stoat looked half-dead and half-alive, his throat torn open and still bleeding. His eyes were lost and wandering, but once they noticed Matiya they grew wide with fear. Weakly, the swords-master pleaded, one paw wringing in front of him, the other clamped against his bleeding wound. The squirrel bit his lip, he was no healer, and either way he doubted he could do anything. Except maybe end his suffering... warriors did that a lot, right?

He walked forwards, stick raised, ready to be brought down with all the force he could muster. Then he locked eyes with the stoat and felt both courage and the twig, fall. The enormity of ending a life, even if one was probably already on their way to the Dark Forest, was enormous. The stories made it sound easy... effortless. A single sword-thrust. They never talked about eyes begging for help. They didn't talk about how hard it actually was.

"Yer pretty tales are all a load of dung!" He heard Sharpfur cackle.

Matiya fell to his knees. "I-I'm not a healer, but if we put some snow on it the cold should er, slow the blood flow."

Threeclaw's other paw fell to the ground. Matiya chewed his lip and looked around. If he left now the stoat would die, and if the stoat died well that was a sort of justice...but Matiya would walk away with the pleading look of his eyes forever buried into him. No, he had to do this. Warriors saved more than they killed... the tales had never talked about saving vermin but they were dung anyways.

Momchillo came to with a head that beat like a drum. The gentle swaying told him he was on a boat, but who's vessel and where they were going were beyond him. His wrists were cold from the cruel metal that bound them together. The place stunk of death and decay. He glanced around. Silvertongue had a bloody lip and a black eye, and his paws were shaking, his harp had been slammed over his head so that it's poor remains hung around his neck like an ugly necklace. His wife, Momchillo could not remember her name, was rocking too and fro, with eyes that were wide with worry. None of her children were there. There was the old and stooped and wrinkled healer, breathing weezily in a corner, while Deathglare lay on his back, a paw over his eye. Copious amounts of blood flowed around and his paw and dropped to the floor.

"Where are the others?" He ventured to ask, to noone in particular.

The mother weasel sobbed into her knees and Silvertongue gave him a hard look, before replying anyways. "Dead. All dead. They got the survivors, that's us, and threw them all here."

"B-but no! That's not possible! We were escaping and-"

"I saw the bodies!" He snapped. "I saw my babes piled up in front of me like flesh over a fire. Don't give us you precious hope, mouse! Hope will only destroy us more!" Tears glistened in his eyes, and he struggled to hide them behind his anger.

Momchillo shrank and fell silent. He was certain that their new captors, whoever they were, were worse. The Honest Bunch hadn't killed anyone...or at least not during their stay. He couldn't help but stare at the couple, one crying openly, the other only just holding back. And he felt his heart rend as thoughts of his own family came to mind. He cried openly, for down here in the darkness noone he cared about could hear him.

[close]

In Which I Rip Off The Name Of An Actual Book Character (Again!) And Stick It To My Pi-Rat

As the door came creeping forwards, he tried his hardest to make himself invisible...not like that was possible anyways. But it gave him some hope. If whatever was coming couldn't see him, and seeing him in this darkness would have been difficult to begin with, well it couldn't hurt him, could it? Unfortunately his efforts were in vain, for the figure had brought a candle.

And what a figure it was! Taller than him, and broader, a beast built of fur and muscle. With wind-swept, and water-soaked clothes, and a cutlass hanging from a belt. His teeth were long and jagged and yellow, and his eye, for the other was hidden under a silken patch, glinted of dirty ice. His fur was dark brown, and was speckled with what looked like dried blood. His luscious green cape hung from his shoulders, and was the one thing he had that was not tarnished in some way. His long, worm-like tail was an oily grey, and it's tip rested on the handle of his cutlass. He held in one paw the candle, and in the other what looked like food.

"Glad you're awake. Here, have some grub." The rat tossed the bread at him, and his eager paws caught it mid-air. It turned out to be a loaf of bread, plain and stale, but to his hungry jaws, the greatest delicacy. While he tore into the loaf with savage zeal, the large rodent shut the door behind him, and set the candle down on the floor, before seating himself at the foot of the bed. For a while the only noise was the swaying of the room, and the ferret's hungry chewing.

Once the loaf had been devoured, the ferret found himself staring at his apparent savior. Who then spoke.

"What on earth where you doing with that load of bandits?"

"Er..." Lie! Think of something good. Blame someone else! But no excuse came to him and a moment later he found himself dumbly answering the question with one of his own. "What bandits?" The rat raised an eyebrow. For a moment there was something like cunning in his eye, but then it turned to concern.

"The cannibals, remember? I don't know what you were thinking of by running away. They would have eaten you!"

"Er... I-I don't remember." He admitted, almost pleadingly. Then a sudden fear swept over him. Why had he been running away? What had he done?

"Nothing?" The rat looked stunned.

The ferret shook his head weakly. "You wouldn't either if you got hit on your head as hard as me!" He snapped back defensively. He couldn't admit weakness to someone he had only just met.

This elicited a chuckle from the rodent.

"It's not funny! I could have been...scarred." He finished lamely.

"There's nothing wrong with a good scar little Whimper, it puts hair on your chest."

"Whimper?" His name hadn't been Whimper, it had never been whimper it had been fr...fr...fre..ferret? His name hadn't been ferret...but he couldn't remember being called Whimper...then again he couldn't really remember anything.

"You don't know anything do you?"

It hurt him to do it, but he shook his head in all honesty. The rat stood up, and left the candle where it was. "I'll be right back. Don't you move a muscle."

Matiya stepped back and vomited. He had done all he could for the stoat and even then he was not sure had done enough. Snow had helped stop the bloodflow, and he had found a needle amidst the vermin's clothes, with which he had delicately sewn the wounds closed. Somehow he doubted he would wake up, but the squirrel could now rest easy knowing that as a true abbeybeast he had done the most he could to help the poor creature...even if the poor creature would never live to thank him for it. Or thank him for it even if he did live. He was weak, and tired, but couldn't have held back the contents of his stomach even if he wanted to. There had been so much blood. He shivered. The stories they had all been raised on back at the Abbey had mentioned the blood of course...but he had never quite imagined it...the way it was.

"Right. It's going to get dark. And that means it's going to be colder, which means... fire! Yes! I just have to make a fire, and then I can rest a bit and try and find the others." And if I'm lucky then maybe they'll see the smoke and get to me first. Matiya did not consider that his friends weren't the only ones who could find him...

The rat was back faster than he had anticipated. In his paws he held a tome. He sat on the bed, taking up almost twice the space the ferret was, and threw it open at the first page. It was an old portrait of a ferret, a dagger in her paw and a grin on her face.

"Is that me?"

The rat burst out laughing. "Don't you know what's between your legs? No, haha, this is your mother."

The ferret cocked his head to the side. Mother... her name was Con... Con... Con something, and she had been a big rat... if he remembered right.

"It's not surprising you don't know her." He said, suddenly solemn. "She was taken... many years ago."

"Oh..." He was surprised by how little this hurt him. Surely he should have had some kind of lingering affection for her somewhere. All children did love their mothers, after all. Was he even a child, or just small? "How old am I?"

"You should be...about ten seasons, give or take?"

Huh, so he was a child...

"This is Mad-Eye Marik. Your father and my best mate." He didn't recognize the quite figure that stared back at him from the old tomb. He looked a lot more like the first ferret, than this muscled, silent, brute.

"Right." If this was his father's best mate that meant he was safe.

"But, where are my manners? I am Captain Trammun Clogg! Captain of the Black Death and your dearest matey!"

The ferret blinked. He had heard that name before. Good, something he was familiar with!

"Would you like to see where we are?"

The ferret nodded. Maybe he'd even find something that could remind him of himself. Or maybe the headache would just go away.

"Right then get up you landlubber, and I will show you." The rat said with a cheery laugh and a smack on the back that probably hurt more than intended.

Whimper did as he was told and followed the rat out the door and into the darkening sky, ignoring the fact that the name 'Whimper' still felt so strange to him...

The moment Connington had been dreading since they had found the mole came, and the mouse's heart steeled itself. He would know, at last, what had happened. They had not found any trace of Fret...which he decided was a good thing. The sight of his nephew's corpse would have broken him harder than a battle-axe.

The weasels they had tied, not because they were any threat, but rather because it seemed safer than letting them run around on a deck full of sharp weapons.

It had taken a lot of soup, and a warm fire to get Rosebrush back to some form of health. And now, as they made camp for the night, One Eye, the Log-a-Log and Jon Connington sat before her, ready to hear what she had to say.

"Oit wazz Frettie." She said after a long silence.

"No." Connington snapped. Nonononononononono! It was not Fret! It was not Fret! Fret was... he wasn't evil. Yes he was rude and snappy and selfish and...None of that made him evil!

"Oit wazz! Oi dunno whoi 'e don it but 'e did." She whined.

"Did what?" One-Eye pressed for answers. Connington didn't know how much more he could listen to.

"'E sold us to slayvers. At the Gurt Big Feeost, oi and the odders went to bring 'im back. And then we got captured coz Matiya didn't wont t'layve without 'im. And then we was travellering downroiver and they tied oz to a mast and dey were moin...and then dere was a foight and we wazz going to escape, and den Matiya didn't wont to layve widout Frettie and then...Then I dunno know wot 'appened. We were going t'go home but, b-b-but-"

She could go no further and burst into tears. Log-a-Log got up to comfort her. Connington, too, rose but he went the other direction.

It hurt. That was the only way to describe what it felt. Like somebeast cruel had decided he had nothing better to do but crush his insides. Fret, the silent little babe he had first found in Constance's arms. Fret, the dibbun that had caused no end of mischief back at the abbey. That had been natural...all dibbuns went through that stage... Fret, who had never expressed joy except when he had no choice but to. Fret who had snapped as a way of greeting. Fret... The ferret's face swam in his mind. He wondered what his nephew felt like now... Was he satisfied with his revenge? The children at Redwall had blamed him for practically everything. He had always denied it, even when he had been caught buried under the honeycakes... He had always said the others hated him...that they blamed him for everything because they didn't like him... Sometimes Connington put it down to him not wanting to disappoint Constance... but other times he was inclined to agree that his nephew was the scapegoat. The Skipper had almost run him through, and that had definitely not been Fret's fault!

But which was this? Fret wouldn't have sold his peers. He wasn't a vermin, and anyhow it wasn't like he knew any vermin to sell to. He had left the abbey walls once. He was too young to know how the world worked...

"Connington." One-Eye had followed him.

"It wasn't Fret's fault." The mouse repeated stubbornly, and believed the words entirely.

The hare raised his arms defensively. "Never said it was mate. But..."

"You're suggesting my nephew was behind all that bloodshed?" Connington snapped. Really he was surprised he and Fret didn't get along so well.

"No, I'm saying that well... the mole couldn't have been wrong about everything."

"There was a fight." The mouse allowed.

"This is serious. There are more lives at stake than just your nephews'."

"I know that!"

"And if she is telling the truth?"

Connington shook his head vehemently. "She is saying what she thinks is the truth. Fret is no vermin! And I know that!"

"And if he is?" The hare insisted.

Connington had no reply to that, the mouse turned away, breathing heavily. "He isn't. He just... isn't."

"But if he tries to stop us-"

"He is coming home. I will drag him back if I have to!" He ended the conversation there, and walked off. If what Rosebrush had said was true...he may very well have to.

[close]

In Which I Name A Ship Shipped By A Rat The Black Plague

Whimper was sure he had never been on a boat like this before. Smaller ones perhaps, the dinghys, maybe even a raft or two, perhaps a smaller version of this, but the Black Plague was just... so much grander than anything. But that was ridiculous! He lived here! And according to Clogg, had done so for his entire life. The galley was so wide it stretched to both sides of the river, and it was a miracle that it didn't scrape against the earth underneath. It was made of rope and staircases, and cabin after cabin after cabin. There was a dark well in the center of the lowest deck that he had tried to peer through and had called down to hear his voice echo downwards, but Clogg had hastily pulled him away from it.

Everybeast was a stranger to him, but they all greeted him like their captain, with salutes, low, sweeping bows with many-a-flourish. He tried to hear and hold all their names, but that was practically impossible. He could recognize Scringewhiskers, for his bright yellow cloak and flourishing bows. He could smell Fleaback from a mile away, and the rat was easily recognizable up front as well, for noone else had that many gold teeth. The only one who refused to bow or salute or even acknowledge his existence beyond looking down at him, was Darkhide, who sent shivers up his spine whenever their eyes met. But Clogg had explained that she did that to everybody. Yet strangely still, their names were as foreign to his tongue as his own. They didn't feel like he knew them. But he supposed that was just his headache.

"Remember anything?" Clogg pressed after he had met yet another important captain of the Black Plague.

Whimper shook his head. "No."

"Hmm... maybe my cabin will jog your memory. I mean mate, you were practically raised there." And so the rat led the way and Whimper followed.

This place was familiar. Lit by a sole candle and smelling faintly of paper, with many-a-book piled onto a small desk that had been shoved into a corner. "Well?"

Tentatively he went for the nearest book and opened it. Inside was a picture of a red palace-like-structure, with high walls made of red bricks. It looked familiar. In the next page there was a map of the inside, and that too was familiar. He flipped the book closed and read the title. "The Cursed Abbey." He had heard of this tale before... distantly. Cursed Abbey... yes, yes he had heard that before. He turned to Clogg, who for a moment was staring at him with keen interest, as if seeing him for the first time. "I think I remember this." He pointed at the book.

"Then that's our solution." The rat scuttled behind him, pulled out a large chair from the shadows and shoved it in front of the desk. He dumped the ferret into it's soft folds, and then handed him the book. "Read up, and you should be back to normal in no time. Reading was always your favorite thing to do."

"It was?" That sounded strange. He didn't think he was a reader.

"It still is. Now I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you, but I need to go now. You know, Captain-ing is a pretty difficult job. Enjoy your reading. I will be back soon." And then with a gentle ruffle between his ears, the rat took his leave.

Whimper shrugged and opened the book. Perhaps it would help.

"It's getting dark." Hawthorn complained. "How much longer till the river bends?" They had been walking all day and had found no trace of anyone, nor a single bend. It was getting darker and colder, and the vole wished now more than ever that she was back in Redwall, with it's warm fires and comfortable beds. How was she meant to sleep on snow and silt?

"It shouldn't be much further." Sharpfur assured. It shouldn't be much further until I can make a break for it. He was beginning to understand why Fret had not wanted to return to the abbey. If everyone was like this vole Sharpfur would have jumped off the royal red walls seasons ago! She couldn't go a single minute without whining or complaining! Hellgates and people called him a brat.

Grollo trudged along behind them, his head hanging down in misery. It felt almost strange to see him without Matiya or Momchillo-the three had been practically inseparable. Well, soon we shall all be back together again and then we can forget all this ever happened. Then the hedgepig spoke, and made Sharpfur jump.

"There isn't a bend in the river is there?"

The weasel composed himself. "Y-yes there is! It's not much further I swear."

"You've been swearing all day. Either you have no idea where we're going or you're taking us-"

"Back to your abbey-" Sharpfur snapped nervously.

"No! This isn't the way back! I'd have remembered seeing stuff like this if we were heading the way back. And there was no bend in the river anyhow. The boat never turned much."

Now the weasel was glaring at him. I will not be caught lying by the likes of you hedgepig! "Okay then, you lead the way! You find my family! Go on you clever old woodlander, you definitely know this place better than me. The villainous vermin! I'm no doubt leading you into a grand ditch!" Ha! That should fool ya!

The hedgehog glared back, but could not be sure whether he was being sincere or not. He turned to Hawthorn. "I say we go back. We'll find something, anything. You know the grown-ups are looking for us. You know it's only a matter of time-"

"And won't it be a shorter amount of time if we walk towards them?"

"Shut it weasel!"

Hawthorn bit her lip. They had been walking all day, and truth be told she was hungry. What she would give for a loaf of bread... On the one hand Grollo was convinced that the weasel was cheating them, and while likely, Sharpfur did want to find his family so he was probably leading them in the right direction. But what was the right direction? She had never been this far away from Redwall before, or at least not alone. Which way was the right direction? Grollo was right, their parents would be looking for them. Brother Connington had scouted Mossflower for Fret-surely their own parents would do no less. Which meant it was only a matter of time... But how long would they last in the ice and snow with no food to eat? "I think we should stay here." She said finally. "We should make a fire." She added. "We'd freeze without one. And food. We need to find food."

Sharpfur almost jumped for joy. Boy were woodlanders dumb! He'd just wake up early one morning and then they'd be no more problem. He restrained himself from rubbing his hands in glee. It would not do to arouse suspicion. Or rather, more suspicion than they already had for him.

"Right, so let's head into the woods and find some wood and make a fire... and if we're lucky we'll find something to eat, and then we can just sit tight and wait for rescue."

It took Sharpfur all the self-restraint in his possession to not burst out laughing at the absurdity of her plan. You poor naive little princess.

"So. Let's go then." She said, pulling up her sleeves and marching into the woods looking far more determined than she felt.

Grollo eyed the weasel. "I just want you to know. Pull something past us, and you'll wish we never dragged you out of that river."

"Don't worry." Sharpfur said with a wicked grin. "I'm an honest fellow."

And so together the three vanished into the darkness of the woods, the falling snow and rain covering their tracks behind them.

Connington did not sleep. He sat down against a tree, his eyes wide and unmoving. Rosebrush, Roseheart-whatever her name was- was being escorted home by a small group of the younger Guosim (who had been too scared to go further but dare not admit it) and a hare who was sent to explain the situation-in as soft a way as possible.

There was just one thing that made no sense to him. One missing part. Constance had fainted and lost herself before Fret had vanished. So it was not due to his nephew's disappearance but something else. Perhaps it was linked, perhaps not. Perhaps he had never really known his nephew. But from all he had seen Fret had loved her. He had run to her after school, had clung to her side until he was big enough to walk on his own, and had always come home and ranted at her for hours about the unfairness of everything. She was his mother. It was as simple as that. But why had Constance fallen? What had made her stop?

He was taken away from his thoughts when a scout, dripping wet and panting, exploded from the water. A look of fright and fiendish glee present in his eyes.

"I found something!" He exclaimed to noone in particular. Several people muttered that they were sleeping, One-Eye was getting up groggily. But Jon was wide awake and clinging onto every word. "A boat! Huge! Biggest-pant-thing-pant-you'll ever-pant-see!" The shrew took a humongous breath of air. "It's got to be what we're looking for! Only boat out for miles and miles! And it's a slave ship."

One-Eye was now wide awake. "Does it have a name?"

"Black-pant-Plague." Then the shrew collapsed and began snoring loudly.

Log-a-Log stepped up and began shouting orders and commands. The rafts were being fitted, and suddenly it was as if morning had come already. Connington stood in the middle of it all and clutched, unconsciously, at the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew so long ago.

Soon everything would be back to normal... hopefully.

[close]

Sharpfur Is The Best! Part! Of! BAW!

Matiya hit the rocks against each other as hard as he could, and watched in dismay as the hard-earned sparks withered and floated away. Growling in frustration the squirrel gave it another try, but the result was the same. The wood, cold and damp, refused to take light. He had been trying for hours now and yet the result was always the same. A flash of colour and nothing more. Clack! Clack! Clack! The sparks fluttered and floated and died again.

Oh well... I have time...

Despite not wanting to arouse suspicion, Sharpfur could not resist mocking his temporary companions. "Rescue, rescue. Oh won't you come rescue me?"

"Can you just be quiet!" Grollo snapped. "You're driving me insane!"

"Oh no!" The young weasel gasped sarcastically. "You need to be rescued from insanity as well! My my, what a pit you have fallen into young hedgepig-"

"Shut it! I didn't fall into anything!"

"Tis a very deep pit indeed."

"I'm going to slap you." He said, raising his arms in a threatening posture.

Sharpfur crossed his paws over his chest. "You shouldn't warn people you're going to hit them." He said matter-of-factedly. "Then they see it coming a seaso-"

Grollo's paw smacked the weasel hard across the cheek, knocking him off balance, and sending him tumbling into the snow. He was up a moment later, looking considerably less amused.

"Alright if that's the way you want to play!" He scooped up a ball of snow and raised it to fling at his opponent, only for one from Hawthorn to hit him in the face. Shaking the snow off him he glared at them both. "You think this is funny!? I could be freezing to death right now!"

They had been holding back their laughter up until then, but after witnessing his reaction they both burst out laughing. Sharpfur was slightly tempted to make a break for it then and there, but it was cold and dark and there was a sort of safety in numbers.

"This isn't funny!" He snapped. They continued laughing, and hot with anger and shame Sharpfur marched off, only to trip on a snow-bank. Hawthorn laughed ever-harder, but Grollo stopped abruptly. He was vividly reminded of Fret and the disastrous trip with the otters... well it hadn't really been disastrous, only the first part.

"Wait are you serious?" He asked, only for the weasel to turn back around. One snowball caught Hawthorn in the face, the other hit Grollo, and then Sharpfur was the only one laughing. Until two more snowballs hit him. Wiping the snow off his face, Sharpfur frowned deeply.

"Oh now it is on. DIE WOODLANDERS!" And then the snow was flying.

Grey flung a stone into the river, trying to make it bounce, but his efforts went in vain, and the small rock sunk like a boulder. Sharpfur had always said he was horrible at this, and the weasel himself had been an expert. Eight, seven, six bounces with a flick of the wrist, and all Grey Claw could do was nail Threeclaw on the chin. Then again Sharpie had always been better than him... at everything. He had done all the talking, fighting, and thinking. But that was normal. Their mother had always explained that some were born followers and others were leaders, it was just his luck he was born a follower, he doubted Sharpfur would get along well with another leader. He hated getting bossed around. He hated a lot of things. Water mostly. That had been their greatest difference. For him the water was like a second home. For Sharpfur it was like Hellgates personified. Grey Claw sighed deeply and tossed another stone into the water. It would not do to dwell on the dead. Sharpfur had moved on... and for once Grey could not follow.

"You know what, maybe I should do the talking." Tibbers whispered. "You're a bit...rash."

Jack frowned. "I am not! i am merely using normal code of conduct between our creatures. That rat held us captive for I don't know how long and you expected me to go easy on him? No sah! And in my defence, wot. I did not expect him to take it so harshly. I mean... they don't really care about each other do they? Well, not like you or I."

"That's true. But we're stuck with him, and I hate looking at anybeast that sad."

The hare nodded wisely. "We just need to get him to stop thinking about his mate." He assumed the famous 'thinker pose'. "Now... how shall we do it?"

After what seemed like eternity Matiya's stones truck true, and the sparks set the wood alight. It was slow going at first, but after much nervous blowing and poking, he had managed to get the flames crackling. It reminded him of Redwall. Of home, of safety. And of the glorious foods and drinks. What he would give for a Feast... or to go back to the last feast. He would have done so much differently. He would have stopped Fret from falling, preferably. Or wouldn't have gone and lead all his peers into a trap. He'd have left it to the responsible ones. He shook his head clear of those thoughts. The past was pointless to look back to. He couldn't change it. Right now all he could do was get some sleep. And hope that tomorrow would be a better day. He glanced nervously at the barely-breathing vermin he shared his camp with and sighed. Warriors never had it easy did they?

"Okay, okay! I yield!" Sharpfur collapsed on his front, panting between fits of laughter. Their game had brought them far away from the river, to snow-covered forests new to them all. But for once none of them could think about going home . Hawthorn sat down, taking in long gulps of breath. By now they were covered in showers of snow, and had exhausted themselves completely. But it did not matter. They were happy for a few moments longer, until they had caught their breath.

Hawthorn shivered suddenly. "Is it just me or did this whole place get a lot colder?"

Sharpfur sat up. "Yeah. It's cold." He shivered violently and grinned. "That was fun wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Said Grollo, not paying attention to the question. He huddled closer to Hawthorn.

"You two are a lot better at this than Grey Cl-" He stopped suddenly. They were not better than Grey Claw! They were woodlanders! Abbeybeasts! They hated verminkind and he hated them right back! Why had he even played with them?

"I'm hungry." Grollo whimpered. The wind was picking up, and blowing icy air through the trees.

"Yeah... me too." Sharpfur subconciously crept closer to the two, intent on joining in their huddle for warmth. When he realized what he was doing he stopped suddenly and almost hit himself. They were the enemy. They always would be. He had to remember that.

"We can't stay here." Hawthorn said suddenly. "We should find shelter. A fire would be good."

Sharpfur was backing away slowly. Now was his chance. If he bolted now they would loose him.

"I can't make a fire." Grollo said in a voice as hollow as his stomach.

"Neither can I... Weas- Sharpfu-"

Suddenly the weasel caught the scent of smoke and soup in the air. "Fire!" He cried in joy, and without thinking, he tore towards it. Then Hawthorn smelled it too, and followed just as quickly, with Grollo bringing up the rear.

They came to a clearing of snow, with a cauldron bubbling over a pile of crackling logs. Two small sacks and a blanket made up the camp. It was empty, save for some prints that seemed freshly made and vanished into the woods.

"Um... hello?" Hawthorn called out tenatively. The fire was new. And if they were lucky it was somebeast on their way to Redwall. Home. They were so close to home.

Sharpfur was not thinking about home, or whom the camp belonged to. He went for one of the bags, tore it open and pulled free a loaf of bread that was still warm. With manners that would have made Fret look like an Abbot the weasel proceeded to devour the loaf, unheeding Hawthorn's protests.

"What's wrong with you? That could belong to someone!" Hawthorn gasped in shock. "You shouldn't just eat it!"

"Nobeasts here!" Sharpfur complained after swallowing a huge chunk of the bread. He then continued with a full mouth, but Hawthorn could not make out the words.

After he had finished Grollo shrugged and took a loaf from the weasel, who had now moved on to the second bag.

"Grollo! What if they're hungry? I think we scared them."

"Well he's right. I mean if they're goodbeasts they'd give it to us anyways, and if it's vermin we'd better eat quick." The hedgehog then shrugged and peered into the soup. He went a sickly shade of green, and dropped the loaf. He tried to splutter words, but could only manage to back further and further away from the cauldron.

"What is it?" Hawthorn asked.

"I-i-i-i-i-" He turned and retched into the snow. Sharpfur was paying no mind and moved on to Grollo's dropped loaf. Hawthorn felt a fear like none other clutch at her, and was frozen in place. Something was moving! Something tall and dark and menacing. Somehow, she knew it wasn't a goodbeast.

The weasel finished the last loaf, swallowed heavily, and stood up, patting his very-filled stomach. "What are you all jabbering about?" He asked, turning on the spot to find two tall vermin, decorated in black ash with white markings, staring down at him. "Oh." Instinctively he backed off, giving off small, strained gulps of nervous laughter. The figures approached. One held a saber, the other a knife Sharpfur knew was used for skinning. He peaked into the soup and saw a small, white skull, that could not possibly belong to a fish. Then he noted the blanket was made out of the same black fur the two advancing on him possessed.

Grollo steadied himself and got to his feet. Hawthorn was frozen in place, her eyes wide with terror. Sharpfur was backing away fearfully. He bent over, and picked up as much snow as he could. He rolled it into a ball. Then everything happened at once.

Grollo yelled 'run' and threw the ball of snow as hard as he could. It caught the one with the skinning knife on the head. Hawthorn turned and bolted through the forest, and Grollo tried to do the same. Whether they would have made it or not was impossible to tell, especially since Sharpfur threw himself at the feet of the one holding a saber and pleaded for mercy. This served to trip the savage before he could pursue his prey. Unfortunately, the skinner was faster than either Hawthorn or Grollo, and caught the vole by the tail, before pulling her in for a mighty backhand blow. Grollo froze, unwilling to abandon the last of his friends from the abbey, and was smacked hard on the nose for his troubles. He fell onto his back, and felt the blood gushing out. Then the cannibal brought his foot down onto his stomach and sent the air flying out of him. And then all hope of escape was lost.

"Hello chappie! You're looking quite upset!" Jack called out with the joy and energy only a hare could muster. He and Tibbers had devised an ingenious plan by which to cheer up their companion. It involved tickling, the river, a giant slab of cheese they had replaced with a pawful of snow, and snow.

"You don't need to try and cheer me up." The rat said sullenly, interrupting the ingenious plan before it had even started.. Grey Claw hopped off the rock. "I have some dockweed, if your shrew wants it."

Tibbers peaked round from his hiding place. He had known that wouldn't work! "Look, rat... we got off on the wrong footpaw-"

"Stop trying to talk to me." He said with no emotion. "I'm fine." He was not. "Now do you want the dockweed or not?" His voice cracked in the last sentence and Tibbers decided it was best to change the subject.

"Yes. I'll take it." The rat looked slightly relieved that the subject had been dropped, and walked forwards with renewed vigor.

Jack frowned and marched off to mutter to himself. "The Long Patrol manual never said anything about how to deal with depress-ed rats! No sah! I'm going to have to complain to the Junior Corporal about this!"

[close]

In Which I Use My Twelfth Cliche! And Summon The Ghost Of Martin The Warrior- But He Sure As Hellgates Doesn't Do Much Guiding Stuff

Hawthorn paced around the small, dismal cell. The cannibals had brought them to a village of cannibals and placed them in one of the many empty huts dotted around. Two of the savages were guarding their hut, spears in paw. They were dressed in rugs of fur and had a small, smokeless fire crackling like laughter in front of them. All Hawthorn had was Sharpfur who was whining and whimpering in one corner, and Grollo who was out cold and lying on his front. But she still had her brain and hope-and that had been enough for many-a-hero. She just needed to think.

Sharpfur whimpered.

She just needed to think...

Sharpfur whimpered loudly.

She just needed... to think.

Sharfur whimpered even more loudly.

"I can't think!" She exclaimed, advancing on the weasel. "Stop whining and do something productive!"

"Like what? You can go mad with your pacing, thanks. I'd rather wallow in my misery." He snapped, and for a moment she was reminded of Fret. Were all vermin alike?

"I'm not going mad!" She exclaimed indignantly, pushing thoughts of Fret away. "I'm just thinking of a way to get us out of here!"

Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Sharpfur laughed. "Escape? You? You've been held captive half a dozen times in the same fortnight! Good luck escaping this mouse!"

"I'm a vole." She said coldly. "And I don't need your luck."

"Humph. Sure ye don't princess. Just keep waitin' fer rescue and maybe all your woodlander friends will make it out in one peace. And all the meanies will run into a ditch and die. Life doesn't work that way sweetheart!" He said matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it doesn't. But it would be easier to think of a way out if I wasn't the only one doing it."

"I am thinking of a way out!" The weasel corrected scrambling to his feet so that Hawthorn had to look up at him rather than down at him. "And it involves the three Ws. Whimpering, whining and-"

"Wetting yourself? Because, that's what you've been doing for the last couple of hours."

"Why you little-" He took a step forwards and advanced with outstretched claws.

"Little what? At least I'm not smaller than the rest of my kind."

That was the final straw. Sharpfur pounced, Hawthorn dodged and the weasel landed on Grollo's back.

"YEEEEEEEOW!"

The hedgehog woke with a start, while Sharpfur tugged himself free of the spines, rubbing at the multitude of cuts all over his body. "You evil mouse-thing-y-you spoilt brat-" He was shaking all over and had tears in his eyes, but Hawthorn felt no pity.

"Shut up weasel! You got violent first!"

"Violent?! I'll give you violent woodlander!" The threat would have been scarier perhaps, if he wasn't sobbing while he said it.

Hawthorn released a long cry of frustration. "Just be quiet."

Sharpfur slunk back to his corner, whimpering quietly. "I just want to go home."

Hawthorn tried very hard to act like she hadn't heard that. The stupid weasel, who had taken them away from home to begin with, who had denied them freedom...now wanted to go home. The vole was tempted to strangle him.

"We wouldn't have been in this mess if you had run while we had the chance." Grollo pointed out grumpily. "Instead you went and begged for your life."

Sharpfur continued whimpering. "I was scared! Happy? I didn't want to die."

"Cowards die a thousand times-"

"Shut up! Stupid hedgepig! I should have slit your throats while ye slept!" Again the threat would have been substantially more threatening if Sharpfur didn't sound as pathetic as he did.

Hawthorn interrupted before Grollo could even open his mouth. "Can you pick a lock?"

Sharpfur whined. "What's it to you-oh..."

Whimper sat up to a sudden swaying of the boat. The book was plastered firmly to his face. He placed his claws on either side of the great tome and gave a hard shove. In the task of freeing himself his head bounced and hit the wall. Blinking the dizziness away he stared forwards.

The candle was flickering weakly, but what really drew his eyes was the large, burly mouse, standing with arms crossed over his chest. Perhaps the scariest thing about him was the otherworldly paleness and ghostly glow. It was a miracle he did not vex himself. A fear like nothing he had ever felt crept through him and bound him in place more surely than any mortal chain. The flickering candle went out, and the only light left was the ghost's. He stood there, his eyes peering into the ferret's soul, his arms crossed as if in disappointment. Moments that felt like millennia came and went.

At last, Whimper sucked up enough courage to open his mouth, and then the ghost vanished as suddenly as it came and the candle flickered back to life.

Whimper blinked in confusion, then managed a sigh of relief, while he let his body untense and relax. He shook his head. He was just drowsy. A ghost couldn't walk up to him and do whatever it wanted, that wasn't the way ghosts worked. Right? Though the mouse had looked familiar... Perhaps it was just that all mice looked the same. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked again. Nothing. No ghost. He repeated this until he was quite certain there was no ghost. He was safe. And hungry... He wondered what the time was.

There was a barrel of apples on the deck below. He doubted anyone would mind if he went for a small bite-anyhow it wasn't like anybeast would see him. Deciding to pursue this course of action he set the book down onto the table, picked up the candle and went for an apple.

He passed the silent cabins, one after another. As he turned left he heard the sound of laughter from another cabin and overwhelmed by curiousity slunk over to hear what was being said.

"My lord. Please allow me humble self to kiss thy feetpaws until I have washed them free of dirt and dust." It was the flourishing ferret speaking to a small audience. There was the gold-toothed rat Whimper could not remember the name of and Darkhide. Both were laughing uproariously. "Oh and if yer bottom is just a tad filthy I will lick it till it shines."

Whimper wrinkled his nose in disgust and slunk off again. That 'joke' was truly unworthy to be called one.

Turning back to his goal, the young ferret stopped suddenly as the mouse ghost appeared before him once more. The same fear clutched hard at him and held him in place like an overly large paw. He wanted to scream, to call for help or better yet, plead for mercy, but his throat was blocked and his muzzle shut. The candle died in his paws. Once again the moments passed, and once again the spirit vanished. But the fear did not. Whimper stood there, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. He shook himself severely, all he needed was an apple, maybe two. Yes, two sounded better than one. And Clogg wouldn't mind. Or wouldn't notice.

Determined once more, he set off. As he walked through the maze of cabins, he came to a halt outside of one. Clogg was there, lovingly caressing a portrait. For a moment he was tempted to barge in and tell him all about the ghost-but Whimper was no weakling and anyhow it was just him being drowsy. Ghosts couldn't get to him. He continued on the way to the apple barrel. It would be morning soon, he realized with a shiver. But that was a good thing, spirits of the undead hated sunlight and the day. He scrambled down a ladder. The barrel of apples had never looked more appealing. Until, the mouse shot out from behind it, sword in paw.

Sharpfur stood, just barely reaching the lock. His claws wriggled to and fro within, and sweat trickled from his brow. The inside of the hut was as quiet as a funeral, but the tension within was unmatched in all of Mossflower history. Each one was secretly, silently praying that this might work. Hawthorn and Grollo out of a desire to return to the safety of their abbey, and Sharpfur out of a strong desire to not end up boiled in a soup. The guards outside had fallen asleep, though their fire still mocked them with a noise like laughter. It would soon be morning, but if Sharpfur was correct they'd have a good head start on the cannibals. In truth the weasel was planning on using this as his way out. The woodlanders would go one way, he would go another, and if the hedgepig and mouse got caught again it really wasn't his problem.

Then the lock gave a loud click. And in the silent night it was especially loud. They heard grumblings in some distant language, and the ound of crunching snow coming closer.

The three could only share a look of horror as the door was pushed open, and in walked the savage with the saber. He blinked groggily, not expecting them to be awake or crowded round the door. Then all three seized their one chance of escape. Sharpfur pounced on the slack arm loosely holding the saber, Grollo turned round and shoved his spines right in the vermin's face and Hawthorn had the common sense to go for his muzzle. She held it closed tightly, so that his screams were muffled, while the other two fought him tooth, claw and quill.

Sharpfur managed to prize the saber free from the cannibal's grip, and reared back, before swinging at the savage's leg. With a great muffled cry of anguish the creature keeled over, shoving Grollo's spines deeper into his front. Then with no mercy, the weasel pulled the saber free and brought it down, again and again, with each blow the beasts struggles grew weaker and weaker, and his cries more and more desperate. Blood splattered across the saber, and Sharpfur's face, and Grollo's and Hawthorn's. Then at long last the cannibal stopped struggling.

Grollo pulled himself free of the corpse, Hawthorn let go of the muzzle, and Sharpfur for good measure brought the saber down one more time.

All three were wide-eyed and breathing deeply. And all three refused to find each other's eyes. A strange kind of guilt washed over Hawthorn. For a moment she wanted to undo what had been done-to wipe away the ghastly scene. She wanted to put the blood back inside him, to hide the white of the bones.

Grollo felt sick-and if he had had anything to eat he'd have been sick on the spot. Sharpfur was shaking severely. This was his second kill... and it seemed there was even more blood here than in the first one.

Wordlessly the trio backed away from the murder. It had been self-defense... but that did not make any of them feel any better. And in their states of shock and horror, all three forgot about the second guard beast, who glowered at them with enough hatred to melt a pan of butter.

Connington knocked his nephew to the ground, raised the sword, then dropped it with a clatter. Relief, joy, hope and horror at what he had almost done all washed through him, and in a sudden rush of emotion he hugged his nephew as tight as he could.

Whimper was stunned by the sudden change of heart. Wasn't he going to run him through a moment earlier?

"Fret. Oh my Fret. I am so glad you're alright-you are alright, right? It doesn't matter, when we get back to the Abbey we can patch you all up. Now I don't know what happened, but it doesn't matter. Constance will be so glad to see you-I'm glad to see you. Now come on, let's get out of-"

Faster than someone his size should have been allowed to move, Clogg hopped down from a higher deck and landed behind the mouse. With great force he forced a spear into his back. There was a clang, and Connington stumbled forwards. Whimper pulled free from the mouse and backed away. What on earth was going on?

"Sorry mouse. But he isn't going anywhere. And neither are you." The rat growled. His face softened. "Whimper, matey are ye all ri-"

Connington whirled around, sword in paw, the metal blade sliced a long line down Clogg's cheek. "Sorry. But he's coming home. You on the other paw..." Before he could finish his sentence the rat's tail flew at him, and it was only out of instinct that Connington evaded the blow. The two dived for one another, the spear tip crashed into Connington's mail, but failed to cut through. Clogg wore no armour and as a result got a long cut along his chest. Hissing in pain the rat let the spear drop and dodged the next slash, before pouncing forwards, his claws sunk into the paw and Connington's sword clattered to the floor of the deck. A swift punch sent the mouse sprawling.

Whimper watched the duel with a pounding heart. What was going on? Why had the mouse acted like he'd known him? Whimper knew no mice! And what had he called him? Fr-Fre? Why? And the hug... It had felt so real but-how could it have been?

Connington rolled out of the way of the rat's first kick, but got the wind knocked out of him by the second one. No doubt he'd have huge bruises when this was all done. The mouse spat, and caught the rat in the eye, before he could recover, Connington had knocked him off balance by rolling into his foot. The mouse got up, kicked up the sword and lifted it to end the rat. He brought the blade down with extreme force, but Clogg managed to catch it with the shaft of his spear.

"Whimper!" The rat yelled in desperation.

Whimper was frozen in fear and shock. What was he supposed to do?

Connington looked at Fret's confused, frozen features, and realized with mounting dread that something was wrong. "Fret. It's going to be allright."

Clogg had gotten his feet up and shoved them into the mouse's chest, knocking him off balance. He followed up with a swing that sent spit, blood and a tooth flying out the abbeydweller's snout. "Whimper. Hold still and don't ye move." Clogg ordered, bringing his foot down on the mouse's sword arm.

With a strength Connington rarely felt, the mouse brought his other paw into the rat's leg. Clogg stumbled, and Connington struck again, freeing himself completely. Fret still looked so utterly lost. "Remember me? I'm your Nuncle!" He was forced to avoid the captain's next attack.

"He's lyin' Whimper! Don't listen to him!"

"No Fret! He's lying! Don't listen to him!" Connington paused briefly to contemplate on how ridiculous he sounded-before slamming his head into the rat's gut, and bringing a clenched fist into his chin. The mouse fumbled for something under his mail-but dropped it when Clogg's tail whipped him hard on the leg. The mouse took a step backwards and with extreme force, brought his footpaw down on the rat's tail, before kicking with all the hatred he could muster.

"Whimper!" Clogg pleaded pathetically.

"Fret." Connington corrected icily, landing another kick to the rodent's prominent gut. The mouse picked up his sword and raised it-

The ferret did not think-he acted. He knew Clogg-but not the mouse. His name was not Fret. And he was home. Pouncing forwards he gave his attacker a mighty shove. There was a yell of surprise, followed by a look of shock, then a great splash, and then the night was silent once more.

Clogg got up, panting. One woodlander meant others. "All paws on deck!" He bellowed.

Whimper stood there, stunned and stared down at his paws in horror. What had he done? He was shaking, and the spirit was glaring at him. The young ferret backed away in fear from the ghostly apparition, and tripped over what the real mouse had tried to show him. A round metal bob with a string attached. Whimper picked it up and hid it under his cloak. The mouse vanished with a final, disappointed shake of his head. But Whimper stood there, scared and cold, while Clogg yelled indistinctly.

[close]

I Really Ought To Add Scene Cuts

Momchillo could not help but fall into depression. The chains were cold and hard, the boat rocked uncomfortably under him, and all his friends were gone. They had escaped-he had no doubts about that-and most likely they would get back to Redwall soon and nobeast knew where he was, or where he was going.

When Abbot Martin had been teaching them about Martin (the Warrior's) arrival in Mossflower, he had thought he was like Gonff, clever, resourceful and a tad bit witty... instead he was one of the unnamed helpless woodlanders in need of rescue. Rescue was inevitable-but when would it come? Would he be old and grey and hunch-backed? Would he never see the halls of Redwall ever again? It was painful. Thoughts like that cut into him like knives through ribbon.

Everything he had known and loved...gone. No more summer days, or blissful spring. No more roaring feasts or silent snows. Only chains and darkness and the cursed cold. No more mother to come home to after a day of children's mischief. No more friends to laugh with and share the food. Only other slaves to be whipped alongside. Pain where once was joy... Matiya, Grollo, Hawthorn and Roseheart, even Jack and Tibbers who he had just met. Oh and Fret. Never again would he hear their guffaws, their grumbles or their growling bellies. No more smiles, snaps or snide remarks. Only sweat, slaps and so much work.

At least he was still poetic...

He sighed longingly, and tried to make himself comfortable. If he could sleep well then mayhaps the nightmare would end...

Just as he was about to drift off there came a loud click. Deathglare rubbed at tired, aching, and freed wrists. The pine marten rose and clicked his neck. Then he stooped over and jammed his claw into the lock of his shackles. After a swift bout of wriggling, that too gave away with a click, and the pine marten could move over to his collar. Momchillo watched as he rose, now free from the chains. The others seemed to be asleep.

"Can you unlock mine as well?" Momchillo asked cautiously. He hadn't really expected a reply, and none came. But to his surprise, the marten came over, and wordlessly slid his claw in the shackles. When the chains fell off him, the mouse gave his 'saviour' and at-one-point-captor' more attention. Though the light was bad he could quite clearly make out a long gash along the vermin's face. One of Deathglare's eyelids were shut-and Momchillo thought it was because there was no eye there.

The pine marten slumped down next to him, and an awkward silence descended. What was one meant to say to another who had held them captive, only to free them when it suited them? "Well... thank you sir."

The marten let out a chuckle. "I'm no 'sir'. Now shut yer trap an' go to sleep." Words did not come easily to him-it seemed. Or maybe a wound Momchillo had not noticed prevented him from talking much.

One-Eye disliked how far he had to spread out his party to clear the whole ship. Behind him lay the corpse of a rat, who had had the misfortune to be in need of a privy just as the hare was checking out this lower deck. The cry of alarm somebeast had raised did not bother him. Let the vermin come-he had his own son to look out for, and wouldn't give in to a few foebeasts. But after searching cabin after cabin, and looking every nook and cranny he did not find hide or hair of anybeast he knew. No mouse, vole, squirrel, hedgehog, shrew, and even the ferrets were few and far between (and none of them had resembled the youth he had promised to help find. Why the Redwallers had let in another vermin was beyond him. It was not the first time this had happened.

There had been the rat Vitch, who had helped Slagar the Cruel capture the abbeybeast's children. There had been two stoats, whose names evaded him, who had been welcomed in only to kill some poor old mouse-or at least he thought it was a mouse. There had been the infamous Veil Sixclaw, who had been raised inside the walls of red bricks-and who (aside from his dying act) had been as rotten to the core as a moldy egg. Why would another one be any different?

With the discipline, and professionalism of a Long Patrol Hare, he pushed those doubts away

Still a promise was a promise, and he had vowed to reunite as many youngsters with their families as he could. But right now that vow seemed unlikely to be fulfilled. For children was what this ship sorely lacked. Dawn was not far off and time was short... he could check a few more decks...

If the cannibal had been a tad bit wiser, perhaps he wouldn't have rushed forwards with a cry of rage, that alerted the frightened children of his presence. His aim was deadly, and it was only due to Hawthorn's small stature that the vole was not slain on the spot. Forgetting any weapons he might have on him the savage grabbed Sharpfur by the scruff of the neck and tossed the young weasel as if he weighed nothing more than a rag-doll. Grollo spun on his heel and was clobbered on the head.

The hedgehog fell to the snow and could feel the warm trickling of blood slide down from his cheek. He had no time to consider the wound further, as the savage had pounced on him, and dug it's paws into his throat, where it squeezed with all the strength of an adder. Distantly, he could hear Sharpfur wailing in agony, but the hedgepig could do no more than struggle weakly, and try and push his attacker off. His vision was getting thinner, and every moment it was harder and harder to breathe. Then blood that was not his own splattered across his face and the savage fell on top of him.

He stunk of musk and rusted metal and rotten eggs, and it was only with difficulty that Hawthorn managed to push him off her friend. Grollo sat up, dabbing at his bloody cheek, and sucked in the air. Hawthorn was shaking, and was as white as the snow around them. At her feet lay the bloody saber. Sharpfur was whimpering.

With a sudden rush of energy and strength he did not know he had, the hedgehog seized Hawthorn by the paw. "Let's get out of here!" He implored. "Before the others wake up."

The vole nodded, and they set off through the forest, she stopped suddenly, and so did he.

"What is it?" He asked gently, but with a note of desperate urgency.

"Sharpfur. We can't just l-leave him." She whispered.

Grollo almost growled, and raced back quickly. He really didn't care about the weasel, but there were enough deaths on his paws for one night. He stopped next to the weasel's form just as lights were beginning to be lit in the main village.

Sharpfur whimpered, and Grollo saw now why he had been screaming. His back was singed and burnt, and bloody, where fire had melted through fur and flesh. As the cook's son he had seen many-a-burn, but this was far more serious than the small spots one got when they weren't careful with the cauldron. Lifting him swiftly, but gently, he slung the weasel over his shoulder, and set off once again. Hawthorn waited for him to level with her before they made good their escape.

Sharpfur meanwhile, was in a world of pain, and knew not where they were going, or even that he was going anywhere. All he felt was his back. And even that, he would rather not!

Somewhere to the east, the sun was rising. It was morning.

Clogg laughed in jubiliation. "Well done! Well done! I knew ye wouldn't just leave me hangin' there!"

"Of course not." The lie came easily. He hadn't meant to act... he just had. But that was good surely? But why then did he feel so horrible.

"Yer first kill. Congratulations me bucko!" The rat clasped him hard on the back. Whimper tried to smile, but the mouse's last look of bewilderment still shook him to the core. Why had he been surprised?

"Anything ye want? It's yers matey!" Clogg laughed good-naturedly, but their was something in his eye Whimper misliked.

"Anything?" The ferret asked distractedly.

"How 'bout an apple? It's what ye came here for weren't it?"

"How did you know that?" The surprising deduction had caught him by surprise and pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Whimper, Whimper, Whimper, I have been feeding ye apples since ye were no bigger than a bucket. I know what you want." Clogg handed him an apple. Bright red and hard. "Your mother loved apples too." Clogg said, sounding far-away, as if he were daydreaming.

"She did?"

"Mmmhmm. Take as many as ye like." The rat beamed at him, and though the smile did not look like it was often on the captain's lips, his eyes crinkled with genuine love-but then again so had the mouse's...

"Keep readin' Whimper. We can talk easier when ye remember things." The Captain left, merry despite his fresh wounds.

Was it guilt? Was it just surprise? Mayhaps all beasts felt like this after their first kill-but why had the mouse looked so surprised- and why had he gone and hugged him and dropped the sword and everything?

Whimper tossed the apple core into the sea. But while the doubts persisted, he couldn't help but consider the benefits. Whatever he wanted? Whenever he wanted? He watched the apple core get carried away by the raging current. Maybe he had made the right choice...

Matiya yawned weakly as the first golden rays of sunshine washed over him like a warm bath. The squirrel stretched in the snow and shivered slightly. He rolled over, intent on a few more minutes of blissful sleep. It had been a wonderful dream. They had come back to Redwall, and everyone had been happy to see them. Then a feast was made, and because he had been such a brave squirrel, willing to do whatever it took to bring all of the dibbuns home, he had been made Abbey Warrior. He had held the shining sword, it's starlight blade gleaming like the comet it had been made from. He had been so happy, and everyone had been happy. Jack was making a joke, and juggling a turnip, which landed in a large bowl of soup, and Tibbers and Fret had been drenched and then-

Matiya lurched away from the thought. Dreams of Redwall did not crush his spirit; no it enlivened him! But memories took that spirit and crushed it between their cruel paws. He shook his head and got to his feet.

It was a good thing he had, for Threeclaw, wide-eyed as if in panic, was getting to his own, looking both desperate and deadly at once. Those eyes that had begged for help only the day before, now glinted with a cruelty Matiya had never known, yet there also lay a note of panic, as clear as the snow around them. Neither moved, then quick as a striking snake, Threeclaw pounced.

"I checked the lowest deck, sah, no sign of anybeast. Vittles and the like."

"Aye, the upper deck had a bunch of sleeping hordebeasts, but no littluns, sah." This particular hare paused before adding that 'there were no lil' hordebeasts either, sah'.

One Eye paced round, the Log-a-Log following in his footsteps. They had let themselves drift behind, both to let their men rest and to think of what to do next while safely out of sight and reach of the vermin. Something was amiss, he could feel it in his bones. And it was only when the Log-a-Log had done a swift headcount that he realized what it was.

"Where is Jon Connington?" He called out. There was a babble among the shrews and hares, who turned and twisted in search of the mouse, but found no trace of him among their number.

The old hare captain felt his years creeping up on him. How many would they loose before they got what they came for? Then he let out a growl. "Follow that ship." Even if there were no young'uns within, Connington's disappearance and the mere size of it set off every nerve in his body. Something was amiss and he was going to find out what.

"But sah... we already checked it and there was no trace of-"

"Our quest is to find the children, wot. If they are not there, and not on the first boat then they must be scattered in Mossflower. Somewhere. But, at the same time one of our number has gone unaccounted for." He paused for a while. "I will stow away on the ship." He said finally. "Log-a-Log, scour this country. Look under every nook and cranny if you must. This boat though, if it can even be called that... well... it's not here to make us merry."

The group were solemn for a long while. So the old hare, one-eyed and deadly, threw off his long coat, clicked his neck and fastened his axe tighter around his belt. Then he went for a quick salute, which the other hares returned. Then he hopped off the boat, squeezed his nose shut between two fingers, and landed in the icy water. He rose again, turned back and pointed. "If I don't come back anybeast can keep me medals, but if I do and there's a single speck of dust on any one of them... why I'll make you wish you had knickers to twist!"

The shrews laughed heartily, but the hares did not, for they knew that that was an order-and it was a mighty big risk to disobey one's Captain.

When the other vermin had awoken Deathglare freed them as well. The pine marten then huddled in a corner with the two weasels, and began talking in low voices. It sounded like he was trying to comfort them, but here and now was the occasional, harsh hissing of an unkindly phrase.

Momchillo payed them no mind. Eavesdropping was rude, and anyhow he didn't care He tried to curl up and rest, but before he could, he could see dimly the old vermin healer making her way towards him. She sat down at his side. Bent and stooped by age she was no bigger than he was.

"Ye got any wounds?" She asked with ruthlessness he had never faced from the Abbey's nurse.

He shook his head. She harrumphed in... approval?

"I like it when you youngsters don't respond in words. More polite, see."

He nodded.

She sighed deeply. "Ever been on a slaveship before?"

He shook his head.

"I have. Though never as a slave, mind you. No, no. When I was a young'un, older than you, mind, oh I was a real killer."

Momchillo tried to imagine this old, old granny, with as many wrinkles as there were stars in the sky, being a 'real killer.' It took a lot of imagining.

"And I was a beauty too." She added with a chuckle.

This he found, even more unlikely.

"Aye, I was a cruel ol' seadog. Anybeast that got in my way soon knew what it felt like to have a dagger in their whiskers. But I was fair too, never whipped a slave more than they deserved."

Momchillo frowned but did not say a word. She noticed anyways.

"Humph, we can't all be as righteous as you abbeybeasts." She said mockingly. "Ye've got the fields and the forests, and the fruit and the grain. When I was growin' up all I had was snow and sleet as far as me eyes could see. There was plague, and famine. Our kind breed. Ye know what breeding is?"

He nodded. He was old enough to know.

"Well, we ain't all like those weasels over there who get their babes one by one. No, no. In the north there were litter after litter. And if we couldn't look after ourselves, then we'd die. Ye can't farm in the Northlands. Too cold, see. All yer crops would die. If ye can even get yer paws on seeds. And then one day yer hungry and starvin' and somebeast comes and says he's got food aplenty on his boat. He just needs yer help to plunder some fat ol' mouse with so much food he throws it around like it's dung. What would ye say?"

"I would... no, if I were hungry, and I knew the mouse... I'd ask him for food." At Redwall anybeast could come and ask for food and shelter. At anytime. And it would be given.

"Hehehe, maybe fer you. But I'm a varmint, boy. We can't walk up to yer castles and ask for food. Noone trusts us see."

"It's a bit hard to trust someone who kidnaps children." Momchillo said flatly. "And we raised Fret." He added, then felt a familiar anger rising within him.

"I didn't say it was without reason. Ye see, it's all fine an' good if we could just say we've had enough-but it's never enough. Vittles don't last forever, and then yer crew will get bigger, and ye'll need more food. We got no lack of hungry vermin. Where do you think all them hordes that raid yer abbey come from?"

"Well..."

"Exactly, my boy. The North, Islands far off somewhere. Sometimes we got no choice, and then when you're in... you're in. So don't you judge me now!" She snapped. Then she shrugged. "Ye woodlanders think we're rotten to the core... not far off really. But I'd say we're just lookin' out fer ourselves. But enough about me. My voice ain't what it used to be. Now tell me, what's yer abbey like?"

"Well... it's big and red, and... there's a pond. There's always fruit and food, and well..." Redwall hurt to think of, especially when he had been so close to coming back...

"Hmm, idealic. How comes you woodlanders let in a ferret?"

"Oh... Fret... well he, was... I don't know we grew up together."

"So he was a babe when he came in?"

Momchillo shrugged. "Well, yeah, we were all babes-"

"Who looked after him?"

"Constance, she used to beat up anyone that said anything bad about him." He remembered that she had almost beaten Abbot Martin once.

"Cute." The old vermin said flatly. She lost interest in Fret's history and moved on to another subject. "Is the abbey truly haunted?"

"Haunted? Oh you mean Martin the Warrior?" She flinched from his name. "Well, I've never seen him. But everybeast always used to say his spirit guides them."

"Humph." That was from Deathglare, who sat at his other side. "Load of bullocks. I heard that that mouse went and killed every varmint that set foot in the abbey. But youbeasts managed to raise one."

"Fret's not vermin though." Momchillo did not know why he was defending Fret-the very ferret that had tried to put a knife in him... "Well... he's not like you."

Deathglare shrugged. "Nobeasts' like me."

"But Martin the Warrior saved Redwall before. Many times."

"Sure he di-"

"Shut it Death before I poke out yer other eye! Now, child, tell us one of your Martin stories. And Silvertongue can make it into a song, see, you'd like that wouldn't you, ye undersized bag of fur." Silvertongue did not seem to notice the insult. "It's a long way from here to the Northlands, and seems to me we might as well do something with that time."

"How do you know we're going north?" Momchillo asked incredulously. The Northlands... they were so far away from Mossflower. he felt a familiar sinking feeling... he'd never get back home.

"Me old bones never lie. Now go on mouse, tell us a story. Make sure there's lots of blood and guts and death and gore-can't sleep without it, see."

Momchillo blinked. "Er... right." He cleared his throat. He had to be strong... there was hope... he would be rescued. He just needed to stay cheerful. He chose his favorite story, one Abbot Martin had read to them in class. "Once upon a time, in a winter just like this many seasons ago, Martin came to Mossflower-"

[close]

 In Which Matiya And Threeclaw Have Their First Duel

The squirrel reared backwards, and kicked Threeclaw over him, so that the stoat missed his pounce and went rolling into a snowbank. Matiya got up quickly and grabbed one of the branches from the fire, he turned and parried a blow from a fat stick Threeclaw had somehow gotten his paws on.

The stoat's eyes were alight with cold laughter.

"I saved your life!" Matiya cried indigantly, as he ducked a swing and jabbed forwards. Threeclaw dodged effortlessly and brought the stick down onto his knuckles. The squirrel yelped in pain and for good measure was kicked in the stomach, so that he fell over once more. He had eleven older brothers, however, and being the youngest he was no slacker in the art of combat, especially now that Threeclaw did not have a real sword. He fell over, sucked in his belly to avoid a stick-thrust into the ground, turned and threw a snowball at his attacker. Threeclaw dodged, and in so doing allowed Matiya to kick the stick out of his paw. The squirrel caught the stoat's foot as it came down to wind him, and with teeth that could crack nuts open better than a hammer, the squirrel bit into it.

Threeclaw yelled in pain, and Matiya pulled and made him fall. Then the squirrel got up and pounced forwards.

Abbot Martin hadn't felt this old since... he couldn't even remember. "First sign of old age." He muttered to himself. "Loss of memory." Then again he had never been exactly this age before, had he? He sighed and yawned and stretched. He had several hours free now, that he did not truly know what to do with. Normally he would have been scolding somebeast, confiscating something, educating. Yet, as if by common consent, his entire class had been captured by vermin. Everybeast had worry written in them, so that even his failing sight could see. Some hid it well, with optimism, and laughter that nobeast had heard before, others did not try to hide it and could not be asked to do anything. Abbot Martin thought it was a blessing that the cook was one of the former. At least the food was still good...

He pushed up his glasses, which had been threatening to slide off his muzzle, and rose shakily to his feetpaws. They had had no news from anybeast about what was going on beyond the abbey, and rumours were flying everywhere. Information was scant, and what news they did have was unclear. Fret had vanished on the night of the feast, everybeast else had vanished the next day. Then the Long Patrol had found a vermin camp which had managed to escape with the children, and vowed to pursue them. That was it. That was the last word they had had.

He had studied all the histories, and in truth was more Recorder than Abbot, and the histories were full of such tedious puzzles. First there had been the feast. So the children had been captured the day afterwards, but that left Fret unaccounted for. And Constance had collapsed at the feast. Perhaps she had seen Fret leaving, or perhaps he had been taken, and somebeast had wounded her while she fought back. And then the other children... how had they even gotten out of the Abbey? And how did they end up in the paws of pirates? Somehow it was all connected, but for the life of him he could not put it together. Fret didn't know anybeast beyond Redwall. He had left the abbey on one trip, and had, to the old mouse's surprise, returned back to the abbey all safe and sound.

Fret had always been difficult, more so than the rest of his peers. Matiya was overactive. Grollo was easily distracted, and sometimes Rosebrush's moletalk was so strong he had difficulty understanding her. But they all obeyed, and listened and payed attention. The only one who could cow the young ferret into submission was the badgermum, and Constance, but the latter never seemed to want to.

In truth, he had always reminded him of Veil Sixclaw, a ferret who had many, many, many seasons ago been raised in the abbey, only for him to turn poisoner and get banished. Bryrony, whom the old abbot always imagined looked like Constance, had then followed her 'sweet' little child. He had tried to kill her several times over, but she persisted that he was 'good'. Then at last, Veil met with his father, the feared warlord Swartt Sixclaw, who tried to slay the mousemaid only for the boy to take the blow and die from it.

"Extravagant." He muttered. But the extravagance of it had a purpose. He had always seen it as a warning as to the nature of vermin. They could not be trusted, not even one who had known nothing but the goodness of the world. And after the disaster that Fret's first and only outing had caused, he had been sure the ferret had had enough and was on his way out and onto a life of his own.

"But he came back." Just as grumpy, and disinterested as ever... but he had come back. Connington had been right then, and he was a good lad. After that Martin had tried. He had truly, truly tried to keep him involved. He had controlled his temper as best he could, and gave encouragement when it seemed needed. Would that be enough to warrant a second return?

Threeclaw lifted his feet and kicked at the pouncing squirrel, winding him and throwing him forwards into a tree. The snow was shaken off and fell on top of Matiya, who stood quickly and shook it off him as fast as he could. A moment later he got a stick to the stomach, and his nose was brought down to the stoat's rising knee. It hurt a lot and sent waves of pain all over him, then the stoat tossed him backwards into the snow.

He arrived at the Hospital Wing. Blind Agatha was struggling to stay awake next to the bed Constance lay on.

"Tired?" He asked, not unkindly.

"Try exhausted. Bella says somebeast has to watch over her." She indicated the large mouse sleeping peacefully on the soft bed.

"I can take over if you want some rest. I haven't got anything better to do."

The squirrel shook her head. "Can't sleep. I'm too worried about my Mati."

"I'm sure he's alright." The words were empty, since Abbot Martin could not give anything to prove the truth of them.

"You and everybeast else. An' how can he be alright? He's probably curled up in some dark little cell with the others. Don't even imagine anybeast gives him something to eat. Their kind ain't generous..."

"I'm sure he's alright." Abbot Martin repeated, this time more firmly.

Matiya crashed through the snowbank, but had scarcely a moment before he had to move out of the way of Threeclaw's next swing. He lifted his own stick in time to block another swing and was surprised it didn't break on the spot. It shook in his paw, and made his whole body shake, but he had no time to contemplate further. Threeclaw was attacking again.

I'm doing alright. He thought. I mean... I'm not dead yet, am I?

Then the stoat stopped pressing the attack, and leaned casually against a tree. He placed a paw to his throat and croaked. "Not bad."

"I saved your life." Matiya reminded him.

The stoat shrugged. "Your mistake."

The squirrel felt his courage fleeing. This stoat was cold-hearted and cruel, and would kill him without a second thought. Fighting him was not a good idea.

But fighting him was his only course of action. They fought, their sticks cracking and clacking, the snow under them flying like sprays of ocean waves.

Threeclaw's breathing was growing raspier, but each of his blows came down stronger each time, and Matiya's stick was cracked in two and he was forced to scamper away. Threeclaw placed a paw against a tree. His breathing was thicker than ever, in the end he slid down the tree, and Matiya saw the reason he had won, there was blood seeping from the stoat's throat. And the same pleading stare from his eyes.

"You'll kill me." Threeclaw shook his head from side to side, and Matiya could see he was close to tears. He found that still he could not let this creature die... despite what had just happened.

"This time... I'm tying you up."

Constance's eyes blinked open. And she sat up suddenly.

"Constance?" Asked the abbot. He placed a paw on her shoulder. It was quivering faintly. "Are you feeling well dear?"

"Well?" She turned to him, then to Blind Agatha. Then before either could react she threw her arms around both and drew them into a hug. "I feel fantastic! Today is amazing! Truly, the best day to wake up to!"

Abbot Martin tried in vain to pull free from her grip, and as she stood up she dragged him along, though Blind Agatha managed to slip free and was now catching her breath. Constance, with energy that would make a dibbun envious, raced over to the window and threw it wide open. Abbot Martin hastily grabbed his glasses before they were unceremoniously shattered at the foot of the tower.

"Why! The sun is up and there is not even a cloud in the sky! This is truly... truly a great day!" She sighed lovingly, then giggled and grabbed the helpless Abbot by the paws, before turning round and round across the room, practically lifting the smaller mouse off the floor. "My baby's alive! My baby's alive! My baby's alive!" At long last she let go of the abbot, who promptly collapsed onto the bed she had been occupying moments before. His head spun still, and he waited for the world to reset around him. Presently, Constance had gotten her paws onto a flower, and was breathing deeply into it's bright yellow petals.

"What do you mean your baby's alive?" Blind Agatha asked with narrowed eyes.

"Indeed. Fret was never dead." Added Martin, clutching his old head between his paws while he sat up.

"No, not Fret, silly! My baby! Skip was his name!" She giggled again, and for a moment Abbot Martin was worried she was about to dance again.

"Skip?" Fret had always been her baby, even when he had grown far too old to be called a baby.

"Speaking of which, where is Fret?"

Abbot Martin felt a knife go through him where his heart had been a moment earlier. He gulped audibly, and glanced at all that was left of Blind Agatha. A cloud of dust...

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"I don't know where, I don't know why, I don't even know exactly when." He was sweating. He had seen the result of Constance's love of her son, and he doubted he could survive such a beating at his age.

Constance looked sad for a moment. "Connington's gone after him then?"

"Er...yes. And we have some of the Long Patrol. And the Log-a-log has been very kind. I'm sure he's alr-" He caught himself mid-sentence.

Constance gazed down at her feet. Then she looked back up at him, and though her grin was smaller, it was still a grin. "He'll come back. I know he'll come back. He promised me he'd come back."

If Fret had the choice to come back again... well he'd already made that choice, hadn't he?

"Fret will come back. Now Abbot, tell me where is my son-not Fret. Skip. He was here at the feast." Then without warning she grabbed him by the paws and began dancing round and round again.

Oh dearie me...

"He was here! He was here! He was here!"

Round and round they went, and the old mouse's mind raced everywhere at once. Constance's son? At the feast? Fret had been Constance's son for as long as anyone could remember...

"My son's alive! Hahahahahaha!" The laugh radiated life and joy and love, it had all her heart inside it.

"I'm getting too old for this." Mumbled the abbot as he cradled his head again.

"You want to be a warrior?" Threeclaw managed to croak out. The stoat was awake then, and was now bound thickly by a large pile of snow. Matiya wished he could have used rope of some kind, but unfortunately he had none. His eyes were laughing but this time there was no cruelty.

"What's it to you?" Matiya asked angrily. The ingratitude hurt him more than anything. He had saved the stoat's life and almost died for it. And now he had saved him again...

"You had a wooden sword." Threeclaw remembered vaguely, then he leered. "You do want to be a warrior."

"Yes. I do. As a matter of fact." He had been rethinking this career option a lot lately. Surely a warrior should be made of stronger stuff...

"You have a good heart... it'll get you killed one day..."

He couldn't quite tell why there was a note of concern in the vermin's voice. Still his fur bristled in anger. "By you?"

"...Not...today..." He chuckled and the two descended into silence.

"You're not bad."

For some reason Matiya flushed with pride and stood a little straighter.

"For a squirrel." He added.

"Explains how I beat you."

"You did not beat me amigo."

Matiya smirked. "Sure. That explains why you're neck deep in snow and I'm not."

His smirk vanished when the stoat rose and the pile of snow fell around him. The same smirk appeared on the vermin's face. "You want to go back to your abbey, eh? I will take you there. But when I arrive I expect to be treated like a guest."

"We'll tie you to a mast and hang you off the top of the walls." Matiya said in mock seriousness.

"And when I leave I will do so with a big bag of vittles, and my rapier. Do you know the way back?"

Matiya shook his head.

"Good. Then you need me." Threeclaw sat back down, and leaned in contentment.

Matiya frowned.

"Oh and if you want I can teach you."

The squirrel tried not to be swayed by the obvious temptation. But how could he? In his mind's eye Threeclaw was fighting and winning and laughing. His sword flashed while he did an overly fancy lunge that somehow disarmed all his opponent's. Then the image changed and it was himself in the stoat's position. Laughing and winning and fighting.

"That doesn't sound too bad." Matiya said evenly, suppressing the urge to hop to his feet and twirl a stick about and begin at that very moment. Then he looked up and found Threeclaw was fast asleep.

"Is your shoulder better?" Grey asked solemnly as they continued to walk aimlessly down the river.

"Yes. Yes it is." The pain was numbed and his arm hung limply at his side, the rat had warned him that it would do that. "Thank you, Grey Claw."

The rat beamed despite himself. "You're welcome."

Jack-is-lucky then came out of nowhere, holding out a giant slab of snow that he had spent the past few hours molding into the perfect shape, so that it now resembled a giant slab of cheese.

"Hello!" He beamed. "How are we doing chaps? Not too bally bad, eh?"

"Is that snow?" Grey asked, pointing at what the hare was holding.

"It's a present! For our most er-trusted companion, our beloved healer, Master Greyclaw of the Dishonest Bunch! May you never go hungry and enjoy this piece of snow, which I gift to you now in the place of cheese!" Greyclaw beamed widely and held out his arms to accept the badly-shaped piece of cheese, which the hare gifted to him. He would see Sharpfur again, when they went to Hellgates together. Maybe I can even say I'm older than him, coz he died younger... "Now! Let us continue on our way! We will find our friends before Spring comes! That is my solemn promise to you-"

"We don't need a speech." Tibbers interrupted. "I think we should just head deeper into the woods, Redwall isn't next to a river."

"But I like the river." Greyclaw said quietly, cradling the piece of 'cheese'.

"Aye, but Redwall's where we're going." Jack-is-lucky said matter-of-factedly.

"Redwall's haunted." Grey said quietly, pulling in the 'cheese' for safety and comfort.

Tibber's took one of the rat's paws in his own, and Jack did the same. "No ghost will hurt you so long as you're with us."

"I'm happy for you Grey..." That's what Sharpfur would have said if he could see him now. And he could, couldn't he? He would be watching him. The weasel had promised to never leave him, death wouldn't stop him from keeping that promise.

Almost skipping the three travelled into the woods, holding hands it appeared that they were merely dibbuns going to school, and from a distance Grey and Jack and Tibbers ceased to be shrew and rat and hare, and were merely three friends going for a stroll.

End of Book I

[close]

Book II: From There To Here And Here To There

A few weeks of travelling later...

The news hit Constance like a sledgehammer. Roseheart spoke staring at her feet, and the hall was silent and solemn. At first it had been ringing with joy, for the Foremole had been ever so happy to see his daughter safely returned, and the crowd had cheered at the wonderful sight. Then, after she had been restored to her full health the time had come for news, and Rosebrush told it all how she thought it to be. She did not look at anybeast, and when she finally got to the part where they had gotten onto the boat she stopped and broke down and was taken away.

Fret had ran away... And then Matiya had convinced the other children to go looking for him. Then they had been captured and held prisoner. Fret had wanted to kill Momchillo... then somebeast had been attacking the ship and they had managed to escape, and they had almost escaped as well, but Matiya had not wanted to leave Fret behind. The tale had ended there. Constance felt her insides clench, and felt eyes staring at her. Abbot Martin looked worried and his mouth hung open, for though he wanted to speak and give reassurance no words could leave his mouth.

"I'm sure they're alright." He said at last. Very quietly.

"How can they be?!" Blind Agatha roared, making everybeast near her jump in fright. "Alright? Alright? Nobeast knows where they are! They're not here and they're not safe!"

"Well..."

"Poor young mole, I can hardly imagine what she went through... and so young too-"

"She will be fine-" The old mouse's reassurance was cut short.

"She will be! But what about the rest, eh? Are we just meant to forget they exist?!"

"The Long Patrol are doing their best-"

"And what if they're dead?"

Silence filled the hall, and Momchillo's mother began sobbing.

"They're not dead." Constance declared boldly, challenging any to say that they were.

She did not expect to hear what came next, and was entirely unprepared for the insult. "Says the beast who raised a ferret. Because eventually the vermin will just decide to be good, eh? You were so sure Fret was a goodbeast, that he cared about you, how sure are you now?"

"I'm certain!" She bellowed angrily and tried to find the owner of the voice. Pounding them would rid her mind of worries...

"Truly? He was rotten to the core since the very beginning and you know it! He lied like a magpie and it was only a matter of time till he went and did something villainous. But he has, hasn't he? He tried to kill somebeast. Is that your angel? Is that your baby? Eh Constance?"

Constance had no reply for that either.

"Fret was never a goodbeast, you just convinced yourself that he was. He doesn't care about you. Never did. Never will. You're not his mother and he knows it. He was never your son anyways... just a replacement."

"Shut up! Shut up!" She bellowed, clutching her head tightly.

Abbot Martin raised his eyebrows. She had been the only one speaking... "Constance are you alright?"

She laughed madly, and once again it filled the Abbot's mind with fear. Though this time he was not scared of being tossed and turned around in a mad happy-dance. He was scared that she was broken. This time irreparably. "Alright? Alright? Fret's gone and become vermin! You were all right! Happy now! You were ALL RIGHT! He was never good! Never could be g-o-oo-d!" She cried into her paws.

Many present felt a kind of guilt rising inside them. They had been right... apparently... but there was no joy in it. Perhaps they blamed him for what had befallen their young... but those views could not be brought to Constance.

Abbot Martin remembered the ferret that had stuck to the corner of his class and snored through his lessons... Briefly he remembered Jon Connington's argument. "He's not... Veil Sixclaw."

Silence descended once again, the only sound was the sob of broken hearts.

"I'm bored." Said Whimper.

Presently he and Clogg were in the cabin with all the books. The ghost had not haunted him any further, and he was glad of that. Though what did haunt him was the cursed mice he'd pushed overboard. Why had he looked so surprised? He was tempted to ask the Captain, but for some reason he was doubting the rat's honesty. There were too many things that didn't match and his memory had still not returned to him.

"Only the boring are bored." Clogg said lightly. He was staring intently at a paper stuck to the tabletop.

"Watcha looking at?" The young ferret asked, leaning over the rat's shoulder. It was a map, which he recognized as being one of the Cursed Abbey.

"Nothing much. Just plans, for when we get to the Northlands."

"Why are we going to the Northlands?"

"Because an old matey of mine's invited me over. Longclaw. King of the Frozen North! Ha! The day I call him 'your highness' is the day I die!"

"That's not meant to be there." The ferret pointed suddenly at a house of sorts lying next to the walls of red stone.

"Huh? Oh that old hut, whaddya mean that's not meant to be there?"

Whimper pointed at the gate. "That's the gatehouse, which is just next to the gate, it's not a random hut. Here, gimme the quill." Without waiting, the ferret took the quill, dipped it in the ink and drew the shape of the gatehouse.

"How do you know that?" Clogg asked, his eyes doing that odd thing that the young vermin disliked.

"Well... I-er..." How had he known? "I suppose I read it."

"Excellent!"

Then Whimper once again got disinterested and changed the subject. "So when are we going to get to the Northlands?"

"Soon." The rat promised. "Hopefully today. But if not then on the morrow."

"Good. I'm sick of this boat."

"Why don't ye read something, eh? Ye always liked readin'."

"Not anymore I guess." He decided he could trust Clogg and found the words to describe what he felt like.

Whimper opened his mouth to talk further, and found an apple shoved into it.

"I have got things to do Whimper, I will see you later on." And saying so, Clogg walked out the cabin, leaving Whimper to grumble. Yes, yes. The captain had things to do. He always had things to do. Slumping in his chair he gazed absentmindedly at the books. He wasn't bothered with reading, and wasn't hungry enough to ask for vittles, so he occupied himself with flicking the odd thing the mouse had dropped. It was a toy of some kind. The rope made it go down, but if his paw was dexterous enough it would spin back round again. Up and down and up and down and up and down. It was almost hypnotic.

That was what he liked about it. He placed all his mind on the toy, and found that ghosts and dead mice haunted him no further. Well... until the spinning stopped.

Once Constance and Rosebrush had been taken away by the cook and Bella respectively, the hare and shrews found that they had the courage to discuss another matter.

"Rightey... um there's another thing we did find. Well... things... well... babes." The shrew provided the four young weasels, tied up by thin rope. Cheesienibbles, the only male and the youngest, looked positively frightened, but the three girls were glaring and snarling at everybeast in a show of anger and rage. They wanted freedom.

They were young and did not truly know what was going on. Their had been a fight, yes, but where were there parents? And where was Sharpfur? And where was Grey Claw? And all their other brothers and sisters?

"We found them and uh... it would be cruel to leave them for the fates... but er.. seeing as they couldn't be brought along and..."

"You expect us to raise vermin pups after one of them has gone and stolen our children? A vermin-pup we raised mind you!"

"I didn't bally say so!" But the hare's ears flattened and he did not know what to say.

"We can keep them in an empty cellar for now." Said the old abbot rubbing his poor, poor forehead. "Bring them food and drink and all that...and..." Dear Martin what are we going to do?

Sharpfur sat up groggily, being careful to not move his back too much for it pained him greatly. He was surprised to see that he was lying on a bed. An actual, real bed. He pinched his nose to test whether he was dreaming. He wasn't. So they had escaped the cannibals then? Was this the famous Redwall? Or rather, infamous... He heard laughter, and gingerly got to his feetpaws. They seemed to be working fine. His claws itched for the dirk that was not on his belt and grumbling he made his way to the door. He stopped when he heard an unfamiliar voice speaking loudly.

"And so ends the tale of Veil Sixclaw, who died the way he lived."

Sixclaw... there had been a story about an idiot ferret warlord with six claws, who had, out of sheer ludicracy, picked a quarrel with a badger only to die for it. What a silly beast. Sharpfur pushed the door open and walked in to the laughter.

Hawthorn looked radiant, and for once calling her a princess would lead to nought but a blush. Grollo looked happier and better-fed than Sharpfur had ever known him to be. And the last figure, who had been telling her the story, turned around and beamed at him. She was a hedgepig-inwardly he cursed his luck- appron-wearing and plump. In fact Grollo could have easily been passed off as her son. The laughter stopped from Hawthorn and Grollo, who stiffened at his arrival. Their relationship was made even more awkward now that nobeast could forget the snowball fight.

"Ah you're awake dear! So good to see you on your feet! And so swiftly too! Your friends have told me a lot about you!"

"They have?" Friends?

"Hush now, don't get all worked up. Please sit down and I'll see what grub I can find for you." She disappeared into another room, and the prospect of food made Sharpfur take her vacated seat. It was uncomfortably warm, but that was not his concern.

"So... we escaped those cannibals, eh?" Sharpfur asked.

Hawthorn shuddered. "Please don't talk about that."

The prospect of tormenting somebeast filled Sharpfur with familiar pleasure. "Why ever not, princess?" He said with a sneer. "Twas a good battle! Did ye see when I went and took the saber and started wha-" His own discomfort stopped him from continuing, and he was disappointed at the missed opportunity. "So how did we get here? And who's fatty over ther- Owch!"

"She is the nicest beast you'll ever know!" Snapped Hawthorn, who had kicked him. "She rescued us. We almost drowned escaping those vermin, and now she's going to feed you! And when you're better we can go to Redwall Abbey! At least show some simple respect!"

"I'll respect that dress she gave you, mouse. First thing you need to know about me is that I only care about and respect me! Meself! Sharp! Fur! Ye got that?"

Hawthorn frowned. "What about your family?"

Sharpfur shrugged. "Most of 'em are dead now. No doubts about that."

The casual way he spoke about the death of his family stunned both woodlanders.

"Are you vermin all so heartless?" Hawthorn gasped in shock.

"It ain't being heartless. It's being realistic. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if none of your abbey-pals made it out alive."

"Well you better hope they did." Growled Grollo. "Otherwise you'll be taking the full force of a lot of angry parents!"

"That's saying if I get to Redwall. Make no mistake I'm not stepping foot in that abbey."

"Ha! I knew it! You were leading us the wrong way!"

"Ye knew and followed anyways ye great fat slob."

Grollo tried to kick him under the table, missed, and hit the wooden leg with his foot. While the hedgehog rubbed at the fresh bruise Sharpfur cackled.

"Ye've got so much pudge round yer eyes ye can't even kick straight! Hahahahaha-awch!" Hawthorn had kicked him, and he stood up, the charred furs on his back bristling in anger.

"I'm going to kill ye both one day. Bit by bi- YOUUUUWIE!" Grollo had leaned over and smacked him hard on the burnt back, just as the hogmaid came back in with a wonderful array of food.

"Whatever is the matter?" She asked, her eyes wide and round. Sharpfur was in too much pain to reply, so Grollo provided the answer for him.

"It's his back marm. It pains him greatly."

"Oh my! I forgot! I'm so sorry dear, here let me help you." Gingerly she helped Sharpfur to his feetpaws, the weasel's teeth were clamped shut against each other to prevent him from yelling in pain. "Oh my... mymymymymy... I know just what to do to sort this out!"

"What?" Sharpfur seethed through gritted teeth. One day hedgepig... one day...

"A bath!" She cried aloud.

"Bath?" The pain made the word unfamiliar. Then he remembered with terror that bathing was to submerge oneself into water. "Bath!? Nonononono! My back is fine!"

"I think not! A good, nice, long, hot bath is just what you need!" She sniffed tentatively. "And perhaps some soap would not be amiss. Come along now!" And with that she tugged him gently by the ear and pulled him away, out another door.

As soon as she was out of earshot Grollo and Hawthorn shared a high-paw and began laughing.

"Serves him right! Leading us the wrong way and all! We would have been back home if it weren't for him." Grollo said, plucking a scone from the nearby tray the hogmaid had brought for Sharpfur.

Hawthorn was silent. "Grollo?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think the others... Did they get back yet or?"

The hedgehog swallowed his mouthful. "Positive."

Hawthorn nodded.

"I think Matiya managed to jump off the ship. I think he's home. And Jack and Tibbers and Momchillo just ended up on the riverbank, like us, only they didn't have him to lead them the wrong way." Grollo then proceeded to devour the scone.

"So we'll be the last ones back, eh? Imagine Abbot Martin, he'd be so angry we missed his classes!"

At this the two burst out laughing again.

"Up! Down! Up! Up! Up! Up! Down! Yes! Good! Down! Down! Up! Left!" Two sticks whacked against each other repeatedly, until at last at 'left' Threeclaw caught Matiya a blow to the squirrel's right paw, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the stick as he shook life back into it.

"You said left!" Matiya said grumpily.

"I meant my left." Threeclaw leered as he went back to lounging against a tree. "And anyways, why are you listening to what your foebeast's saying, eh? You should always do the opposite of what your enemy wants you to do."

"So when you say 'Up' I should block 'Down'?"

"I ain't yer enemy, amigo!" At the look on the squirrel's face Threeclaw burst out laughing.

The journey back to Redwall was slow going, mainly because they were lost. Trees all looked the same in the thick snow, so Threeclaw had decided that they should make a camp and wait there up until Spring thawed it away. Of course they changed camp every night, but they did not do much travelling. They ate little, and munched on snow more often than not. But what Matiya did enjoy about his companion was what he could teach him. Threeclaw had proven several times over that he was a force to be reckoned with, and slowly he was imparting this knowledge onto the young squirrel.

Their was a sudden, unfamiliar shout coming from somewhere not too far away and both froze.

"You don't think it could be?" Rescue... Please, oh please be rescue!

Threeclaw shook his head. "Do you know the voice?"

Matiya said that he didn't and the stoat rose quietly. "Stay here. I'm going to see what's happening."

"I'll come too!" Said Matiya, going once again for his stick.

"No!" The stoat hissed, then he took a deep breath. "If it's woodlanders they'll take us to Redwall. Remember our bargain. But if it's vermin they'll skin ye alive."

"I can fight the- What was that for!" Matiya yelled as he rubbed a hurt ear.

"Rule one of staying alive. Do not look for a fight. I'll be right back. Stay here and be quiet. If you hear me cry 'Fire!' Run and hide someplace, and do not go looking for me!"

Matiya nodded vigorously and hoped that he would not hear the dreaded word.

The stoat vanished into the snow, and soon his white coat made him invisible.

"And then he looked me right in the eye and said that he loved me." The whole underdeck was silent as Sick-Eyes was finishing what was a truly sad, albeit exaggerated tale. "Then I looked him back and said 'I know ye do. Wait fer me in Hellgates.' Then I shoved me knife into his throat so he died quick-like and painlessly."

Deathglare leaned over and whispered into Momchillo's ear. "She's making it up. Changes every time, I swear." His voice was always quiet, and the mouse barely heard the whisper, but somehow it carried loud enough for Sick-Eyes to hear and glare at her cousin.

"No it don't! I just use different words ye great dafty!"

Deathglare shrugged and fell back into silence.

Momchillo had long ago asked how such an old beast could have a cousin so young, only to learn that they were not truly related in any way, shape or form. Deathglare was from the Green Isle to the West, and Sick-Eyes had been a Northlander. But both had settled with the Honest Bunch in Mossflower. The term 'cousin' was only used between them since they were of the same species. Deathglare had then added that 'he wasn't that young'.

"So mouse what do yer think? Nice and lurvely little tale innit? And all true!" She said, glaring pointedly at her fellow vermin.

"Well..." It's more realistic than you being young. "It was sad."

"Of course it was. Life is sad me lad. Sad, sad, sad. Ye spend more of yer years cryin' and mournin' than ye think. First yer a whelp an' then all ye do is cry! Then ye grow a bit older and cry everytime ye get a little cut or a bump, then yer young and ye cry when all yer mates start dying around ye and ye don't have food and the horde's marchin' too fast an' ye don't like the captin. Then if yer lucky ye get old and then ye start cryin' coz you don't wanna die, innit."

Momchillo frowned at her wisdom. "Yes... but life can be happy too. When you're a kid almost anything makes you laugh. Even when it's somebeast tripping over something. Then you grow up and there's always someone doing something slightly funny. Then you grow old and your grandkids make you laugh and if you're brave... you laugh in the face of death."

Silvertongue cackled with glee, holding his sides as laughter hooted out of him. "No wonder ye woodlanders are always dyin'. Too stupid to do anythin' but laugh!"

Momchillo felt himself go pink as all the others around him laughed uproariously. "I tell ye, ye weren't laughing when you first woke up here!" Sick-Eyes hooted.

Momchillo waited for the laughter to subside. "The point is life isn't only good and bad. You get your goodtimes and your badtimes. Same as everything else."

"Except in beasts?" The old pine marten was smarter than she looked. She must have read the doubt that crossed through his mind.

"Well you have goodbeasts and you have ve-badbeasts."

"But if everything has a 'balance'," Silvertongue pointed out. "Why is it that there are beasts that are only good and beasts that are only bad?"

"Well... their aren't. I mean... look at you guys. Sure I was your captive-"

"Guest!" Repeated the four vermin instantly.

"Alright. I was your guest. But you didn't treat me too bad. And well... you could have done worse."

"Alright so we're not totally bad. Ye here that guys? Good behaviour! Line up for extra vittles!" The vermin roared with laughter once more.

"Please tell me you don't trust us." Deathglare said solemnly.

"I don't." The mouse said flatly. "Not as far as I can throw you."

"Good. Trust gets you killed more than a knife to the back." Said Deathglare in his quiet voice.

"So wait mousie. We ain't totally naughty apparently, so what's bad about yerself?" Silvertongue said, a massive grin plastered firmly to his face.

"Oh... me... well... I..." He was honest. He washed his fur and brushed his teeth. He wasn't a glutton. He didn't have a short temper. He wasn't cruel. He tried to be kind as best he could.

"It's not that hard of a question." The weasel said, looking significantly less amused.

"Go on. What's the worstest, most verminy-thing ye've ever done?"

"Um... well there was this one time I broke Friar Bartholomew's mug-" He stopped at the look of deadpanned annoyance shared amongst their faces. "It was a... pretty mug." He said, going slightly pink.

"Well ain't he an angel." Said Sickletail finally, and all of them roared with laughter. "When they was your age the worst thing my young'uns did was set fire to an otter tent. Ye should have seen the thrashings I gave 'em!"

Momchillo was confused whether she was referring to the thrashings she had given her children or the otters...

"The wors' thing I've done... now lemme think. There's a long list of 'orrible deeds under my name-"

"How about feeding us yer medicine, eh?" And once again the underdeck was laughing.

"The worst thing I've ever done... probably keeping you lot around." Said Deathglare solemnly, and Momchillo was touched by the sincerity. Only for the pine marten's pouchy face to burst out in a cacophany of laughter.

"Aw what a sweet lil' bumlicker you are Death. Hehehehehe! Go on why dontcha hug yer little mousie pal?"

"Silvertongue does the worst thing every day. He sings. And every day it takes him closer and closer to Hellgates."

Momchillo grinned while the vermin laughed. "Well, there was this one time we hung Fret off the walls."

"Oh what's this? The angel's become Vulpuz, Lord of Hellgates?"

"Do tell."

"Well I don't know why we did it... I suppose it was funny at the time..." Momchillo's smile faltered and fell. He had done it with Matiya and Grollo, and all three had thought it to be a wonderful idea... it had been funny at first, but maybe it was only funny for them. Fret had been scared and pleading, and mayhaps had even been crying. It was odd... to see things in another light many seasons later. But it had only been a joke... a bad one sure, but it had been a joke. And they had apologized and taken their punishment with bowed heads. And Fret had been the same afterwards. Or had he?

"Awwww, the widdle angel feels guilty!" Silvertongue leered.

"Well... Fret was our friend... it was a mean thing to do to anybeast. Let alone our friend."

"Don't go gettin' yer tail in a twist now little mouse. Ye should have seen what my friends used to do to each other. There was this one rat. We dumped some poison in his soup."

The vermin all grinned knowingly. Poison in the soup! What a classic!

"Why would you do that? He could have died." Momchillo sounded aghast.

"But he didn't. And it's his fault anyways. He should have known better than to just accept food like that. Plus it taught him to always check whether the food was poisoned or not! Now that's something all young'uns should know about. Course checking his food didn't help him when he drowned." There were more gales of laughter but Momchillo did not find it so funny.

"What's the matter? Ye laugh in the face of death! We laugh at death! He ain't around to get all offended."

"Yes but... isn't it sad that you know... he's dead?"

"Course it is. Death's painful. But that's life. And if ye can't laugh at somebeast's death then what's the point of em dying, eh? I swear if anybeast cries at me funeral I'd get up and give em something to cry about!"

At this even Momchillo had to laugh. His laughter was cut abruptly when the ship turned sharply.

"Aye. We're here." Said Sick-Eyes. She sighed deeply. "Never fear. Chains and fetters have never held me long."

"What about the rest of us then?" Silvertongue muttered, and the good mood vanished almost instantly.

Threeclaw returned looking positively delighted despite a black eye. He held in his paw an old haversack, filled with food that made Matiya's mouth water.

"What happened?" The squirrel asked, wiping his drooling mouth along his arm.

"Well twas a bunch of pirates. They said they was looking for somebeast and beat me up a bit. Then I got their Capetan's sword in paw and made 'em give up some vittles. Then I marched 'em all the way back to their boat. Hehehehehehe. But I kept the sword."

The stoat showed off a long rapier. It was beautifully made and gleaming brightly, and Matiya felt a twinge of nervousness. Now the stoat had a weapon. If he ever chose to slay him the squirrel would be hard-pressed to do anything beyond pleading for mercy and getting over a dozen holes poked into him.

"Scared?" He jeered, and placed the blade down into the snow. "We'll practice with sticks, but if trouble arrives the blade's mine."

"Okay." He wondered how long it would take before he had to walk with his paws tied behind his back.

"Now, who's a hungry squirrel? Hehehehehehe! Help yerself!" And Threeclaw tossed him the haversack of food, which Matiya caught in excited paws.

This really wasn't as bad as he was expecting it to be!

It was official! Sharpfur hated hedgehogs. "Bath" did not seem to have the same meaning here as it did amongst vermin. Back at the Honest Bunch a bath had been a swim through the river-woodlanders though? Oh no. They had this slippery thing called soap, and naturally it had gotten into his eyes, turning them red and making them sore. Bubbles were everywhere, and there was this odd brush thing one was meant to use to scrub hard-to-reach places. Worst was that when the bath was over he had to have the beating of a lifetime with a long woollen blanket they called 'towels'. He was itching all over, his nose twitching uncomfortably at the unnatural scent that came from his body... not even his teeth had been spared and their once-yellow gleam was replaced with white-that was not what bothered him- what did was that anything he ate tasted of mint , even the air he breathed.

Hawthorn smiled theatrically at him, and passed a muffin. "You look lovely Sharpfur! I'm sure your back feels much better!"

The weasel made to snatch the muffin out of her paw, but she pulled away just in time.

"Say please." Said Grollo scoldingly.

"I hate ye both." He growled.

"Oh why would you say something as awful as that?"

The weasel's teeth gritted. He would not be humiliated by these creatures. He was Sharpfur of the Honest Bunch. Son of Silvertonge and Sickle-tail. He would go to Hellgates and back before he said please! "Just give the muffin here."

"Not until you say please." Hawthorn taunted.

"Just give it."

"Please."

"I beg of you." He said angrily.

"That's not the magiiiiiiiiiic woooooooooooord!"

"Rot in Hellgates!" He snapped, diving for the muffin and succeeding in catching thin air.

"Too late!" Hawthorn laughed, and stuffed the whole muffin into her mouth.

Sharpfur wanted to kill her then and there. If he had his dirk, he would have. But he didn't and the old hogmaid came back now, looking extremely joyful.

"I'm so glad you're all getting along! Now would anybeast like to read a story? I'm a bit tired."

"I can read." Hawthorn said politely.

Grollo shrugged.

Sharpfur went for another muffin.

"How about you, weasel? Why don't you read one of them stories over there?"

Sharpfur seethed, stood up, picked up the book, held it upside down and began reading. "Once upon a time an evil verminy warlord called Villainous Vermin MacFangface attacked the Great Haunted Abbey of Red Bricks. The Deadly ghost inside pushed him off a cliff, and being so fat and ugly MacFangface crushed his army underneath him as he fell. The end."

All was silent. Then Hawthorn and Grollo began laughing while the old hedgehog looked at him in bewilderment. "That's the legend of Martin the Warrior. There ain't no Macfangface."

Sharpfur shrugged. "Does it make a difference." He shut the book and went for a muffin.

"You can't read!" Grollo realized suddenly, and began laughing loudly. "You can't read! Hahahahahaha!"

"Yes I can!" He snapped, his fur bristling. Then it flattened again. "Okay... I never learnt no squiggles but still-"

"I will not hear of this! From this day forth young weasel, you will receive an education!"

"Edjucation?" He doubted he would like whatever 'edjucation' was either.

"Yes! I will teach you to read and write if it kills me! Mark my words!"

Hawthorn and Grollo were kind enough to not look at him while they laughed their heads off.

Sharpfur soon learned that he hated education.

"No! Nononononononono! I know moles who can spell better than that! That's awful! Why that's not even a letter!"

The worst thing was the constant snickering of his companions in the background.

"See this." The hogmaid drew a large 's' onto the sheet of paper. "This is the letter 's', you see how it looks like a snake-"

Sharpfur's paws twitched under the table. He was sorely tempted to punch one of the hedgehog's teeth out. As he let her prattle on about whatever 'a' was, he couldn't help thinking about how thick woodlanders actually were. 'S' did not look like a snake, not at all, it was just a pointless squiggle. All of it was just pointless squiggles!

"Can you see how this looks like a-"

"No. No I can't see. Because 'F' don't look like a flippin' snake, and 'a' ain't an 'e' upside down, and an 'o' ain't a 'd' or a 'b' with a tail! I can't see any of it and it don't make sense te me! And what in Hellgates do yer mean when ye say 'Kapitol?'"

Grollo and Hawthorn didn't even try to hold back their laughter. Sharpfur felt tears welling up behind his eyes. One day... one day those daft, dumb, dull woodlanders would pay... How had he gone from Greyclaw's boss and best friend to this... victim.

"Oh no it's alright! You don't need to cry! You'll learn, I promise!"

Grollo and Hawthorn laughed all the harder.

"Here... mayhaps it's your eyesight. Let's see if I can fix it for you." The hogmaid stood up and walked out another door. The second she was out of earshot Sharpfur stood up and began searching the room.

"I'm so proud of you weasel." Hawthorn said, beaming widely.

"Aye. You had better come to the Abbey with us. Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." The two laughed ever harder.

Sharpfur spun on his heels. "Laugh! Go on laugh! Laugh while ye still can! Coz when we get back and all yer friends are dead I'll be the only one left laughing! Ha!"

Hawthorn's face went very pale. "They're alive," she said determinedly.

"Unlike your rat." Grollo shot back, all good mood stolen away.

Sharpfur felt something punch through his chest, and for a moment his face flashed with worry, then he replaced it again with anger. "Greyclaw's worth more than all of yer pals put together! And smarter too! He'll be alright! But ye... ye won't! Just wait and see abbeydwellers! Just ye wait!"

"Are you going to cry?" Grollo mocked, his face hardened by hatred.

Sharpfur felt his claws tearing into his paws as they curled into fists. He could feel the tears coming. Greyclaw was nothing without him... He had to change the subject. So he sat down again, breathing deeply. He turned back around, so that he did not have to look at his 'friends'. When the old hedgehog returned she was surprised at the quiet, sombre mood, and especially by how much more focused Sharpfur was on the papers in front of him. She couldn't stop herself smiling.

"I've asked a good friend of mine to give me something for your eyes. I'm sure they'll help a great deal with your studies! Now, where were we?"

Hating edjuctation... thought Sharpfur grimly. Then cunning thoughts of escape filled his mind. "Yer friend sounds like a wonderful person, marm. I'd be delighted to make his acquaintance."

Hawthorn raised an eyebrow. Where did he learn the word 'acquaintance'?

"You would? I'm not sure... it's cold outside and he lives quite far away. And your back is still healing."

"Ye came back quickly enough, marm. I'm sure if ye told me which way ter take I'd be back afore nightfall." He said, giving his most winning smile. The second he was out of earshot he was running out of this posh-hole, out of edjucation and out of baths. Ha, wouldn't that be a big joke, eh woodlanders?

"Back afore nightfall... back afore nightfall..." It was as if the words had triggered a memory. Then she shook herself out of the trance. "No, no, no. I don't think so. No too cold, and almost night already. Rest! Now that's what you need! A good long rest! You've been a very good little boy today!" She said this while tugging at his cheek. He restrained himself from clawing at her paw. "I promise you, before you leave mine humble home, that you will know the entire alphabet!"

Alphabet? He had to learn something else as well?!

"Now come along you three. To the bedroom."

It was far too early to go to sleep, but they let themselves get tucked into the warm beds nonetheless. Sharpfur was annoyed that he had to share a room with them, and was reminded bitterly about how much he missed Grey.

As soon as the old hedgehog had closed the door, Sharpfur waited a while. Then he shot out of bed, checked the keyhole, and made sure she was not in the sitting room. Then he started pacing up and down.

"Crumpet for your thoughts?" Hawthorn offered, trying to ward away the vague awkwardness that surrounded the silence in the air. She felt ever so slightly guilty that they had almost brought him to tears, but then again he had started it.

"That hedgepig... she's hidin' something." Sharpfur said.

Grollo looked at him. "Are you mental? Just coz your kind can't be trusted with anything don't mean she's hiding anything."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on and side with the goodbeast... she's hidin' somethin'... I know she is. She came back quick enough didn't she? But then I ask to go and she says her mate lives far away, eh?"

"Oh please. She just knew you were going to run away the second you put your footpaw out that door." Hawthorn said calmly.

"How do ye know that?" Sharpfur snapped.

"I didn't. You just confirmed it." She sighed. "You'd think after escaping cannibals together you'd at least try and trust us a little. I mean we did save your life."

Sharpfur gritted his teeth and sat on his bed. "Well... that was yer fault..."

"Next time we won't do it." Grollo promised.

The room fell into silence.

"Sorry we insulted your friend." Hawthorn started.

Sharpfur looked at her oddly. What was this mouse playing at now? "Yeah... whatever." He said non-comitally. Then he went back to pacing as thoughts of escape filled his mind.

The silence returned once again.

"Does this snowbeast look like me?" Greyclaw asked neither companion in particular. It did in fact, look a bit like him. It didn't have the legs or the paws, but it had a nicely round belly and a grinning face, adorned with mismatched teeth.

Jack looked up and frowned. "Misses a tail. Haven't got a worm or anything, have you old chap? Shame. It would look pretty bally good if it had a tail."

"And was grey instead of white. But it's not bad." Added Tibbers.

Greyclaw waited patiently.

"What is it Grey?" Tibbers asked with a frown. The shrew's shoulder was much better, the wound having died down to a tiny scar. Communicating with Grey Claw was not an easy task. One had to be very, very careful to not poke something where it was not welcome, for the rat was as soft as melted butter.

The rat shook his head. "Nothin'. I'll go see if I can find something to use as a tail." Grey Claw fell to all fours and began sniffing the snow.

The trio had done very little travelling. Jack-is-Lucky was certain that they were headed the right way, but Tibbers was not so sure. He had seen two winters, and both times had been from within Redwall. If it was spring, summer or autumn then he'd have managed to find a way back-of this he was certain. But when everything was carpeted in snow it was hard to keep track of anything. The trees were mostly naked and so were almost indistinguishable. But something was telling him that they should have stayed by the river... Well it's my own fault, isn't it? I'm the one that suggested we leave it.

The trio had found a den, filled with acorns and hazels of some forgetful squirrel. They ate nuts and set fire to the shells to keep warm. The shelter was dry, but provided no comfort from the heat. Or rather the lack of heat. They slept uncomfortably close for warmth, and had developed something of an awkward friendship.

Whimper felt his jaw go slack as they came in view of their destination. Besides him Clogg chuckled.

It was a dark pile of stone facing the sea, with holes carved into it's side to serve as windows. An especially long spire stood out from the center, with several other, sharp and claw-shaped towers reaching upwards till they seemed to touch the heavens. Between the towers and several lumps of snow too large to be called hills but not quite large enough to be deemed mountains, seemed to be a large, open ground of thinner snow. Walls of dark stone were decorated with spears, and skulls of long-dead, long-frozen beasts. Guards stood in their stations, holding spears, upright and rigid. The whole place foreshadowed doom and gloom and death and decay. Whimper felt the temperature drop around him.

"Home sweet home, eh?" The rat said, nudging him lightly.

"Yes." He lied automatically. "Home..."

"Hehe, Longclaw's been busy then." he said, looking up at the collection of skulls. "Traitors, all of 'em got a summon. They were too proud to show up. But they turn up in the end Whimper, they turn up in the end. Heeheeheehee."

"Summon?"

"Longclaw's coronation. See, between yous and me... the world could do with some changin'. Yer father started it before ye were born, aye. But he's dead now, and somebeast's got ter do it. Seems fitting it's Longclaw, isn't it?"

"I suppose." He didn't know who Longclaw was, or what his father had 'started'.

"I'll tell ye more when it's all ready, but fer now ye don't have to worry about anything. Just look forwards to the feast."

He did not know why the word 'feast' made his stomach sink of it's own accord.

Longclaw stretched his claws out to their fullest, sharpening them against a small whetstone. He found he liked the sound. It helped him think.

"Father, why are you sharpening your claws? You only do that when you're about to fight somebeast. Who are you fighting? Father? Father?" What did not help him think was the abomination in front of him. Plump and short, Bork's eyes twinkled as he looked up at the cold, quiet figure of his father. His voice was like a constant chipping of a hammer against an icy lake.

Casually, Longclaw put down the whetstone and looked his son in the eye. The older vermin's eyes did not twinkle. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He asked in annoyance.

"No, Father. Father, I have the rest of the day free. Spitteeth said that somebeast was coming today. Captain Clogg or something... He said... there might be a feast."

"Aren't you fat enough?" The words were like a smack to the face for the smaller wolverine, who stepped backwards.

"Father... I didn't mean-"

"Look at me son." He ordered, and his son obeyed. "I am now King of the Northlands, soon Emperor of Mossflower, soon Conqueror of Salamandastron. I am building a world, the world! I do not have time to be pestered by an overweight infant who's only good quality is eating and sleeping! Now get out of my sight."

"But father-"

His father's raised eyebrow silenced any further argument and so Bork turned away and left his father to his business.

Longclaw sighed deeply. He had had four sons before Bork. The first lay in the crypts after a 'tragic' accident. The second and third he had sent across the world to bring back something that did not exist. He was well and truly rid of them. The fourth had openly opposed him, and his skull now hung from the gates along with his followers'. He wondered when he would finally be rid of the fifth...

Bork wondered through the castle. He hated his father. Always angry with him, always thinking and planning and never doing anything! "So what if I'm fat! I've got a good appetite! It's healthy.l. anyhow I'm stronger than anybeast here!" He had never understood why his father was so sick of him. He wasn't dumb... he didn't get into trouble. But mostly Bork was angry with himself. Whenever he saw his father he kept on getting excited and happy, and hope filled up within him. Hope that maybe one day his father would appreciate him. But then he was dismissed and left angry with everything. One day that stupid old man is going to fall off a cliff...

Grey had walked some way away from their den when he found the perfect thing! Why it looked just like a tail! It stuck out from a pile of green bushes, and even seemed to move ever-so-slightly, just like how a tail ought to! He grabbed the pink thing and gave it a sharp tug.

The yelp of pain, and the giant, painted rat rising from the bushes was enough to tell him that what he had found was indeed a tail. "Lost are ye?" The rat growled, his eyes hungry and eyeing the rat's prominent stomach.

"Er..." What had Sharpfur always done when confronted my somebeast he would rather not talk to? "Er... behind you sir!" The young rat's insistence made the larger rat half turn.

"Do ye think I'm dumb enough to fall for that?"

"Well you almost did." Grey Claw said, backing away nervously as the cannibal walked forwards. It had always worked for Sharpfur...

The madbeast did not reply, and merely licked his chops. Then it dove.

With agility that surprised him more than anyone, Grey ducked and let the vermin fly over him. Before he had a moment to think, panic set in and, screaming, he turned and ran.

Grey Claw burst through his intricately made snowbeast. He was panting, and sweating, and his eyes were wide and full of fear.

"What is it ole chap?" Asked Jack, holding a paw to his chest. The hare had been admiring the snowbeast when the real rat had exploded from it.

Grey gesticulated wildly behind him, sucking in gulps of air. But no words came out his constantly-moving mouth.

Jack looked at where he was pointing, and it was not hard to see the larger rat racing forwards. The hare screamed in terror and instinctively went for his belt. It was always a rule to have your weapon with you, sharp and well-looked after. Of course Jack didn't have his weapon, but the instinct would have made any of his tutors proud. The rat was upon them a moment later, holding a large rock above it's grinning head. Grey fell to the ground in a ball, his eyes shut tightly. Sharpfur would have scolded him for not pleading, but he was too scared to make words. Jack though had been trained in different ways, and brought a fist into the vermin's jaw.

"Ow my bally paw! Wot's your teeth made out of? Lead?!"

The rat stumbled back to his feet, rubbing his hurt jaw. "What's yer paw made out of? Meat! Hehehe!"

The same rock he would have used to kill them was brought down onto his head by Tibber, knocking him down to the floor. "What is wrong with the pair of you?"

"I-I... nothing! I had him right where I bally wanted. One good swing and he'd have been chewing with his tail! Ha!"

"That's not possible. You can't chew with your tail." Came the shrew's deadpanned reply.

Grey got up timidly. "I... may have tried to pull his tail off..."

Both looked at him with wide eyes.

"I... didn't know he was a rat. I just saw his tail sticking out of the bushes and thought it looked like mine." Tibbers and Jack shared a look of incredible shock. "Now... er... do we loot him?"

All three turned to see the rat was on his paws, jamming two claws into it's mouth. It blew and out came a shrill whistle that sent shivers of fear down all their spines. "No." He said, after he was done blowing. "Now I rip you all to pieces for-"

Jack brought the rock down on his head again. "Kind of busy at the moment, wot wot. Maybe next time! Alright chaps! This is our call to action. We had better get moving now!"

If the outside of the palace had seemed gloomy it was nothing to what lay on the inside. It was colder within than without, with halls marked with countless skulls of long-dead beasts. The floors were polished so thickly one could see their reflection looking back at them. A constant shiver passed through Whimper as Trammun Clogg's crew were led forwards by a rat with fur as dark as his heart. It wasn't just the cold, he admitted to himself. The grinning skulls helped too, but there was something else that made the place so horrific. It was like a nightmare. And empty. So far the entire palace was empty, as if nobeast lived here. Their footsteps echoed horrifically from the walls and not a word was spoken amongst anybeast, even the toughest and most hardened corsairs in Clogg's company seemed afraid.

Except Darkhide, Her eyes darted to and fro with casual boredom, and only settled once, when they had caught him staring. He did not like the smile that had crossed her lips then.

Then at last, when Whimper could bear it no longer, they reached a great hall. Seated upon a throne, taller than anybeast, in a robe of soft, dark silk, and wearing a crown that looked like the castle they were standing in, was Longclaw. A wolverine, with a cold stare now fixed upon his guests. His eyes never seemed to smile, but that was what he did now. "Ah. Welcome. The journey was profitable?"

"Immensely." Clogg replied, grinning from ear to ear.

They are friends... they won't hurt us. Still he scanned the row of faces in the hall. There was one fox, scarred across the eye and missing an ear and a tooth. He stood besides his king with a sword drawn. It was pale white, like milk, and sharp enough to cut a beast in two without spilling a drop of blood. Another figure, who wore a long cloak, stood on the other side of the king, and turned to whisper something in his ear. They're friends for now, you mean.

"Trammun Clogg. You have done well." Then the solemnity fell about them. The wolverine snapped two claws together. "Why are they shivering? These are my good friends! Spitteeth, see to their accommodation immediately, and bring forth food and drink! Clogg, be seated."

The fox called Spitteeth sheathed his blade and marched forwards, eyeing the pirates with dislike. Many gave him looks of disgust back, but more looked at the sheathed blade hanging from his belt. Whimper found himself staring at his feetpaws. Silently he motioned for them to follow and with a final affirmative nod from Clogg they turned and went. One by one the crew vanished into their allocated rooms and closed the doors behind them. Scringewhiskers was the last to go with a flourishing bow and a grin.

That left Whimper with Spitteeth. The young ferret half-walked half-ran to keep up with the grown fox's long strides. "You new?" His tone was uninterested.

"Er... well... no."

"How comes I've never seen your face before?" His eyes were narrowed and cold.

"Well I don't think I've ever been here before."

"Ah. You were promoted recently. Tell me, how does one so young get promoted to Captain?"

"C-captain? I'm not a captain. I'm just the..." Whimper went silent. "I..." A pressure in his chest was squeezing for answers, but he did not know what he was. The fox kept on looking at him suspiciously. "The... Captain's er- nephew."

"Captain Clogg? That fat rat's yer uncle, eh?"

"Nuncle." The word sounded familiar, he must have said it before.

The fox shrugged and turned away. Whimper followed until Spitteeth put key to lock, twisted and gave the ferret a 'gentle' shove into his chambers before closing the door behind him.

It was plain, with a bed in one corner, a table and a barrel of water in the other corner. There wasn't even a tapish. "Good friends, huh?" The room was cold and had a thin cut in the wall that served as a window. Poking his head out he was surprised to find how high up he was, he didn't remember encountering any stairs, and the ship was far below.

He lifted his head at the sound of giggling and was surprised to find somebeast closing the door.

"Who are you?" It was a little wolverine, though still twice his mass. Fat and broad-shouldered.

The wolverine spun around and saw Whimper standing there. Suddenly though the child was not the most important thing in the room, for in his paws he held a great collection of muffins. They frowned at the sight of him.

"What are you doing here?" They said in a tall, commanding voice.

"It's my room." Whimper snapped.

"My castle."

"No it's Longclaw's."

The wolverine frowned at the ferret. "My father's castle. Now, who are you?"

"Whimper."

"I didn't ask for your name midget!" Snapped the thief.

"I gave it anyways fatty!" Whimper snapped back, edging away defensively while the furs on his back prickled.

"Say that one more time!"

"Fatty! Fatty! Fatty! Hahahaha Fat-teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The wolverine grabbed him by the throat, all muffins lay on the floor, forgotten. Whimper was surprised by how easily the wolverine lifted him off the ground.

Bork tried to sound like his father. "Manners, manners... where would we be without them? Now apologize."

"I'm sorry." Whimper squeaked immediately.

Bork shook him like a rag doll. "Not good enough."

"I'm sorry er-your Majesty."

Bork let him drop to the floor. "Better." The wolverine turned back to the muffins and sat against the door, chewing on them delightfully while Whimper rubbed his throat.

A thousand insults made themselves present in his mind, but Whimper thought better of them. "So... you're Prince?"

"What are you?" Bork demanded.

"I'm a ferret." Whimper replied automatically. He gave a nervous chuckle at the deep scowl on the wolverine's face. "Well... I'm Captain Clogg's nephew. So er... yes."

"Well I'm Prince of the Northlands." He said, his chest puffed forwards with pride. "Meaning one day this whole place will be mine and I'll be able to do whatever I want." He fell back with a contended sigh. "As soon as father's out of the way anyway." He chose another muffin and chewed at it thoughtfully.

"Can I have one?" Whimper asked, pointing at the pile still at his feet. "Please." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh what, one of these?" Bork held up one of them, it was dotted with dried strawberries. "No I don't think so. Too good for you."

Whimper gritted his teeth and chose a different tack. "Some Prince you are. You have to rob food from your own kitchens. I wonder what your father would say about that."

Begrudgingly a muffin was kicked his way. "My father doesn't know. Of course many beasts don't know many things. Perhaps you'd like to know what it feels like to crack like an egg."

"Somethings are best not being known." Whimper said. They grinned, hit their muffins against each other and were silent as they chewed down the pile.

At long last when it was done Bork lay against the door, patting his stomach happily. "So what was your name again."

"Whimper."

"I'm Bork."

They shook paws, or rather Whimper's paw was temporarily crushed within his friend's iron grip.

"Corsair. I always thought you lot were a pile of stinking fishmugs."

Whimper shrugged. "Most of them are."

They laughed at this and Bork rose, and towered over the still-seated ferret. "Say tiny, would you like to see what this castle looks like?"

Whimper stood up and grinned up at him. "Lead the way fatty."

For a minute Bork's face darkened. "Call me fatty again and you'll know what flying feels like."

"Call me tiny again and you'll know what flaying feels like." Whimper snapped.

Bork laughed. "You're funny." They were silent for a moment, before Bork opened the door. "Come on."

Light blinded them as a door, hidden somewhere in the walls, burst open. Somebeast tried to swing, and was promptly kicked in the stomach.

"They haven't got their cuffs on... corsairs, always slow-minded." Said a voice. "Well what are you doing standing there for! Get those beasts tied and on their feetpaws."

Momchillo was grabbed by the scruff of the neck by something strong, and two more tied his paws behind his back. Sickletail bit off an ear and was punched repeatedly. Silvertongue roared with rage and tried to tear forwards, but was held back by the ropes that held him.

"SILENCE!" Boomed a voice, and silence was restored. The speaker stepped into the light. It was a stoat, tall and slender, with a whip hanging casually from one paw. "Good. You know how to obey." It cackled wildly. "Get 'em moving."

Momchillo and the Honest Bunch were half-dragged, half-carried out of the darkness, where they were stood in a straight line. The slavemaster walked up and down the line, admiring his catch. "Five of you, eh? Right let's see." He pointed at Silvertongue. "Kitchen." The weasel was dragged away. "Kitchen." He said, pointing at Sick-Eyes. "Tailoring." Sickletail was taken away. "And you two are with me." He grinned. "Mining."

"Woah." Was all Whimper could say.

"The Bridge of Skulls they call it." Provided Bork. It was a narrow bridge of rope and wood that lead from the Southern-most Walltop to the peak of Mount Bloodhelm, named after the red sandstone that was visible through gaps in the snow. A gate stood between them and the bridge. A gate of red metal decorated with strange writing. "It takes you to the top of the mountain, then down the mountain you have Blue Lake. Snow, snow, snow! Hahahaha! I'll be king of ice and snow one day."

"Yeah..." Whimper froze at how high up they were. The wind was howling in his face, and his ears were threatening to freeze off and crumble. He found his paws left the ground and Bork was holding him by the scruff. "H-hey!"

"What? You wanted to see the Northlands, you can't see it from down there."

"B-but if you d-drop me-"

"I'm not an idiot. And I'm not gonna drop you."

The ground was far below him. A sheet of snow. A sheet of snow thick enough to bury him. Whimper felt his heart beat rapidly as he dangled over the side of the wall, sweat built up on his brow and froze there. "B-bork, c-can you put me down n-now? P-please?"

Bork let go of his neck and for a moment he was plunging downwards, screaming. Then he stopped falling and realized Bork now held him by the tail. The wolverine dropped him back down on the floor before falling on his back and laughing.

"You should have seen your face! Hahahahaha! And your scream! Hahahaha! You scream like a little girl! Hahahahaha!"

"I do not!" Whimper snapped, his face pink with shame and anger. He stared down at his feetpaw. The sensation of being hung over the walls... there was something familiar about that... Something... something... red? Maybe it was the fear, he was called Whimper after all.

"Yeah you do. You scream like this. 'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!' Hahahahahaha!" It was a while before Bork stopped laughing and wiped away the tears that had built up. "Oh boy Whimper...Haha! Me and you are going to be the best of mates."

Somehow I doubt that.

"I don't know what it is exactly, but the properties of red sandstone are immensely powerful, some even call it magical. It is tough, durable, and pretty. What more could you want, am I right? In the morning you will be brought here. You will work hard and you will eat. Rinse and repeat. Collect the sandstone and only the sandstone, and bring it to construction. Do it slowly, and you'll get a lash. Protest, and you will get a lash. Disobey, and you'll loose your heads. All good? Yes? Excellent! Now get to work."

Momchillo paused in front of the sandstone dumbly, and was whipped hard for it.

"That's your first warning. Now hurry up! It's going to be a long day!"

For a moment he was tempted to take the rock and bring it down on the cursed stoat's head, but Deathglare must have known, for he was between them in a second, collecting the rock with shackled paws.

When the slavemaster was out of earshot the pine marten frowned at him. "Getting yourself killed in hopeless heroics is one of the stupidest things you can do mouse."

"It wouldn't have been hopeless if I bashed his skull in."

"Do you know what it takes to do something like that?"

"A rock. A lot of anger. Maybe some muscle-power."

"I see. You don't."

Momchillo opened his mouth to retort, but was whipped once more. "I'm warning you mouse. Get to work."

The pain was like a bee sting and he could feel his eyes going wet, but Momchillo picked up a rock and began chipping away at the impurities.

"Martin the Warrior was a slave once." He told Deathglare, who had still not left his side.

"How long did it take for him to escape?"

"Er...Several seasons..." Hope vanished once more.

"Good thing you're not Martin the Warrior."

"And this is my room." It was richly decorated with glorious carpets, soft silken cushions and a pile of sweet biscuits laying on a table, ready to be eaten.

"It's nice." Said Whimper, moving towards the pile of sweets.

Bork held him back by pressing a foot down on his tail. "Those are mine. And they're not stolen so you can't go and complain to father about them." Pushing him away Bork sat down against the table leg, a pawful of the biscuits now on his stomach as one by one he proceeded to chew them.

"So, what do you do? Aside from eating?" Whimper asked, his eyes still scanning the room.

"Oh well, I fight in the practice yard and then I have lessons with Spitteeth, he's the fox with the fancy white sword and then I have to study history for a bit."

"History's the worst." The young ferret said automatically. Then before he knew what he was doing he was ranting. "So many stupid names and places, who even cares about Marshank anyways? And Abbot Martin always gives me the difficult questions! The stupid old mo-" He stopped. Abbot Martin? Who was Abbot Martin?

To his surprise Bork was passing him a biscuit. "I know. History is pointless. It's not like I can change the past anyways, right? When I'm King I'm going to tear up every book in this castle."

Whimper pushed away thoughts of Abbot Martin and began chewing the biscuit. "In that case, I can't wait for you to be King."

"OI! Mouse!"

Before he could get his fifth lash Momchillo spun around and showed off the bucket full of red sandstone he had filled. "I finished." he said through gritted teeth.

"And thought you'd have a little break, did you?" He was smacked across the cheek. "Get that to construction, now."

"I... I don't know where it is."

The stoat growled in annoyance. "SPIKE! Come 'ere ye dumb hedgepig!"

The hedgehog turned shakily. "I'm w-working h-hard sir."

"Good good! Your bucket's almost full, get that to construction and show this mouse where it is, alright?" The shaking hedgehog nodded and went away, Momchillo followed him.

"You new?" He asked when he was sure they were out of earshot.

"First day." Said Momchillo glumly.

The hedgehog frowned sympathetically. "Nothing you can do for it, I'm afraid. Just do as you're told. They won't hurt you then...b-but... if you do anything bad, they hurt you. You g-get hurt. You don't want to be hurt, do you?"

Momchillo shook his head.

"G-good. J-just do as you're told."

"So where are you from?"

"D-doesn't matter now. N-nothing matters now. Just be good. Be good. You want to be good don't you?"

Momchillo felt his paws curling into fists. This poor creature must have been here for a long time. "I want to kill that stoat."

"NO! NO! N-no! Then, then, they hurt all of us." The hedgehog grabbed him by the paws. "Promise me! Promise me you w-won't!"

"I w-won't. I p-promise." The hedgehog let go of him, and as if he carried plague hurried forwards a few feet. Momchillo stood there, stunned. Never had he seen anybeast so scared.

He glanced up at the huge castle that lay ahead. Welcome to the Northlands. He thought bitterly.

"Hellllllllllllgates!" Roared Sharpfur snapping the book shut and throwing himself to his feet. "That's it. I'm done. That stupid hedgepig can go drown in her books! I can't read squiggles and I will not read squiggles!" That was when he realized that nobeast was in the room. "Figures. Now ye all left me behind with old spikey macmuffin." Grumbling he checked the sitting room and found nobeast there. He marched forwards determinedly, chose one of the many doors and felt the world go a bit colder around him. "Haha, so this is the way out." There was a door at the far end of the corridor which he slunk towards as silently as he could. He reached it, and smelt the fresh air behind wood that had been charred black long ago.

"Sharpfur." He jumped at the sudden noise and spotted Hawthorn standing at the other end of the hallway.

"Do ye mind?" He growled, his half-healed back-fur's standing on end.

"I heard shouting." She responded.

"Probably the hegdepig. Wouldn't surprise me if that oaf burnt all his fingers clean off." He lied, turning back to the door and searching it for a handle.

"It sounded like you." She continued.

He growled again. "I'm surrounded by woodlanders, in the house of some witch hellbent on teaching me how to do 'bay-sick masematics'."

"She's not a witch."

"Is too. You know my kind have got a story about somebeast like her. She had a house built of candy-"

"That would be horrible. One storm and it would all fall apart."

"And lured young'uns in, then she fattened them up and cooked 'em. I'm pretty sure 'edjucation' is just a fancy way of saying 'put some meat on'."

Hawthorn could not stop her little giggle. Then when the infuriated weasel turned to glare at her she could do nothing to stop full-blown laughter exploding out of her.

Sharpfur stomped past her, determined to find something to use as a light. He needed to find the lock to be able to pick it.

Hawthorn was shaking her head as he searched in vain. "Education is learning. It's when one beast decides to teach somebeast else something-in your case, how to read."

"Well I don't need to know how to 'reed'."

"It's useful though." Hawthorn insisted. "And it's fun, me and Rosebrush used to spend hours reading with the Recorder-"

"Rosebrush?" He sniffed, as if that name was familiar.

"The mole." She said flatly, hoping against hope that Rosebrush was back home, safe and sound.

"Ah. Well, I'm sure two damsels like you could find it very entertaining to spend hours on end doing nothing. But reeding didn't help you escape me or the cannibals, hence, it's pointless." He finished speaking and tugged at his ears in frustration. He only needed one frickin' candle!

Then came the witch. She smiled at them, and fussed over them, and made them sit by the fire, and gave Hawthorn a large book to read, while telling Sharpfur she had a surprise for him. This would have worried him more if he weren't too skinny to be eaten.

It was habitual that they sat as far away from each other as possible.

"Watcha readin'?"

Hawthorn jumped in surprise and heard the weasel's little snigger. "A book." She answered, closing it and showing him the cover.

He frowned at it. "A mouse, with a sword? Where have I seen that before again?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's Martin the Warrior."

"Aha." He still looked lost.

"The ghost that haunts Redwall." She explained.

"Ooooh, yeah I've heard of him. They say he was killed long ago by a great Warlord named Verdinga or something, and rose again every night until Greeneye's horde was no more." His voice was smug, as if he expected praise. He didn't expect her to snicker.

"Yeah... not really." She grinned. "If you want I could read it to you."

"Do I look like some two foot dibbun to ye?" He snapped, not noticing her laughter, then his face fell. "Ye were jokin'." It wasn't that large a trap, it wasn't that funny a joke, but Sharpfur was still bitter he'd fallen for it.

"Of course I was joking." Hawthorn read the next line of the book, but somehow teasing Sharpfur was so much more entertaining. "Like you'd be able to appreciate the literary genius in these words."

"Oh please, I know a dozen good stories for every one in that book." As expected, he took the bait.

Grollo found them a few hours later, carrying a tray of scones. Sharpfur was gesticulating wildly, in the middle of performing one of his dozen 'better' stories, while Hawthorn laughed and laughed.

"No I tell ye, it was the size of a cart and- alright foods here, game over." Sharpfur was glad of the excuse, in truth he'd run out of old vermin tales pretty quickly, and had resorted to making them all up. He'd been beginning to run out of ideas when the food had arrived. He snatched a scone and chewed it vigorously. "You know, for a crazy witch keeping us locked in a hut, she does know how to cook."

"I cooked this actually." Grollo corrected, smirking ever-so-slightly.

Sharpfur's face fell. He hadn't meant to compliment the hedgehog. "Well... it's not the worst I've ever tasted."

"My dad was a cook, so I've been making stuff since when I was little." He said modestly.

Great Sharpfur, great, get all comfy around the woodland worms... Against his better judgement and his stomach's complaints he refused to eat another bite.

Then the witch came, beaming so widely Sharpfur was sure he was about to get eaten.

"Now, Mr Sharpfur, my friend has proved immensely helpful with your issue and have made you your very own pair of spectacles!" She held out the giant round glass orbs, held together by a thin wooden frame. "This way you'll be able to see the words more clearly!"

Grollo fell on a chair laughing, and Hawthorn was clutching her sides. The weasel snatched them away, intent on ripping them apart, but a sudden shiver of pain through his back stopped him. Old Spike took the glasses and placed them gently on his snout. His eyes were magnified widely, and his voice came out uncomfortably nassaly.

"Wow. You're all so... stupid! Hahahahahahaha!" All of them looked to him like they were out of proportion. Grollo's left eye was bigger than his right and Hawthorn's nose was like a balloon. "Hahahahahaha!"

But to them he was the one that looked ridiculous. And as he heard their laughter he stopped his own. Laugh... laugh with the woodland worms ye sorry excuse for a pirate.

"Well... we're doomed." It hadn't taken very long for the cannibals to catch them. They'd been hampered by Grey Claw's waistline, Tibber's shoulder wound and Jack's 'excellent' idea to switch directions.

"Not yet, old chap. I've got myself an idea."

Grey was ecstatic and clapped his paws in jubilation. "Oh joy! We're saved!"

"As long as it's not like your last idea." Tibbers muttered grumpily. His shoulder ached. Pain made it hard to think.

"It's an absolutely spliffin' idea! And simple too, don't cher know? We rush the door, and head for the woods." He paused, letting his confidence wash over his companions. A commander had to spread confidence.

Grey grinned. It was a plan worthy of Sharpfur.

The shrew sighed. "Oh well... why not?" Tibbers lined up beside them, and all three prepared to rush the door.

"On three." Jack was the fastest... he'd make it to the woods first. "One." Tibbers was the smallest, but almost anyone was faster than Grey on land. "Two."

"Hang on a minute! What happens if I get shot down?" The rat squeaked, his eyes wide with worry.

"We... stop and... pick you up." Tibbers provided. The shrew shook his head vigorously. "This is a stupid plan Jack, it'll get us all killed."

The hare deflated. "Well... would you rather die from a quick arrow to the back or... cooked alive?"

The three stared each other long and hard.

Confidence was of utmost importance. "It has been an honor... being er your captive and er- being tied to a mast with you... even if I was gagged. And er- surviving... yes, that was an honor too. So, er- let's give it a darn good go, eh chaps?"

Grey sniffled and shrugged. "I'll probably die anyways."

"That's the spirit!" Jack exclaimed before he could stop himself. I'm really wondering why anyone thinks I'm lucky... "Anywhoooo, on three!" He steeled himself, and prepared for the sprint of his life. "One! Two!"

A loud scream cut through the air outside. Tibbers dived for a rapier that was not on his person and Grey grabbed at the hare's nearest leg and squeezed it tight.

All thoughts of running left their minds and all three were frozen in fear as the screams continued coming, and gradually grew louder and louder, coming ever closer and closer.

"It's a giant rat." Moaned Tibbers, shivering as he two, began holding onto the hare's leg.

"It's a hare-eating giant rat."

"It's a hare, rat and shrew-eating giant rat with seven teeth and a crooked tail!" Greyclaw sobbed.

Then the door shook as the screams continued to mount. Somebeast was kicking it. Somebeast large, and strong and hungry.

"Okay... whatever comes through there... we rush him, alright chaps?"

The door burst open and the jovial face of the Skipper peered through. Scared as they were, none noticed, and all went for the kill.

The slavers tossed him into the large cell, where he landed sprawling, a moment later Deathglare was tossed on top of him. Both were winded by the fall, and rolled back, panting.

Climbing to his feetpaws, the marten helped the young mouse back up. His one eye adjusted to the dim half-light, where the slaves slept in two untidy heaps and mounds. There was one clear difference between the sides though. One was filled with the thin and hungry squirrels and hedgehogs and mice and otters, and the other with starved and scowling vermin.

Momchillo recovered and nursed his chest. His ribs were soar and painful. He noted the way left and right seemed to glare at each other, though nobeast seemed to have enough energy to glare.

"Stay close kid." The pine marten commanded, walking straight towards the pile of chained vermin. Momchillo did as he was bid despite the prickles of fear rising on his back. He was about to point out that, as a woodlander, it was better if he stayed with his own kind. The pack of vermin glared at the newcomers, but Deathglare seemed unphased.

Compared to everybeast here, Momchillo felt uncomfortably pudgy. They could see it too, no doubt. Despite all that had happened, he still had his fair share of puppy fat.

"What's this then?" He could not tell what species the thing that stood in front of him was. Fur so filthy it was grey, teeth so brown they seemed to be made of wood, and chains of rusted iron. "Mouse, eh? Where you from, pup?"

Momchillo stumbled backwards as the creature advanced. "R-rat." Was all he managed to croak out.

"Do I look like some halfwit to you? Anybeast can tell the difference between a rat and a mouse." The sea of vermin were muttering.

Momchillo tripped over a chain. His heart was beating. He was going to die in the darkness, ripped to shreds by enslaved vermin. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say, when a wisp of cold air silenced the crowd.

"Let's make something clear." The pine marten's whispered voice made everyone around him silent, straining to hear everything he had to say. "This beast here is my booty." He pulled the mouse to his feet, and stood there for a while, making sure to give everyone around them a long, deep look into his eye. The vermin shivered, as if the cold of winter was upon them all. "You have something against him, you have something against me." He fixed the brown-toothed one with his gaze, and held it there for what seemed to be eternity. "And believe me when I say you don't want to have something against me."

The sea shivered once more, and Deathglare lead the way, Momchillo followed hastily. "Vermin are harder to control than you woodlanders. Sure we bend quicker, but we bounce back just as quickly... when it suits us. If you and I want to get out, you're better served over here, then over there." He indicated the huddle of miserable woodlanders.

"Martin the Warrior was a slave once." Momchillo found himself repeating, for what felt like the hundredth time. "He got out with beasts like that."

"Give or take seven seasons." The pine marten grinned. "Fairy tales won't get you out of here, but I just might."

"So... er... sorry we hit you." Grey Claw apologized awkwardly, clutching to the hem of Jack's long coat. It was positively frightening, being surrounded by otters. Once, he and Sharpfur had used his tail to go fishing... they'd caught an otter instead and the experience had been... traumatic. For all parties involved.

"No problem." Muttered the Skipper, rubbing a swollen lip. He had a black eye as well and a small, jagged cut on his footpaw. "Just next time, don't get yourselves caught so easily. Now, I know you." He nodded to Tibbers. "How's yer dad?"

The shrew shrugged. "Haven't seen him in a while. I imagine he's a bit worried."

"Good imagining. Yer a hare of the Long Patrol... well lucky for ye we're headed for Salamandastron." Jack grinned. Home... "And you are?"

"Greyclaw." The rat greeted.

"We picked him up." Jack offered.

"It's a long story." Tibbers nodded.

The otter seemed to be pondering something. "Greyclaw... doesn't sound like a mouse's name."

"Well... I'm a rat sir." His voice was timid and small.

To his surprise the large, burly captain gave a bark of laughter. "Any idiot can tell the difference between a rat and a mouse boy, and you are not a rat."

Whimper found himself staring at the dumb pictures. The dumb drawings in the dumb book the dumb rat had given him the dumb day they'd met. His parents... who barely resembled him.

It was strange, to be so worried about something so trivial. It made his stomach flutter and shiver, as if he'd swallowed a bug whole and it was now struggling to get out. He had everything anyone could want. Vittles and drink and a warm bed and servants and all the time in the world to do whatever he pleased. It was the last part that truly bothered him. All the time in the world... to feel uneasy about he didn't even know what.

And sleep would not make it better. Sleep never made it better.

Winter took it's toll on Whimper. Lack of sleep built bags around his eyes that seemed to grow bigger and bigger with each passing night. He had once mustered up the courage to walk all the way to the healer's room, but when he'd been asked what he was doing there a mad squirming in his chest had made him turn back around and leave. He spent many nights pacing along the cold floor, and it came as a surprise to everyone but him that he had caught a cold. He'd been unfortunate enough to sneeze on Bork, and after that the wolverine had been considerably more sour. His mind was wracked with a strange kind of obsession. He'd begun noticing things that did not match up, like the time he'd started ranting about an Abbot, as if he'd ever met one. Or the mouse he'd pushed into the waters below.

He hadn't seen the mouse drown, and in hindsight, it could have swum... but his head had conjured up vivid images of it, screaming the detestable word as water rushed into it's lungs. Fret. What did fret even mean? He'd searched every one of Clogg's dumb books and found no answer he liked. It was a kind of word called a verb and it meant 'to be worried' or 'in a state of whatever-anxiety-meant'. Then he'd searched endlessly for Anxiety. Perhaps it was a village somewhere in the Northlands. Instead it meant 'a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease about something with an uncertain outcome', or some other long and boring thing like that. But it gave him no clues as to what was being hidden from him.

And indeed something was being hidden. Nobeast in the castle recognized him, they knew him now of course for Bork had introduced him, but the first few days nobeast had any idea who he was. One rat had even had the audacity to call him a slave. Whimper had clawed his eye for that.

Answers would not come from the burly captain however, for much to Whimper's dismay, he would leave the following morning. And the ferret was not coming.

"It's not fair." He said, surprised at how familiar the words sounded on his lips. Surprisingly 'Whimper' still felt foreign. "Ye get to pillage and conquer and reap and murder, I have to stay behin' an' read all these daft books." He had found it a necessity to put on an accent. It had become a necessity once Bork had begun pointing out that he spoke like a rude version of a woodlander. Bork knew an awful lot about woodlanders, for the wolverine often visited the slavepits below. Whimper had decided not to go in the end. Bork had called him a coward and started doing his whimpering sounds, the ferret had lost his temper and insulted him, and it ended like most of their arguments did, with Bork pressing the smaller vermin into the ground and forcing him to apologize. He hated Bork.

The rat only laughed at his complaints. "Whimper, ye can hardly lift a sword, let alone swing it. Besides, why would you want ter come? It's me who should be envious. Ye get to stay here and read all these nice books all day long."

Whimper bared his fangs and the rat only laughed harder.

"Bork is going." The ferret continued complaining. Bork... stupid, slow and ugly, and the only reason Clogg was taking him was because the wolverine's stupid father was king of some stupid frozen rock. Stupidity seemed to be a common trait amongst them.

"Bork is going ter rule an empire when he's older. Moreover he's bigger and better than ye are." Whimper wanted to bite him for that, but Clogg had not said it harsh enough to deserve retaliation. "At pillaging anyways." The rat added as an afterthought.

"Ye said my dad was a conqueror. Ye said my mama was a conqueror. Yet ye act like I can't take care of meself." To be fair he was still small and sickly, and his arms were twig-like compared to pretty much everybeast in the Northlands.

"Yer not yer parents Whimper, try te understand." After roughly one minute of silent glaring from the ferret, it became apparent that he would, not nor would he ever, understand. Clogg withdrew the first book he'd ever shown the ferret. The one full of old drawings. He opened it to his father's portrait. "Ye don't look a thing like him." He flicked to his mother's portrait. "And ye certainly don't have any of her many talents." He seemed sombre for a moment, while he stared at the portrait in contemplation. He tossed the book in Whimper's direction. The ferret made no move to catch it and let it slide off the table and onto the floor. "I leave at first light Whimper. The next time I see ye, and I'm not talking about the feast, that doesn't count, I want ye to start acting more like 'em both, maybe then somebeast else will see the resemblance."

Ah yes... there was going to be a feast tonight... for some reason the thought filled him with dread. "Nobeast can see the resemblance coz they're both dead and nobeast else stares at their pictures as much as ye." He snapped in anger. Clogg glared viciously at him and Whimper stared at his feet in shame. "Sor-ry I-I-"

"Just go bother some-beast else."

The rat stomped away, clearly slightly grumpier. Whimper picked up the book and stared intently at the portraits of his mother and father. Day by day he resembled them less...

Momchillo felt the crack of the whip against his back.

He had cooked before. Many times in the warm kitchens of Redwall. Of course Grollo's father would always watch over them as they worked, and most of the food they made was entirely inedible. But it had been fun to watch the vegetables bubble into soup and watch scones swell in the fire. Of course having Grollo there with him was what made it so fun.

Here though? The kitchen was a swamp of slaves milling about, doing as they were told. He'd been hand-picked along with some others to help cook a massive feast. Of course the warmth of the kitchen was a welcome relief after the freezing caves. It had felt like a reward at the time, until he'd realized that everybeast not 'helping out' got a few days of respite, and that the slavemaster had picked him just so he could whip somebeast.

"Come on mouse! Stir it quicker! Don't spill!" He cracked the tip of the whip against the young mouse's ear. Momchillo flinched, but did not give him the satisfaction of watching him flinch.

Deathglare was in the other side of the kitchens, helping chop up the potatoes and fish. Momchillo was glad he'd been stuck to stirring. The temptation to stab and kill his tormentor would have been too great with a blade in paw.

"So mouse, where you from?" The whip came down again. "Somewhere warm? Somewhere cold? C'mon, talk ter me!" The slavemaster cackled and brought the whip down again.

His laughter turned to a loud bark for everyone to 'Get those inter the ovens or it'll be you going in them!' The sudden order had once made Momchillo jump, but nowadays he knew what it meant. That a higher ranking vermin was coming to see what was going on.

"Prince Bork." The slavemaster greeted, bowing so low his nose touched the ground. Momchillo was sorely tempted to kick his rump and make the vermin fall on his face. But he dared not attract the attention of the wolverine.

He'd heard of them prior to coming to the Northlands, in the Tale of Rakkety Tamm and Gulo the Savage. That story had given him many sleepless nights. It was probably because they were famous for being cannibals and leaving behind only the bones of their victims. The Prince looked very much like Gulo the Savage come to life. Tall as a badger, with arms wide and burly. He cast a large shadow over the kitchens, and suddenly everybeast was working twice as hard.

The Prince snorted. "It would be less work to just fry up the lot of you." Now the speed doubled again. Bork now grinned in satisfaction and strolled back out to torment somebeast else.

"The soup's done." Momchillo announced, turning to the slavemaster, his face as emotional as a stone.

"Well then put it on the side! Must I tell yer everything?" He gave a long fake sigh. Momchillo lifted the pot and walked away as quickly as he could, managing to avoid another lash of the whip.

The mouse found Deathglare at the side, slowly and meticulously slicing a potatoe into cubes. The marten gave him the smallest of waves before he continued with the work.

The rest of the Honest Bunch were there too. Sick-Eyes was measuring herbs. Silvertongue was rolling dough and glaring at the two hedgehogs that flanked him. The weasel noticed the mouse's gaze, grinned a little, and spat into the dough. His wife looked like she wanted to reprimand him, but was not about to bring the slavemaster's fury down upon him.

Momchillo placed the soup on the side, and as slowly as he could made his way back to the slavemaster's whip.

Such, was life.

The feast was, in Whimper's personal opinion, a waste of time. Or rather, it was a waste of time for him. How was he supposed to eat all fifty-four courses? He could barely keep anything in, let alone all of this food.

He was deemed too ill to drink, and if he could not get drunk than he was no fit companion for Bork, who seemed determined to wake up the next morning with a hangover fit for a king. On top of that the vast majority of the guests were strangers to him. At least two dozen captains and their retinues, all squabbling like seagulls at a beach. The King sat on a throne. He ate little and drank less, his eyes darting round the room, trying to smell a rat in a room full of rats. Clogg was one of the many squabbling captains. Boasting and yelling and drinking more than anybeast. He was flanked by his compatriots, who were watching the surrounding captains with similar, suspicious looks.

Clogg had explained the situation well to him. Longclaw was King of the Northlands, a large, arid, cold space in the far North. In other words he was King of barely anything. And he wanted to expand south, to do this he had to have the backing of corsairs, for their ships to carry his troops down to whatever part of the world he wanted to crush. Clogg was leading the expedition, and Bork was the figurehead. And Whimper was just a sickly ferret who had no idea what he was doing here.

A part of him wanted to be there instead of Bork, to lead from the front and watch the blood soak up at his feet. But the common sense in him knew that if pushing one mouse overboard was enough to deprive him of a whole season of sleep then any pillaging would be the death of him.

"Ye have to use your brain Whimper. Ye have to think. Think deeply now. How do ye get a bunch of dumb seaslugs to der what ye want? They hate ye, ye hate 'em. But ye've worked together before, but back then ye had someone they could get behind. Ye don't have that now. What do ye do?"

The ferret mulled this over as best he could. "If they hate me, why not kill 'em and be done with it? They'd probably want ter do the same thing, wouldn't 'ey?"

"Ah, but if we waste too much time killing yer potential allies, ye'll only have more enemies. It's not enough."

"Well if ye worked together before just do what ye did before?"

"And what is it that we did before?"

Why was this so important? Still Clogg never shut up about the answer to this specific question. "United under me mum and dad."

"Smart lad. Ye were right both times. They gotta fear ye, but they also gotta love ye. Even woodlanders know this. They smashed Kotir and built their own castle next to it-"

"Abbey." Corrected Whimper automatically. "They built an abbey directly over Kotir."

Trammun Clogg blinked in surprise and cocked his head to the side. "Castles and abbeys are the same thing. And what do ye mea- Directly over Kotir?"

Whimper nodded, not sure where he'd gotten that information from... it wasn't in Clogg's books. "B-b-because ye know... fear and such." His heart was beating rapidly. How had he known that?

"Are ye sure?"

"Y-yes." He squeaked.

"Whimper... this... this is excellent!" The Captain grinned like a madbeast and snatched at a quill. The lesson was over it seemed, and now the rat was busy scribbling things all over a paper.

He was still unsure as to why that simple fact had pleased the rat so much. Or what 'fear' and 'love' meant in terms of Clogg's plan. But he had no doubt he was going to find out soon. Another course of food was brought, a kind of soup that stunk of onion and carrot. He sniffed at it, but knew fully well that he would not be able to keep anything down.

"Ye can take it away." The ferret told the weasel holding his bowl. His eyes rolled off towards the King once more. The huge wolverine was staring at one dark-furred fox that was glaring deeply at Clogg's exposed back.

"Frettie?" He sat up so quickly he felt like he'd been hit by lightning. The weasel serving the food was staring at him with wide eyes.

"W-what?"

"It is you! Silvertongue remember? Ye know me son." The weasel leaned forwards and whispered. "How d'ye get here?"

"I-I... I don't know what you're talking about."

But the weasel seemed determined. "You're that one from Redwall. Ye know, that cursed abbey? Hey! Yer mate's here, the lil' mouse with the big ears-"

Whimper shook his head. "N-no! I don't know a-any mice." Except the one I killed. He shivered violently. "P-please go."

Now Silvertongue was annoyed. "I'm stuck here, chopping carrots in the kitchens, and yer pretending not ter recognize me. Deathglare and yer mouse are digging down inter the mountains. Me wife gets beaten by anybeast that likes the look of 'er. We saved yer life lil' Frettie, you owe us one."

Whimper shook his head vigorously. "I d-d-don't kn-ow." He was on the verge of tears. His head ached violently.

Silvertongue leaned forwards menacingly, his claws digging into the wood of the table. "Wouldn't want ter ferget yer old mate, would ye?"

There was a pain in his head, like something foreign was trying to bury inside. Once more he shook his head.

"What's the matter?"

Clogg must have been paying attention to him. The rat was glaring at the smaller weasel.

"Just trynna convince the lad ter have some soup is all sir." Said Silvertongue, bowing low. He was too clever to shoot a glare at the ferret, though he desperately wanted to.

"And who might ye be? Ter give yer advice ter the son of Mad-Eye Marik himself." For some reason Clogg said the last part rather loudly, so loud in fact that some of the other vermin were watching with interest.

"Just a 'umble servant, tryin' to do his best sir." Said Silvertongue through gritted teeth.

"I don't like yer tone." Said Clogg casually. He picked up a small knife that lay nearby, and held it in his paw. He pointed the blade at the weasel. "Ye know who Marik is, right?" The rat then addressed all those watching. "Ye all do know, don't ye?"

There were mumbles of agreement. Whimper was frozen in place, watching the weasel with narrowed eyes. There was some resemblance to something he'd seen before. Perhaps all weasels looked similar? And he'd mentioned Frettie... whoever that was... The pain in his head was stronger than ever now, but he forced himself to watch.

The weasel straightened up again. "I do know."

"Smart beast." The rat said with a small smirk. He then slashed violently, tearing open one of Silvertongue's cheeks with the knife. "For all those who know Marik, what was it he used ter do? What was his signature? Tongue and Tail? Tooth and Nail? I can't seem to remember."

Silvertongue looked scared now. He tried to open his mouth and stammer another excuse, but Clogg's blade was still pointed at him.

"Tooth and Claw! Tooth and Claw! Tooth and Claw!" The hall was cheering loudly now, remembering the days they had spent with Marik and the successes they had had under him.

A stoat shoved Silvertongue into a seat, grinned wickedly and held him down. One rat grabbed a paw and lifted it into the air. The chanting was louder than ever now. Everybeast was cheering as loud as they could. Save for Whimper, who was frozen. The King who was still watching the silent black fox, Bork who was cheering 'wine and whisky' and Silvertongue, who was squirming frantically, trying to pull free and beg at the same time.

Clogg drove the knife into the weasel's fingers one by one, and with slow, deliberate strokes, tore off his skin and fur alike. Silvertongue shrieked and the cheering rose louder than ever, everybeast was shouting, and banging something. Many did not know who was being punished, or why. All they knew was that it reminded them of days long gone, when they had been the mightiest force in the world.

Just as the last finger was flayed, the pain in Whimper's head peaked, and then vanished. The ferret blinked. Silvertongue was tossed to the floor, clutching his paw in pain and sobbing into the floor. And then the cheering crowd lifted him out of his seat, as if he was a great hero or had done anything wondrous. In truth all he could see was the weasel's screaming face. He was placed down next to the King, who spared him barely a glance.

"Searats! Corsairs! Vermin of the North! Tommorow we set sail, we go south! For glory and war! For Marik's memory! We will slaughter any-beast in our way! We will take what has been denied from us for at least a hundred years! The badgers of Salamandastron and the hares of the Long Patrol have locked us up in the frozen wasteland for long enough! They call us vermin, and vermin we are! But if we're vermin, what are they? I will spit on their skulls, and burn their Cursed Abbey!"

There was much cheering, except from the black fox. Casually the corsair removed a gauntlet he wore round his paw, marched forwards and tossed it at Clogg's feet.

The hall was silent for a moment. Then there was the sound of steel on steel as the black fox drew a blade. Clogg laughed and held out his paw. Fleaback handed him a dirty axe.

"What's happening?" Whimper blinked in confusion, trying to stop his head from reeling, not that he could.

The King spared him a glance. "Your Captain has just been challenged. The rules of our society dictate that only the strong can rule. Whomever comes out on top, has the right to rule." The wolverine seemed bored. "Clogg will win. He always wins."

Momchillo had been drifting off when Deathglare shook him awake. The pine marten was grinning like a madbeast, and for a second the mouse was worried. He opened his mouth to find the source of his companion's joy, but was hastily shushed and beckoned forwards.

"A tunnel?" Momchillo stared at it with wide-open eyes. "H-how? W-wher-"

"Aye it's a tunnel. Used to be an old latrine pit by the looks of it."

"B-but h-how did you?"

"The other prisoners are a bunch of sheep. I reckon everybeast knows about this but is too scared to use it. All I did was make it wide enough for you to fit."

The mouse stared at the pine marten. "Me?"

"Does it look like I can fit in there?"

Momchillo opened his mouth, but was hastily silenced. "The slavemaster hates you, one of these days he'll get bored of hitting you."

He never will. Momchillo thought bitterly.

"He will if he catches you. Now go. There's no time to loose. There's a feast going on tonight, which means everybeast'll be in the main hall. Stay away from the food and the noise and head for the gates. Go south. To your abbey, tell them about this place, and about where it is. And about who helped you." Deathglare was holding him by the shoulder. His grip was vice-like, his voice desperate. The marten had always seemed so calm and collected, almost at peace... yet now the mouse could see that behind that calm he was as desperate as he was. "Tell them to come quickly."

Momchillo stared up at the tunnel. Climb up, get out, go south. I can do that much. "Give me a lift."

Clogg brought the axe down hard into the fox's skull. Cheers exploded from everybeast as the blood pooled around the vulpine. The rat smirked lightly, basking in the glory. He caught Whimper's eye and winked.

It makes sense now. They fear him coz he can kill any of them. And they love him because they loved my father. He stumbled away from the feast. He needed sleep. There was so much blood. Blood, blood, blood.

He was slipping and tripping. There was blood over the deck. A black rat was coming closer towards him. He was scared. His heart was beating like a drum, sweat trickled from his brow. There was a weight on his chest. The rat was standing over him, raising an axe. There was more blood when a sword plunged through the the back of his throat.

"Come on." Said a squirrel. "Let's put this... Behind us." Home was tantalizingly close. The woodlander reached his paw out towards him, Fret reached out to grab it. Then the ship lurched and his head hit the side.

He was in the hall, stumbling and tripping over the cloak. Fret. He was Fret. Fret was him. It was the name... Constance had given him. Constance... His momma.

"It's not fair!" Fret repeated for the fiftieth time. "They were gonna steal it with me too. But I'm the only one that had to help make more and I don't get to try them either."

Constance listened to his ranting while she washed him with a large brush. Somehow she was used to this by now. Fret had a knack for getting into trouble. The first time somebeast other than her had picked him up he had nearly bitten their finger off. Of course that had been Connington. And only a few days ago he had been found next to the broken remains of a precious, intricately-made vase. He had denied it was his fault. His latest mischief had been earlier today when he had somehow been found neck-deep in one of the cook's most time-consuming dishes. The list went on and on...

Presently, he popped a soapy bubble in annoyance. "Even you're punishing me!"

"I'm not punishing you." Constance explained patiently. Fret required a lot of patience.

"You're making me do something I don't like. That's a punishment!" He snapped.

"No it's not Fret." He harrumphed. "Fret I'm only doing this because I care about you. Would you rather go around covered in sugar?"

The ferret had no ready reply and only grumbled. Still Constance was up to the task. Several seasons of living with him had taught her a lot about patience. Suddenly, his ears flattened. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Oh come."

"It's nothing."

"Well..."

"I said it's nothing!"

"I think you missed a spot in the kitchens."

Fret whimpered. Then shook his head and tweedled his thumbclaws. "Well, it's just that... if you're doing this because you care. Well, w-what about everyone else?" Try as he might to hide it (and he was trying) he sounded hurt.

"Fret..."

"It's nothing. Just...wondering."

Constance sighed. "Redwall will always welcome any who are good of heart." She said, lifting his chin up so that he had to look at her. Even then his eyes tried hard not to meet hers. "They care about you as much as I do Fret. They just don't realize it yet."

For a moment his eyes met hers and were held there. It was a brief moment. Fret squirmed free from the hold on his chin. Quick as a flash he snatched the brush from her paw.

"I can finish up here." He said in a voice that brockered no argument. Constance almost reprimanded him, but decided the day had been long enough. Silently, with a small hint of worry, she left him scrubbing and brushing.

As soon as she was out of sight and earshot Fret dropped the brush. He found his eyes were watering and wiped them hurriedly. Constance had practically confirmed what had been a growing suspicion. The amount of times things had been unfair... It wasn't natural. It was always him, getting punished, getting blamed. The ferret of redwall. He hated his reflection. It was the final confirmation of the fact. He would never be welcome at Redwall.

Ferrets did not have good hearts.

Then he shook himself and wiped his tears again. So what if they didn't care? If they didn't he wouldn't!

"Hey Fret!" Matiya came, practically bouncing towards him the next day. "Do you want to play 'it'?" Fret almost said yes, but remembered how quickly they had gotten cold feet the previous day, and how quickly everything had fallen on him. Literally. A growl came out.

"No!" He snapped and without pausing he shoved past and made his way home. The squirrel only blinked in confusion, before shrugging and running off to play with somebeast else.

Fret felt his feet giving out under him. He was not even sure where he was walking, all he knew was that life was not fair...

"It's not fair!" Constance was exhausted after what had been an exceptionally long day. But, she knew from experience, the day would not be done until Fret had ranted for a good half hour. "I never asked to carry the pies! I didn't want the pies! Then that stupid vole bumps into me and complains that I ruined her dress! Then all I said was that it looks better that way but nooooooooooooooooo she had to go and start crying because I was being rude, and that she had made the dress and had worked hard on it, then I got so sick and tired of listening to her that I shove another pie into her mouth and she goes an-"

Constance got so sick and tired of listening to him that she shoved a pie into his mouth. Then with practiced diplomacy she lay a paw on his head. "Yes Fret. I know it's unfair. But right now it's late and you must be very, very tired after all that happened to you today, aren't you?"

Fret grumbled as he chewed, then swallowed noisily. He opened his mouth to continue, but he had been much smaller back then and Constance had easily pinched his muzzle shut, before lifting him effortlessly off the ground and carrying him to his bed.

"Tomorrow will be a better day Fret. I promise." She said, as she lifted the blanket and draped him within it's soft folds.

How do you know that? He asked, without speaking, to her retreating back.

He was breathing deeply, practically panting for breath. His eyes were watering. It would never be a better day. No, nothing good could come out of something rotten, and he was rotten to the core.

"Fret!" Roared the Recorder. Somebeast had cut his favourite old book to shreds.

"It wasn't me." The ferret snapped immediately, backing away from the mouse. He had been smaller back then. Much smaller.

"Explain." He said slowly. "Why you were the only one with the key and have got a carving knife behind your back.

"Er... I don't have a knife." He said, dropping the carving knife to the floor behind him. Unfortunately it made a loud noise, and brought forth the Recorder's fury.

Quick as a flash the mouse snatched his ear and twisted it. "Ow, ow, ow, ow! Lemme go! Yowch!" He had stepped on the knife blade.

"Come on! Let's see what your mother has to say about this!"

"Fret... why did you cut his book to shreds?" Constance was not well, and so the matter had been brought to his Nuncle. The two sat solemnly in the gatehouse. The mouse sounded anguished.

Fret did not reply. It was because the Recorder had 'accidentally' spilled a bottle of ink all over him.

Connington sighed deeply. "That was not a very nice thing to do."

"But when he threw the ink on me he didn't get punished!" Fret snapped.

"That's because it was an accident." Connington explained slowly.

This had been many seasons ago. The small mouse had been bigger than him, though not by much.

"Maybe I accidentally cut his book up, eh? Nobeast thought about that before they went and started blaming me!"

"That's because-"

"Because books don't get torn up by accident! I know!" Hopping to his feetpaws Fret stomped off grumpily.

His nuncle... he'd killed his nuncle. The drowning mouse he'd pushed overboard... his nuncle. His nuncle who had always been nice to him, who had brought him his beloved yo-yo, who had... always tried so hard to get along with his nephew.

"Momma please! Everyone's always gone except me! I'm already different enough as it is!"

"Fret, it's, it's dangerous! You can't swim and otter-food burns! You could drown! Breathe fire! Get lost! No, you're too young!"

"But momma-" He whined.

"No buts! I'm sorry Fret, maybe next season."

"You always say that!" Fret complained. "And I'm old enough. I'm not a dibbun momma please!"

"But your finger's still hurt! And your chores and-"

"Please momma, I'll be good! I promise. I won't lie, I won't fight, I won't do anything bad ever, ever, ever again!"

He was surrounded by barrels and could still hear the distant sounds of cheering coming from the hall. But he could no longer cheer. His legs gave out from under him and he fell to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Life, as ever, was unfair.

The castle was eerily silent. He had expected anything from a hundred guards to sneak past, or one to mess with... instead he was greeted with nothing. His heart was racing faster than a hare. He too, was trying to be as quiet as possible. He could not risk making a sound. It would mean death for him, and would doom Deathglare and the rest. He shot up a staircase, three steps at a time, silently. He paused to see if he was being followed, his ears twisting nimbly around to see if he could catch the sound of approaching feetpaws. But there was no sound.

Momchillo continued, and scuttled forwards. Another staircase, another corridor, another left turn. Momchillo swapped directions when he heard the sound of cheering. He did not know how far he went, though the cheering had subsided considerably by the time he came to a stop. A door ahead lay open, and from behind it came the sound of sobbing.

The mouse bit his lip. If he turned back now he would have to go back to where the cheers were coming from. One sad rat would not be the death of him. He could creep past the door. It wouldn't be too difficult.

Steeling himself the mouse tip-toed forwards. The sobbing drew ever closer as he approached. He took a deep breath, and passed by the door. He glanced in the direction of the staring, and fell over.

Fret sat up to the sound of somebeast hitting the ground. "Mom-hic-chill-o?" He croaked, his mouth dry.

Momchillo had hated the ferret's guts the last time they had seen each other, but that had been a long time ago. After a winter spent slaving away under a mountain, in a land foreign to him, anything from home- even Fret -was a welcome sight. He grinned spontaneously, all past quarrels forgotten for the moment. "You have no idea how good it is to see you!" The mouse advanced.

There it was... another ghost coming to haunt him. Fret screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. His claws were digging into the side of his head. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He rocked back and forth desperately. Tears were running down the side of his face, like raindrops on a window.

Momchillo was taken aback by the sudden, hysterical, apology. He had known Fret all his life, but did not remember seeing him like this, ever. The mouse was unsure of how to react. He stood up, and feeling a lot older than he was, he walked towards the ferret. "It's alright. It's fine." The mouse placed a paw on Fret's shoulder. The ferret shivered at the touch.

Blinking tears out of his eyes, the mustelid stared up at the rodent.

"You look horrible." The mouse said with a chuckle.

Fret sneezed into his robe, refusing to look back at the mouse. "So do you." He muttered bitterly.

Momchillo shrugged. "I think we've both been better. So... the others?"

The ferret blinked and felt his stomach drop. "I... hoped they were with you."

There was an awkward pause. Momchillo had a thousand more questions he wanted to ask. How had Fret gotten here? What had he been doing? But now was not the time for that. They had to leave.

"I guess we'll have to meet them back home." The mouse straightened up.

"H-home?" Fret squeaked in a voice so small it was barely audible.

"Redwall."

The ferret gulped audibly.

Fret walked at a steady pace behind the mouse. His feetpaw seemed to weigh a tonne each, and moving was neither easy nor enjoyable. His stomach was not helping. All of a sudden it was both hungry and growling, and more energetic than a march hare. His mind was racing faster than ever.

What was he supposed to say when he came home? Aside from the fact that the other dibbuns would no doubt blame him for getting captured in the first place, there was also the issue of the others not being in the Northlands. Perhaps they had returned, if so he would most certainly not be welcome, or even worse they were dead, which would mean their ghosts would be the ones tormenting him for the rest of his days. And of course, Connington. If he was dead, then it would be his own thoughts that drove him mad. And if he was alive... and he returned...

"Behold the traitor!" The crowd cheered like the pack of vermin at the feast. He was standing on a stool, a rope tied round his neck.

Momchillo grinned and stuck his tongue out at him. Constance was staring at him with disgust. Connington looked dissapointed.

Then the stool was kicked out from under him and Fret was falling.

Ferret-face met marble pillar with a thud. Momchillo bit back a clever way of saying 'watch where you're going' and tried to act as if nothing had happened. "How exactly do we get out of here?"

"W-well." Fret swallowed and focused his thoughts. "There's a rope-bridge on the... Southern-most walltops... er then there's mount Bloodhelm and there's a lake over that and... yeah. South. Redwall. H-home." He did not like the way Momchillo was staring at him.

"How do you know that?"

It was bad enough that he was doomed either way, but if Momchillo ever found out that he was the son of a brutal warlord and a Pirate Captain loved him like a father and that he'd seen a weasel's fingers flayed for talking to him... If Momchillo found out he would tell everybeast, and then... hanging would be considered a mercy. "Er, I was the Prince's... er- assistant." He still looked suspicious. "Well, he stepped on me a couple of times and hung me off the side of the wall so..."

Momchillo paused for a moment longer before nodding slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then decided that that was not the time. "Alright then, lead the way."

So Fret did, heavy-legged he lead the way, his mind still racing wildly. The grinning skulls that stared at them from their perch on the walls... weren't helping. Then he stopped suddenly. He couldn't just leave! The yo-yo was under his bed and... a portrait of his parents would be nice... after all he had a book. Suddenly he started walking quicker, though not in the right direction.

Momchillo was gladdened by his companion's increased speed. He was only slightly disappointed when after a short while, the ferret barged open a door leading not to a rope bridge, but to a large, wide, and mostly empty room.

"Fret! We have to get out of here!" The ferret ignored him and dived under the bed. His paws clasped around the toy his nuncle had given him a lifetime ago. But the book... the book was not there... there was no book! He was panicking and then he remembered how he'd let it slide off the table and onto the floor. He growled, stuffing the yo-yo down his front.

"Fret!" Repeated Momchillo.

The ferret pulled himself out, looking slightly disgruntled. "I need to get something." He replied grumpily. Momchillo frowned and the desperate need to protect himself was squeezed forcefully at his chest. His mind scrambled for an excuse. "There's a gate and we need a key for it. So er, yes. I-er will get that. You. Wait... here."

Momchillo growled, but remained silent. He had to trust Fret... though there was always the possibility that Fret was betraying him. The mouse dived under the bed. Because the stakes were too high for trust to come into play.

Clogg's chambers were not locked, and the rat was nowhere in sight. He was probably still at the feast. That was good. The ferret made his way to the table, pawing the air in front of him in search of the book. A last he found it. Flipping open the book he found the portraits he'd first been acquainted with. The grinning, knife-weilding ferretmaid. And the silent, muscled brute that was apparently his father.

The door opened and to his horror, in walked Captain Trammun Clogg. It took every inch of self-control he possessed for him to not turn around and make a run for it. It was not easy. He'd seen the great, muscled, one-eyed rat flay off a weasel's fingers. He'd watched him fight his uncle tooth and claw. And yet... He'd felt the same rats' warmth and love. Strangely, it reminded him of Constance.

"Whimper! There ye are, kinda lost you after the whole flayin' thing. Sorry about that." The rat patted him on the shoulder. "But ye were perfect! Everybeast's with us now. See what I meant, love and fear. Fear me an' love you."

Fret made himself smile. "Yeah... heh-heh... glad I could help." He had helped unite a pile of murderous vermin to go pillaging south... another line on his long list of sins.

Clogg ruffled the fur between his ears. "Also... ye got yer wish. Yer comin' south with us Whimper. I'll pick ye up on the morrow. First light, be ready!"

The ferret blinked. "Heh-heh... You know I was thinking about that actually and-" He could not bring himself to wipe away the rat's broad smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well!" The rat called after him. The pit of his stomach dropped. Guilt, most likely. "Oh an' Whimper. I kinda figured ye were puttin' on an accent, but best keep doin' that round the others."

"Er-right. Yeah. Yeah. Definitely." The rat beamed and relaxed on a chair. Fret turned and left, feeling his stomach sink even further, as if weighed down by bricks. It's not bricks... just my old friend, guilt.

Momchillo was glad he'd chosen to hide under the bed. Not because Fret betrayed him. That would have been horrible. But the gargantuan footfalls of the drunk prince was so much worse.

"Whimper!" He hollered at the top of his voice. "Where are ye, ye lazy f'rret? C'mon! Wake up!" Bork tore the blanket off the bed and hurled it to the floor. It took him a full minute before he realized that there was nobeast there. "Whimper! We're goin' south! The both o' us! Hahahahaha! Bet ye'll get sea-sick! Ha! And if ye don't, I'll teach ye how to swim!"

Momchillo scrambled out from under the bed as the wolverine lifted the whole thing off the ground.

"Whimper! Don't be such a woodlander!"

Fret's heart skipped a beat as he rounded the corner into his room. The large, slopping form of Bork, lifting a bed clear off the ground was something right out of a nightmare. Worse still was that there was no sign of Momchillo. He's abandoned me.

"There ye are!" The wolverine dropped the bed abruptly, and stumbled forwards, a grin growing over his face. "What's wrong? Cat got yer tongue? Hahahahahaha." The much larger mustelid advanced towards him. Fret did not have the self control necessary to stop himself from backing away. "Ye look scared? What's scary Whimper? Do I scare ye?" The wolverine snatched him by the scruff. In hindsight escaping would have been much easier if he hadn't been frozen in fear. A single claw jabbed at his stomach. Bork opened his mouth to say something, when a chandelier fell on him.

Fret landed on his feet, the wolverine teetered backwards and collapsed on the floor, snoring loudly. Momchillo came into view.

"What took you so long?" The mouse poked his head out of the door and searched left and right.

"T-t-took-" Fret stared in horror at the knocked-out form of the wolverine. "What did you do?"

"I saved your life." The mouse shot back. "He could have torn you in half!"

"I-I h-he's the Prince of this place!"

"We're leaving this place." There was a hint of an order in the mouse's voice.

Fret seemed to shrink. He was truly pathetic. He would miss Clogg, but he had no choice but to leave before Bork woke up. "L-let's g-go quickly then."

The mouse rolled his eyes but gave no further commentary. "Lead the way."

Fret did not hesitate further. The tome was warm against his chest, the yo-yo cold, his heart pattered wildly, his eyes darted frantically and his stomach squirmed like a rat in a trap. Yet the only way forwards was South. There were no guards anywhere in the castle, just the skulls staring down at them both as they walked. They seemed to grin constantly, their hollow eyes blacker than ever, their teeth glinting in the white light of the moon. Then at long last they left the corridors of the castle and were greeted by the howling winds of winter. It roared and screamed like a child's nightmare. Fret shivered violently, but did not stop. His ears were flat against the back of his head and his paws were shaking. He lamented he had a book but not a darn coat!

It was only at the Bridge of Skulls that he hesitated. It did not look inviting, and he was half-certain the wood wouldn't take his weight. The wind rocked the whole thing.

"Scared?" There was no sting hidden in the voice. There was very little emotion either. The mouse's eyes were wide with fear, and his paws were shaking too.

Fret swallowed. "The er-only way out is through here." And thanks to you I don't have a choice in leaving. The ferret gently pushed open the red gate. He tested the wood briefly. It seemed safe... Clutching the rope as hard as he could he placed both feetpaws on the first wood. The bridge rocked lightly... but it would take him. "You ready?"

Momchillo was stolen from his thoughts and brought back to reality by the ferret's question. "Yeah... Yeah I'm ready." He shuffled forwards, not meeting the ferret's eyes.

Fret let the mouse take the lead once more. He gave one last glance at the frozen castle before turning his back to it. He tried not to imagine Clogg's face when Whimper was nowhere to be found the next morning.

Distantly, he could still hear cheering.

"I can see the sunrise!" Matiya let out a whoop of wild joy. He hadn't climbed a tree in ages, and the familiar feeling of wood on his feetpaws was comforting on it's own. But the bright orange globe that slowly peered over the treetops like a shy, overripe fruit, and bathed the squirrel in it's warm, colourful glow was beyond familiar. It was comfort. The snows were melting slowly but surely, and he swore he'd spotted a new leaf shyly peaking out a pile of snow. That particular find, however, had cost him a blow to the head.

"Okay. You can get down tree-lover!"

"Five more minutes!" He called down, wanting to bathe slightly longer in the aura of light.

"You sound like a pup who doesn't want to get out of bed, now get down!" The stoat insisted from the foot of the tree.

Matiya sighed and began his descent, hopping daringly onto a lower branch. He landed in a crouch, and promptly swung himself over to the main trunk. Hugging to it tightly Matiya scampered down quickly. A few moments later he had returned to the relative darkness of the forest floor, illuminated only barely by small, lonely rays of light and the white snow. Threeclaw was almost indistinghuishable from his surroundings until he opened his eyes.

"So, which way will the sunrise be going?"

Matiya was more than used to the albino's speech pattern. He made up words from other languages that were also, no doubt, made up. French? Spanish? German? He wondered why he did it more than anything. He stood out enough just based on his swordsbeastship, throw in the white coat and he was like a sore thumb. Perhaps it had made him feel different to the rest of the Honest Bunch. But... he'd been different enough surely? And why do it if only Matiya could hear him? The squirrel was sure that there was a deep, dark, secret reason behind it all, but had yet to confront his companion on it.

The winter had been spent in traveling and mostly silence. Matiya did not speak about Redwall to somebeast he knew would make fun of him for it. Threeclaw kept his deep, dark soul to himself. And yet a kind of mutual trust had grown between the two, insofar as the stoat was sure the squirrel was not interested in running away and Matiya felt relatively safe in his presence. He even got to hold the stolen rapier on occasion, wondering which pirate had lost so fine a weapon.

"Over there." Matiya pointed West.

Threeclaw was using one of his claws to map out the terrain. He'd been doing this all winter and yet they were no closer to Redwall than ever. Matiya was uncertain whether or not this was on purpose. He had theorized that Threeclaw was worried about the reception he'd recieve upon their arrival, but then the stoat had thrown a tantrum about giant, invisible, cursed abbeys and Matiya's thoughts had gone back to square one.

The stoat rolled to his feet, kicking away the half-drawn map. "Wait here." He said, going to map out the forest visually.

Matiya obeyed. It had occured to him of course that he ought to run away at some point and strike it out on his own... but then he'd be loosing the single best sword tutor of all time. Well... the only sword tutor that had actually bothered teaching him anything. He had eleven older brothers who currently lived down at Southswards and their younger days had been spent fighting and wrestling. Very good fun and he had grown strong from it... but it had been crude, often interrupted combat of the mostly biting and barking variety. His only decent opponent had been Grollo, who was quite strong but didn't like fighting, and Fret who had apparently never been a willing participant. He frowned deeply. He could have sworn the ferret must have enjoyed it at one point. He had had his wooden sword as well but whacking it around haphazardly was not in the best interests of the weilder or their companions. Threeclaw seemed to know all their was to know about twisting a blade.

Sometimes he wondered whether the others had already gotten back without him. Well... hopefully they wouldn't need to miss him for much longer. And hopefully they recognized him when he eventually got back. He doubted he looked the same. Then he also wondered, if they had gotten back without him what had happened? Was Fret being punished in some way? Was Momchillo all right? Was Abbot Martin imparting grave wisdom to them all? What was for breakfast? Was his mother even eating? Did his brothers know he'd gone missing? What about the other vermin? Had they been killed? By other vermin? Or the abbey?

This was when he began thinking of ways past the stoat. If the abbey had killed all of Threeclaw's old friends, would the stoat not do the same in revenge? And if so Matiya was placed precariously close to him. Yet at the same time his chances of returning without the stoat were significantly smaller. He could survive of course, at least until the snows melted completely. After that though he would be just as lost as always.

Threeclaw came back in a very good mood. Which bode well. It meant the day's walking could be done without the constant threat of getting run through, and occasionally the stoat would hum a little tune or ask for a story Matiya knew. Sometimes the stoat would even stay awake for the entire tale. Most of the time though, he fell asleep halfway through it.

"Ah mon compadre. We have une petitte problem. We now know where the sun sleeps. But not where that stupido big red-bricked wall is. So I'm going to let you decide. Where in the name of Hellgates do we go next?"

"Um." Matiya turned a full circle, unsure where to go. If his chosen direction did not lead to Redwall then he could not hold the stoat responsible. He swore Threeclaw was too clever for his own good. "Right?"

"My right or your right?"

"Your turn to choose."

"Alright. My right it is."

This was why all they had done over winter, was go in circles.

"As-pixy-ation. The art of stran-gull-king somebeast to death." Spring had made her presence known with only one significant change. There was still snow to be trudged on under-paw and the air carried an icy chill. Yet one large, red, sweet fruit made all the difference. A large patch of strawberries reminiscent of Redwall Abbey's orchard and the kindly hedgehog allowed them to go and pick at the fruit.

Grollo snorted loudly, his quills quivering in barely-surpressed laughter.

"It's pronounced ass-fy-ksy-ation." Hawthorn corrected. "And there's no 'k' in strangling."

Sharpfur scowled darkly at the two. "Not funny spike-pillow. Ye learned all the fancy vobaculary in yer fancy abbey. At least I know how to survive in the wild an' don't have to wait fer rescue."

Almost nonchalantly Grollo's reply flew back at him. "Your back healed yet?"

Sharpfur, who's back wounds still stood out from between newly-grown sharp fur, began snarling as he always did when faced with a retort he could not immediately parry.

"Read the next word." Hawthorn proposed. It would not do to listen to him snarling while they worked.

"I won't, so there." He slammed the dick-tie-narf-ey shut in his paws and, fuming, began kicking at the snow.

"You could help you know." The vole persisted.

"Yeah. You seemed really keen to join us when we were leaving."

It was Sharpfur's turn to snort. "Only coz I didn't want te get stuck with Old Spiky. She'd have me in a bath afore I could say 'die hedgepig!' Do ye have any idea how uncomfortable it is gettin' scrubbed clean by somebeast that ain't yer mammy? I hate it! Plus all vermin know that bathin' makes ye weak."

Grollo exploded with laughter. And even Hawthorn could not surprised her fit of giggles. Sharpfur stormed off, growling mutinously.

He hated it! Every second of the cursed, hellish condition he was forced to endure night and day! And all his companions ever did was laugh. It was sickening. He never thought he'd miss the big, fat, clumsy Grey Claw (mostly since he had doubted they'd ever be sepparated to begin with). He had had doubts about the rat to be sure, for nobeast was like the rat. He was not smart or cunning or cruel. He was stupid and kind and... So perfect it was sickening! Sick-Eyes had liked him, for he had never bothered her with petty wounds. Sickle-tail had loved him for hundreds of reasons. Perhaps his eagerness to help out was why she'd always given him such large portions of food. Hellgates even he, Sharpfur, King of Cruelty, had loved the rat in his own strange way.

The weasel shook his head, safely out of earshot of his companions. "Keep thinkin' like that ye dumb brain an' the next song'll be the rat, the rat and the weasel fair. Love, pshaw!" He spat determinedly into the snow. "Grey Claw was me brother. All there was to it. I had to put up with him coz he was me brother. If we weren't related I wouldn't even be thinkin' of him right now! Or missin' him. Gah! Dumb rat, why didn't ye just stick te me." He lashed out angrily at the snow at his feetpaws.

"An' it wouldn't be so bad if I still had the others. I wouldn't have to get covered in mucky soap! I wouldn't have to know the five times tables! I wouldn't have to know what ass-pixy-ation is! I wouldn't be forced to spend my time with stupid fat Woodlanders who only think about their mammies and daddies tryin' te rescue them." He scooped up a pawful of snow and began shaping it until it was perfectly round. "I wouldn't have to worry about how to sneak away from this dumb place! I wouldn't have to wear spectacles every time old Spiky Macmuffin's is in the room temperature scold me. Daft old bag of bones! So blind she thinks I'm blind!"

"I reckon you look better with them spectacles than without em'." Came Grollo's voice, making Sharpfur freeze. "What do you think Hawthorn?"

"Oh yes! Why, they make you look like an adorable, cute, fuzzy-wuzzy-" She narrowly ducked a hastily thrown snowball. "Educated weasel! Far superior to the thug you'd have grown up to be."

Sharpfur hissed and hopped in rage. The diminutive weasel's fangs were bared. "Yer not funny abbeybeasts! Mark me words! One day ye'll be sorry!"

"Soooooorrrry." They said in unison, before almost dropping to the ground in violent laughter.

"Ye know... I can't believe yer ferret lasted more than ten seasons with ye lot. If it was me I'd have hurled meself off the top of the walls seasons ago!" Both were too busy laughing to hear him. Sharpfur stormed away once more, determinedly keeping his thoughts to himself this time.

He'd flay Hawthorn bit by bit and make the Hedgepig watch. Then he'd bathe her in the hottest, saltiest water he could get his paws on and listen to her screams. Then he'd do the same to Grollo.

Alter-native-lee, he could try and eavesdrop on one of their private conversations and make fun of it. Seeing as he did not have any salty water he would have to choose the alter-native. Sneaking backwards silently he began hearing their voices.

"I reckon he's off to cry now." Grollo said wisely. "Let's throw snowballs at him."

"That would be cruel." Hawthorn said, scoldingly.

"And calling him a cute, fuzzy-wuzzy gentlebeast, isn't?"

"That was a joke. Throwing snowballs at somebeast who's crying isn't."

Grollo shrugged. "He'd have done it to us."

"Well we ought to be better than him." The vole reached out towards a particularly ripe strawberry.

Sharpfur had heard enough and entered the scene once more. Being slightly taller than the vole he tugged down the desired fruit and handed it to her, the very essence of innocence painted on his muzzle. "Don't ye mind me now. I just had to cry me eyes out fer a bit. I'm alright thanks. Ye know just going about me business being the better beast. Not dropping eaves on everybeast in sight." He cackled gleefully once more. "Whoops got a tear in me eye, better go and cry meself dry away from the pair of ye! Have a lovely day!" He grinned widely from ear to ear and slunk away once more.

He walked off merrily from then on. The success of catching them by surprise had more than made up for his humiliation earlier. Cheerily he began singing all the verses he knew from 'the hare and the weasel fair. The shanty had been his father's pride and joy and singing it (alone and to himself for no doubt everybeast else would laugh at his his skueaky voice) reminded him of days gone by when he and Grey had been younger and the only thing there was to worry about was getting wet.

It had been a simpler time and one Sharpfur sorely missed. What he would give in exchange for his mammy's cooking? Hellgates, he was calling her mammy again... Nothing so childish had left his lips since he was a babe. He stopped singing abruptly, knowing full well his father was far, far superior when it came to music and shanties.

"Dumb Woodlanders!" He hissed. "Yer all makin' me soft an' mushy an' gushy an' ew! It's not natural!" He kicked despairingly at the snow in front of him and was unpleasantly surprised when his footpaw met something hard.

"Yawch! Great stupid snow lump! Go an' melt!" He yelled, hopping on one footpaw while he massaged his throbbing one. Once the pain had subsided and he'd ran dry of fresh profanities he inspected the offending lump of snow, gingerly brushing away at it until he caught sight of something that was not white.

Tugging sharply at it he found a thick, but small black chest. Cackling in glee Sharpfur tore it open, having been raised on tales of lucky vermin who'd managed to find something extra-precious in their loot. He almost yelled in pain again as the contents made themselves clear to him. Books! It was filled with small books that were in turn filled with the messy scribbling of a child with a crayon. He almost threw it aside in disgust.

"Sharpfur? Sharpfur are you there? We're supposed to get back afore nightfall! Sharpfur!"

The weasel scrambled to hide his find, burrying the chest back under a mound of snow and leaving a single twig to stick upwards so that he would recognize the place. That was when he remembered he still had one book in his possession. "Hellgates!" He managed to seethe before the file was upon him. He turned round to greet her, the book hidden safely behind his back.

"I can look after meself." He snapped. Then shrugged. "Nowhere te run off te anyways. Back to the old hedgepig then, are we?"

Hawthorn stared at him suspiciously. "I heard you yelling."

"Course you did! Now come or we shan't be back afore nightfall!"

Hawthorn frowned deeply but turned anyways. "Alright then."

Sharpfur breathed a minute sigh of relief. He wasn't too sure why he's kept the books secret from her, but come to think of it these squiggles looked faintly familiar. Perhaps he'd be able to read them even.

"As I cannot find Whimper," Darkhide began for the sixth time that morning. "I have brought somebeast who greatly resembles him so that we can keep the support of the other Captains."

The one-eyed rat's gaze hardened as a tall, handsome and burly ferret, clad in silken pirate gear swaggered in. He wore a confident smirk and his paw lingered on the hilt of a cruel, curved blade. He could very well have passed for Mad-Eye Marik's son, or the son of some other warlord, but what Clogg saw was a ferret too tall, too burly, too confident and several seasons too old to be his Whimper.

"Get out!" He snapped suddenly, rising to his feet, his paws curled into fists.

The ferret was also too dumb to be Whimper. His mouth opened into a small 'o' and it took a book to the face for him to realize that he was dismissed. Clogg next turned to the smaller, dark-furred rat.

"Why did ye bring that... that... idiot here!?"

"I thought... you said we only needed him to reel in the others!"

Clogg glared viciously at her. "So?" He spat.

"So I brought somebeast that looks-"

"It looks nothin' like him!" The rat bellowed and hurled a goblet at his first mate.

Darkhide ducked the silver goblet and watched Clogg furiously tear a bread he had no intention of eating, into a hundred pieces.

"Was there no sign of him?" He asked for the eighth time since Bork had come complaining about Whimper disapperaing.

"None, as ye well know as I've already answered that." She said through gritted teeth.

Clogg glared at her. "Bork says he saw him. Yer saying Whimper just grew wings an' flew off!?"

"I never said that Captain."

"Well ye implied it addlebrain! Find that ferret! I don't want another fake! I don't care about the Manywhiskers, I want my-my my- Whimper!" He hurled the breadcrumbs at his first mate, who was quick to leave.

"Hey, marten!" The familiar sound of a cracking whip made Deathglare turn on his heel. "Where's your pet mouse?"

"Pet mouse?" The marten tried to focus his good eye on the slavemaster's pair.

"Ye know what I'm talkin' about." The stoat was spinning the whip round his paw, as if threatening him.

"I do not." The whip cracked forwards and hit him square in the bad eye.

"Don't lie. Now where's the mouse?"

"I don't know any mice." Once more the whip cracked upwards. It hurt enough to make him wince.

"Plenty more where that came from. Fine then, I'll find yer pal myself! But if I do not, you can spend the night in here!" The slavemaster stormed off.

Deathglare's pouchy face fell into a frown. In hindsight he should have expected somebeast to notice, but he had been growing desperate. It had been an opportune moment for escape, and he did not regret his decision. The mouse, if he survived, would return. Perhaps not for him, but for the other beasts held here surely.

His greatest regret now was that, until the young mouse did return, he would be lonely...

I must be invincible...

A whole winter of drinking and a near-drowning followed by the traumatic realization that one's dearly beloved nephew was now the vermin he had never wanted to grow up into would have been enough to put any creature six feet under. Yet here he was, trying to drown his sorrows in vermin ale, in a vermin castle. Jon Connington was more miserable than he had ever been in his entire life. He had failed Constance and Rowland and their children and he had failed Fret. Everybeast he loved, it seemed, was doomed to suffer from the drunk mouse, who was very much alive... Unfortunately.

"Connington... we've been through this before. Put the ale down ole chap! That's the ticket. You stop drinking and sober up and then we can search the castle again, wot."

They had been having different versions of the same conversation over the winter, and Connington highly doubted that it had gotten them anywhere. Nevertheless he still replied. "Just... let... me... drink..."

"I will not sit here and watch you die of kidney failure!"

"Then.. stand... up..." Connington swayed weakly as he stumbled towards an open cask. He dumped a borrowed drinking horn into it's contents and was about to lift it to his lips when the Captain smacked it out of his paw.

"I will box some sense into you, don'tcha know?" The hare was glaring at him. "You volunteered Connington. Think about your nephew!"

The mouse gave a dry, joyless chuckle. He had been thinking a lot about Fret. Fret who had always been foul-tempered and rude and... in hindsight had been a lot like him. Two helpless whelps taken in by caring beasts, or beast singular, in Fret's case. Both were bad-tempered to a degree and both were failures.

He had tried his best to help raise him. Difficult when he banished himself on some senseless quest ever-so-often. Still, he always came back with some gift or another... the last had been a Southwards toy. The invention of some clever squirrel. Of course... the ferret had rarely liked them. The last time he'd seen Fret he'd... he'd pushed him off the boat and left him to drown.

"There is nothing funny about your condition, wot! You- you're going to die! And- and your nephew is probably locked in some cage because you're too cowardly t-to go looking for him!"

Connington shook his head, laughing more and more. "Don't... talk... You don't... hehehehe... understand."

"I will - make me understand you infernal creature!"

Connington once more shook his head, a silly, childish grin on his face. "I can't." He sounded pained beyond measure. If he told anybeast then there was the possibility that somehow or other the news would get to Constance... and he would go to his grave before he let her know he'd failed her.

The hare's face went as red as a tomato, and One-Eye stormed off, fuming.

He'll be back... in an hour, or two, after he's done searching the castle for somebeast that's not there. Oh well... back to drinking...

"Marten!" The slavemaster's voice cracked like a whip.

Deathglare turned to the stoat. "Yes?"

"Where's the mouse?" Momentarily, the pine marten was surprised by the ferocity in his voice. But considering all the stoat had done over the winter was whip the mouse into submission, or try to, it came as only a small surprise that he would notice his absence.

"I know no mi-" The whip shot upwards and caught his bad eye again.

"Where are ye hidin' him?" The slavemaster demanded, spit flying out his mouth and spraying across the pine marten's face.

Deathglare wiped his face free of saliva. "Hiding who?"

The stoat punched him hard across the face. Deathglare gave no reply, beyond rubbing his nose free of stinging pain. "Fine then... mouse escaped, has he?" The slavemaster gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Pity ye couldn't get out, too, eh? Yer going to suffer for it!"

"At the moment, I'm enjoying myself greatly." The taunt earned him a few more fists to the face. Deathglare felt a paw tighten round his throat.

"Laugh while ye still can!" Another blow to the face made Deathglare's vision black out temporarily. His head spun with pain.

The next thing he knew was that his paw was chained to the wall of the mine. Dimly he heard the slavemaster speaking.

"Whichever beast gets here first, on the morrow, gets to chew his frozen corpse!" The stoat pointed a vicious claw at him. "An' if there's even a bit of flesh left on his bones, ye can join him!"

Most woodlanders and a few vermin shuddered. But Deathglare could see the guilty, greedy gleam in the eyes of an otter and several foxes licking their lips. His stomach seemed to turn to lead and his ears miserably behind him.

The slavemaster smiled cruelly at the pine marten. "Sleep well."

Fleetfoot's feetpaws made barely a sound against the cold, hard floor of the castle. It was a desolate place, wherever it is they were. Somewhere far to the North. He stopped and swivelled his ears, checking for guards.

There had been many close calls over the winter, yet somehow or other he and Connington had managed to avoid detection. Well... A few guards probably thought the cellar was haunted by the ghosts of an old married couple but deception was key when it came to staying alive right, bang splat in vermin territory.

He darted past the horribly familiar halls, decorated with the skulls and bones of long-dead beasts. Luckily none of them looked new, or like they belonged to a child. Warrior instinct prevented him from heaving at the sight of a badger's bones. Badgers were rare creatures, noble and wise and kind. To see one's corpse reduced to a wall decoration was eerie in ways he could not quite describe, even with his large and impressive vocabulary.

He did not even know why he continued to look. The children were not there. He had watched the slaves being taken out to work in the kitchens, or in the mines, or in construction. He had been surprised by the fact that here vermin enslaved each other, but the Northern territories were harsher, he supposed. Amongst the woodland species there were no children, not anybeast from Redwall.

There was a young ferret that seemed to match the description he'd been given. Only he was not a slave and the son of a mighty warlord. Both ruled out the missing nephew.

Once or twice he thought he saw a mouse, but it always stood next to a pine marten. One-eyed as he was he had little doubt that it was really a rat.

There were no familiar-looking squirrels, albino voles, hedgehogs, shrews or his own son who he had no doubt he would have recognized by now.

He took a right down a deserted corridor and stomped down a flight of stairs he had already checked.

"Captain's gone soft." Darkhide finally said. She sat with Scringewhiskers, the ferret and Fleaback, the rat. Both were important officers like her, under Clogg's command. And both had noticed that something was wrong with the way he had been behaving. Yes, he was still a cold-blooded killer, yes he was still their Captain, and yes talking like this within earshot of him would earn at best derisive laughter and some humiliation and at worst a slow and painful death. But they had all noticed. And it was especially clear now when Clogg was refusing full stop to listen to reason and let the damn kit go! Nobeast had gotten that good a look at him, they'd all been drunk at the feast! Yet, no matter how many candidates were put before him, all he did was demand that they find Whimper.

"Took him long enough. But... I expected no less, didn't I?" Fleaback had been forecasting doom and gloom since the kit had first been found. He said it was ill luck to take in an unwanted child. Clogg had reminded him that at one point he had been an unwanted child and that had been the end of the discussion.

Scringewhiskers... who had no whiskers... gave a derisive snort. "So what if he liked the kit? Ferrets are likeable and ye both know it. He'll move on and we'll be better for it."

Darkhide chuckled. "Do ye really think he'll move on?" Then she snapped back into serious-mode. "I've never seen him like this before, not even with Marik. He's worried sick and it worries me! We are surrounded by enemies and instead of showin' off and scarin' them away he's locked up fretting about some dumb pup. We're in the middle of a darn invasion!"

Scringewhiskers rolled his eyes. "Now ye're going to start spouting yer dumb theory again. 'He ain't Marik's son an' looks nothin' like him', so what? Captain says the boy takes after his mother an' that's enough fer me an' the other Captains. So what if he ain't Marik's son? It's not like bein' somebeast's son makes ye a greatbeast. Like I said, Whimper'll turn up, an' if he doesn't Captain ain't stupid and'll use a replacement. Hellgates, I might be part warlord!"

This earned him a hearty chuckle from Fleaback, who promptly smacked him on the back. Darkhide merely glared and muttered incoherently under her breath.

Unbeknownst to them, Clogg had heard every word. At first, he had been sorely tempted to go in, slaughter them all, and leave. But thought better of it. Three pairs of paws were hard to replace on short notice. Besides, a far better opportunity presented itself in the form of the Slavemaster. The stoat was whistling through the halls, spinning his whip idly round in one paw, looking far too cheerful than any slavemaster had a right to be. He spotted the rat and saluted smartly.

"Best of luck with yer raidin' Captain."

Clogg grinned. "I won't be needing luck. Never use it anyways." He said with a casual shrug. "I could use a first mate though... murdered the last one fer a bet, need a replacement. Hey, here's an idea... ye look like a strong, able-bodied beast with a good mind for leadership. How'd ye like to be first mate?"

The stoat looked hesitant. "Er... well... the slaves..." Then Clogg was throwing his paw round his shoulder, a wide, winning grin plastered to his one-eyed face.

"Ah, to Hellgates with the slaves! Ye deserve some glory mate! Follow me an' ye'll get more gold and silver than ever before! C'mon, what do ye say? Clogg and Browneye, Scum of the World!"

The slavemaster couldn't suppress a small smile. "H-how did... How'd ye know I was called Browneye?"

Coz yer eyes are brown and yer parents unoriginal. "Truth be told... I've had my eye on ye for a while."

Now Browneye grinned completely. "Ah well... Course I'll come! Wouldn't want to let down a mate, eh?"

"Course not!" Now Clogg burst through the doors, guiding the slavemaster in by the shoulders. Scringewhiskers coughed, Fleaback's eyes widened and Darkhide's paw went to where she kept her knives. "Oh, hello my buckos! Just thought ye ought to meet my new first mate! Say hi Browneye!"

The stoat raised a paw nervously. "Hullo."

Darkhide's eyes narrowed in dislike. "First mate? Ye already have... a first mate."

"Killed her for a bet. Ah well, she thought I was goin' soft! Could ye believe that!" He gave a hearty laugh, which was joined by the nervous chuckles of Browneye, Scringewhiskers and Fleaback. "Anywho, sorry for the delay, we start on the morrow for the Southern Lands. Now come Browneye, we gotta tell Longclaw about yer new appointment. An' find a fittin' replacement for ye here as Slavemaster. Bye me buckoes!"

It was an excellent punishment for helping somebeast escape. Tie them in a mine and leave them to freeze to death overnight. If they were not dead by morning then they would be eaten alive by a bunch of rabid slaves. It would have been quite a desperate situation, if he couldn't pick a lock.

Now Deathglare slunk along the silent corridors of the vast, empty castle, searching for a place to hide until the mouse and his rescue returned. His chances of surviving that long were extremely slim. Silvertongue and Sickletail worked in the kitchens... it would be possible for them to sneak him some food surely. Sleep would be rough, and life would be difficult, but when was it not so?

Though he already had a very good idea of where to hide. The cellars of course! Wines and fizzes and ales and rums, all had to be stored within a cool, dry place. And all had to be aged... if he could just find the ones still aging amongst this pile of barrels and kegs.

A faint noise made him freeze in place. It was... Singing.

"I was a... Hic... Failure... Hic... Since I was... Hic... Born... No... Thing... Hic... Rhymes... With... Fail... Hic... Ure... Except... Hic... Mehihihihihihihihihihihi!"

It was a drunkard mouse, Deathglare realized, upon reaching the sound. The mouse must have been doing this for some time, for he was so intent on his ale that he could not see the pine marten standing before him.

"There was a... Hic... Mouse... From... Not... Hic..." The mouse stumbled forwards, and swayed heavily. The drinking horn fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The mouse bent over to pick it up, swayed like a tree in the monsoon, and finally collapsed upon the floor.

Deathglare shook his head in disbelief. He marched forwards and flipped the mouse onto his back. There was no risk in saving somebeast that had clearly already escaped captivity. Besides... In his own strange way he was becoming fond of mice. His footpaw came down heavily on the rodent's stomach.

The mouse heaved and released a large amount of ale. His fur was already filthy and stunk of half-fermented drinks. Now he had a fresh pool of commit to snore in.

Deathglare pulled away in disgust, wrinkling his nose as he did so. "And you woodlanders call us scum..."

"We do... For entirely different reasons of course." The new voice made him freeze. They were not alone...

Before Deathglare could whirl around he felt his feetpaws leave the ground. A rope was holding him up by the neck. The pine marten tried desperately to free himself. His claws dug into the rope, his legs kicked helplessly under him and his throat was crushed under the force of the rope.

"Sorry ole chap, but we can't have you ratting us out, wot, wot."

Damn... hare...

The only noise he could make was a desperate wheezing. His lungs were burning. The air fading. Black spots covered his vision. Just when it seemed like the world was about to go black, the rope snapped.

"Can we have a break?" Panted Fret at last. They had been walking for what felt like a day and a night. He was not too sure exactly, the world was still dark around him, but it was rarely sunny in the Northlands, and especially not for long periods of time.

The mouse, who walked several feet ahead of the ferret, spun round, a frown on his face, his paws crossed. Fret took this to mean 'yes' and promptly collapsed at his feetpaws.

"Just give me five minutes." He said, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

"Not much physical work?" Asked Momchillo, stiffly.

"I er- didn't have anything ter- to eat." He replied evasively, hastily dropping the accent.

"Me neither." The mouse admitted with a sigh.

Despite the cold, Fret did not shiver. The snow even felt warm around him. He could just close his eyes and slee-

"Five minutes over." Momchillo reminded sternly in what felt like five seconds.

Grumbling grumpily Fret got to his feet without argument. He envied Momchillo. Although the mouse looked the same as ever... there was something different. He looked stronger, and the fur on his back was uneven in length, probably due to a whip. Fret found himself pitying him. Pity clashed viciously with envy for a while, before exhaustion returned.

He wanted to sleep. To close his eyes and wake up in Constance's arms... Though Constance would probably never want to hold him again. Momchillo's mother would be overjoyed to see her precious darling. Fret doubted anyone really missed him. Envy was once more leading the way.

Momchillo was stronger than him. Smaller, yes, but stronger. He was tougher as well, not shivering or panting or wallowing in self-pity. Were all mice like that? Maybe not Abbot Martin, but-

Fret bumped into his smaller companion, who had stopped suddenly, a wild look of happiness in his eyes. Finally, they had reached the bottom of the mountain.

"Let's camp here!"

Fret did not need telling twice and collapsed into the soft snow. It was so soft... almost like a blanket.

Momchillo however, being more aware of their surroundings did not miss the large pile of wood! "Alright Fret, I reckon we should make a fire."

Fret groaned. "But I'm tired."

"I am too. But I need your help." The mouse explained with as much patience as he could muster. He dumped a small pile of wood next to the ferret. "We can sleep after." Picking up two sticks, the mouse held them at eye level. "So, how do you make a fire?"

Fret sat up grumpily. "How am I supposed to know? They never taught us at Redwall."

Momchillo chewed his lips. "I think we're supposed to rub these two together." He paused, then suddenly began rubbing the two together as fast as he could. He looked like... a really bad violin player and Fret could not resist giving a derisive snort.

"You think?"

Momchillo scowled. "You give it a try then, if you're so smart!"

Momentarily dumbstruck Fret did not know what to do with the branches in his paws. Then it hit him! Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? "You have to blow on the wood to make fire." He said this with as smug a smirk as he could muster. Crossing the twigs over the pile he sucked in the air. Then he huffed and he puffed and he blew with all the force in his lungs.

Momchillo looked momentarily incredulous. Well of course he would... Surprised I'm not an idiot are you?

Then the mouse started laughing, a sound Fret was all too familiar with. The ferret continued to hurl the air at the wood, until his lungs were completely empty. He panted, his face red. Momchillo's laughter increased ten-fold. Even when his air supply had been replenished, his face remained pink.

"I don't think that's how it's done." He held his paws out for the sticks, and Fret gave them, as viciously as he could. He was sick of being the laughing stock.

Momchillo soon found that each subsequent attempt to light a spark was met with both failure and was punctuated by a loud 'ha-ha' from his companion. At long last the mouse had had enough.

"Ha-ha-OW!" Fret rubbed his wounded noise, where he'd received a sharp smack from the stick.

"Haha." Momchillo snapped, ducking back to work with the fire. Shoving a branch into a crack on a small log, he then proceeded to rub viciously when 'thump' a snowball caught him clear in the face. The mouse shot to his feet, glaring angrily at his companion.

"Ha-ha." The calm, casual taunt coming out the sour face of his 'friend' made Momchillo snap.

"Do you want a fire, or not?"

Fret shrugged. "You can't make one anyways."

"And you can?" Momchillo challenged. "At least I tried!"

"I tried too!" Fret snapped back. "Then you started laughing!"

"Try again then." He pointed at a patch of empty snow several feet away. "Over there!"

"I will!" Fret shot back. He stood up and snatched a pile of wood for himself. "Over here!"

"Good!"

The pair turned away from each other, each working furiously on building their own flame. Each desperate to give the other a smug grin. Each desperate to get the final 'ha-ha'.

Yet not a single spark would come. No matter how they twisted, or rubbed, or blew at the wood, no fire would greet them. Fret was the first to give up. Why had Momchillo not just let him sleep to begin with? He could have been mid-dream by now! Hot and angry, he curled in on himself as far as he could, becoming a little ball of black and white fur. Momchillo gave up soon after. Punching the snow into a semi-comfortable position, he too curled up to sleep.

It was the best rest Fret had had since leaving the abbey. And although he knew it was a dream, the dream was wonderful. Or at least... It ended up that way.

He was shivering slightly as he stomped up the path to Redwall Abbey. With every step he took the gates drew closer and closer, the massive walls seemed to grow and grow, until they were tall enough to cover the clouds.

He was not sure what he felt. It was not fear, though he was scared. It was not shame, although ashamed he felt. Nor was he joyful despite the overwhelming urge to give his dumbest, goofiest grin.

The smell of something warm and tasty wafted towards him, and seemed to hook him by the nose. His empty stomach dragged him forwards even if he could no longer feel his feetpaws. If he wasn't so worried he'd have drooled.

At last he reached the gates. Next to the abbey he was nothing, merely an ant. No, not even an ant... but what was smaller than an ant?

He raised a shaking paw to knock on the door, but before he could even stop his quivering, the gates swung open. A thousand sounds greeted him, the joyful and loud chatter of every Redwall feast. The clatter of knives and forks and spoons on plates. The wonderful scent of candied chestnuts and nutbread and greensap milk and the gallons of soup and- this time he did drool. The pull on his nose was stronger than ever, but Fret refused to obey.

He hated the feasts. No sooner would he walk in than the staring would begin. And Bella and Abbot Martin and everybeast else would scold him for being late and not knocking on the gate.

But there was an alternative. Constance and he lived in the gatehouse... If he could just sneak in without anybeast noticing... It would be like he had never left. Or at least he wouldn't have to deal with anything until when everybeast woke up.

His hopes were dashed almost immediately when he saw Constance coming towards him. He did not know what to do or what to say or- "Sorry." He snapped. He buried his face in his paws. No, he had to do this right. He swallowed. "I'm sorry." He was serious, he was sorry. This was probably more remoresful than he'd ever been. His eyes were swimming with tears. "F-for leaving, f-for not coming back, f-for being a-" He swallowed again. Being a what? A vermin? A ferret? A sorry excuse for a son? Why was his voice nasally?

But then she hugged him. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Fret was not a huggy person. He tolerated such behavior from Constance, hated it from Connington and loathed it from everybeast else. Yet, he could not stop himself hugging her back. It was a soppy, softy, mushy-gushy thing to do that made him squirm uncomfortably- but he did it anyways. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when he felt Constance shaking him slightly.

"Fret." This was like when he'd been younger and smaller, and Constance had effortlessly rocked him to sleep, despite his every attempt to escape her grip. Because he was not a dibbun anymore and he did not need to be mothered into bed! The memory made him hug tighter. He did not want to let her go- would not let her go.

"Fret!" There was a note of insistence in her voice- perhaps she too was not a huggy person after all... though he found that unlikely after more than ten seasons of her molly-coddling.

"FRET!" Momchillo was shouting in his ear.

The ferret blinked back into the cold reality. He was no longer holding his beloved mother, but was wrapped up with the mouse he loathed.

"What?" He demanded. He noticed that the mouse had a rather firm grip on his nose. No wonder his voice had sounded so strange.

"You drooled on me." The mouse glowered angrily. "And you're hugging me. And you were murmuring in your sleep. And why am I holding your nose?"

The details of their dreams came back to them, followed by the full details of their current position. Momchillo did indeed have a patch of fresh saliva dripping off the top of his head. The mouse was tugging Fret by the nose. Their tails were wrapped round each other's and covered in a thick layer of ice and snow.

"I thought-" Began Momchillo, releasing Fret's nose.

"You were-" Fret swallowed, pulling his arms away from the mouse's form.

"MY MOTHER!"

"MY MO- Con-stance!" Constance was not his mother. Seasons of calling her 'momma' could not hide the fact that he was a ferret and she was a mouse. Mice did not give birth to ferrets. Mice couldn't give birth to ferrets. Mice couldn't... Love... Ferrets... Yet the hug had felt so real.

Both pulled away from each other. There was a few minutes of desperate, hasty grooming on both their parts. How long had they been like that? Why had they been like that?

It was a short while before either of them noticed the small, dying fire that lay before them. Fret's face fell... evidently Momchillo was better at making a fire than he was. He gazed at his own pile, covered not in smoke, but in a fresh layer of snow and his face fell even further. "So." He swallowed. "You made a fire." Envy was once more swimming inside him. The stupid, perfect mouse always did everything right! Even when he laughed at him, or picked on him... Or rather, especially so.

To his surprise, Momchillo looked surprised. "I thought... you did." The mouse turned his gaze towards his own, abandoned pile of wood. They noticed the pawprints in the snow, coming from one empty pile of wood to where they say now. "Did we move closer to each other... in our sleep?"

Wordlessly they both returned to desperately grooming themselves. Fret did not know what to say. He felt somehow... humiliated. It wasn't Momchillo's fault but at the same time this was entirely Momchillo's fault! If not for the mouse he'd be going... raiding... with Clogg... who helped murder his nuncle... and he'd have never seen Constance again. Something tugged at his tail.

Now he felt guilty! He'd have willingly abandoned Constance and Connington for a no-good, villainous pirate who... loved him like a son. All Clogg had ever shown him was affection. The tugging was stronger now.

Yet no matter how much Clogg had loved him, Clogg was vermin. Fret did not belong in his world. Then again he did not belong in Redwall Abbey. Hellgates, he didn't even belong amongst other ferrets! He had to stop saying 'Hellgates', that was what Whimper said. Fret never said Hellgates, Fret never said Hellgates, Fret never said- The tugging turned to pulling and Fret's face met the snow.

"Stop pulling my tail!" He snapped, turning to glare at the mouse. Both he and Momchillo spotted the problem immediately. Both yelled in one voice. Their tails, wrapped round each other, was frozen solid under a thick layer of ice.

Momchillo pulled sharply, trying to extricate his tail from the tangle.

"Ow! Ow! OW!" The ferret's eyes were filled with tears. "You're pulling my fur off." He whined.

"Sorry." The rodent sounded not at all apologetic. "But you're right. We shouldn't panic, we should use our heads. The fire will melt this off." The mouse turned back to the flames expectantly.

A sudden, strong gust of wind promptly dumped a small pile of snow onto it. Yelling in fruitless panic Momchillo wiped the snow away and blew desperately at the darkened embers. Fret's face darkened. So fire was made by blowing. Stupid mouse...

Yet no fire would come of the ashes and embers, now charred black. At last Momchillo gave up with a low moan. "What are we going to do?"

Fret, though he disliked the newfound proximity he and the mouse had to share, did not see much of a problem. "We could keep going. Redwall's just... south of here. Just across Blue Lake and... everything else..." His heart sank a little. They were ages away from Redwall. Ages he would have to spend alone... with Momchillo.

"You're forgetting we're stuck together." The mouse spoke through gritted teeth.

"So?"

"So! We won't go three feet without tripping over our tails!"

Fret snorted. "Not even you're that clumsy."

Momchillo gave him a wide fake smile and pointed ahead. "You lead the way then."

"With pleasure." He did not last three steps, he did not even last one before he tripped over a stray piece of wood buried under snow.

"Told you so."

Gritting his teeth, the ferret tugged hard on his own tail, so that Momchillo lost his footing and landed rump-first on the snow.

"Hahahahahahaha!" He made his laughter as cruel as possible. The mouse glowered at him.

"We'll melt the ice off, with the embers." He caught hold of Fret's tail and successfully began dragging the ferret towards the remains of the fire. The ferret in question was momentarily stunned by the mouse's display of strength... before he remembered that he didn't weigh that much to begin with. Digging his claws as deeply into the snow as possible, he tugged against the mouse's pull. For a short while they struggled before Momchillo let go.

"Do you want to be free or not?"

"Stop pulling! It hurts! And you'll burn my tail-fur."

"No I won't! We're just melting off the ice!"

"Easy for you to say. You don't have any fur to burn."

Momchillo seethed and for a second it looked like he was about to jump up and down in rage. "Gah you... coward!"

"Better a coward than a bully!" Fret snapped back immediately. "Worm-tail!"

"Mask-face!" The mouse retorted, successfully managing to drag Fret through the snow despite the ferret's efforts to thwart him.

This was a battle Fret knew he could not win. Momchillo, despite his size, was stronger than him. He was smarter and stronger and... alone. Grollo was not here to hold him back. Matiya was not here to drag him off the mouse. Bella was not here to send him to dish duty. It was just him and Momchillo.

"Dibbun! Grow up why don't you?"

The mouse stopped suddenly and fell to his knees, releasing a dry sob. For a second Fret was frightened he'd overdone it... until he heard what the mouse was saying.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Fret went red and began stammering, though even he wasn't too sure what he was trying to say. Probably an excuse or denial that he'd ever said that. Momchillo walked forwards and patted him jovially on the top of his head. "Leave it to the professionals." Fret glared, but he was still pink and stammering, so the effect was not quite what he wanted it to be. Momchillo spotted something further ahead in the snow and made is way over to it, whilst Fret continued to stutter half-formed insults.

He could not let Momchillo get the better of him. Not here, not again, not like always! Suddenly he saw Momchillo stoop to pick up a book. His book! He must have dropped it at some point and if Momchillo saw what was inside it he would... he would... he... he had to do something!

The book was not much older than the mouse himself. How it had gotten there was beyond him, yet if a pile of firewood could be found, apparently waiting for them, who knew what the book was for? Perhaps it had been placed there for him to find it... Excitement made his paws shake, and drove him to open the tome.

Of course, Fret had to ruin it. With nothing short of a giant snowball. While the mouse was blinded, he felt the book wrenched free of his grasp. The ferret now stood before him, a wide, nervous grin on his muzzle. His paws hidden behind his back.

Momchillo was thoroughly tempted to hit him. It was only through immeasurable self-control that he did not. "Give it back!"

"Give w-what back?" Fret said with a gulp.

"The book! The one I just found before you stole it."

"I don't have a book." The ferret lied.

Momchillo's face darkened. "What do you have then?"

"Nothing." Once more Fret swallowed. He flinched at the new intensity of Momchillo's glare.

The mouse went on tip-paw to try and peer round the ferret's long, thin form. But Fret was ready for this and turned along with him, so that no matter which way the mouse looked he was faced with a nervous smile.

At last the mouse had had enough and jabbed him roughly in the belly. The ferret doubled over suddenly, the book forgotten. Momchillo dove onto his back, trying to reach out for the tome. But the ferret could not take his weight and came crashing down into the snow. Momchillo wrenched the book from his grasp and sat down resolutely on top of him, to prevent him getting interrupted this time. It was not enough prevention. Fret pulled hard on his own tail, so that the mouse lost his balance and fell over. The book slipped from his grip and landed on the snow a few feet away. Both dove for it, missed, and became entangled in one another's writhing limbs.

Fret bit down hard on the fur near his mouth- only to be painfully made aware he was biting his own tail. Momchillo had somehow extricated himself and was stooping over to pick up the book. Fret shot to his feet in panic, as Momchillo was on the cusp of opening the book. His claws slammed into both sides of the tome and squeezed it shut. They locked eyes, Momchillo was the picture of annoyance, Fret on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"Let go!"

"No!"

"What's it to you!" The mouse seethed.

"None of your business!"

"Oh so it's your business?! I found it!"

"And I stole it!" The words were out his mouth before Fret even knew what he was saying. He regretted them immediately.

The mouse stopped pulling abruptly, so that the ferret fell hard on his rump.

"Really? Your book?" The mouse sounded skeptical. Then realization hit him. "Your book? Y-you-" The mouse clutched his head in his paws. His whole body was quivering in rage. "You stole the book? When?" Yet no sooner had he asked than he knew the answer. "When you went to get the key?"

Fret shrunk under the accusation. He opened his mouth to say something, a lie, an excuse, anything- but no words would come. The shrinking only confirmed the mouse's theory.

"The key which we didn't need! And which didn't exist! The one you ran off to get without telling me. You didn't have a book crying in the corner with you, did you?"

Fret flinched again. "I-I-I-"

"What are you hiding?" He snapped, cutting through the stammering.

"None of your business." Fret snapped back, then he shrunk again. "It's- no, it's personal. I- sorry."

Momchillo facepalmed. "A stolen book is personal? You are such a bad liar. Next time you apologize, mean it. Maybe you can even convince me." Now he was getting angry again.

"I d-didn-"

"Save it! I don't care Fret! I really, really don't care! We left Redwall to save your ungrateful tail and what happened? You tried to kill me, we ended up enslaved! Matiya's probably dead and-" The mouse took a deep shuddering breath. "And we'd have gotten back if he hadn't gone back to get you!" The mouse grimaced. His eyes were swimming with tears, but his face was still contorted in anger.

"I'm sorry." Fret squeaked. Momchillo grabbed him by his front and glared down at him. The two were nose to nose and shaking.

"Tell that to him. He was the only one stupid enough to believe you anyways."

"Thi- not, I didn't want- not my faul-" The ferret wasn't even thinking now. It was his fault. Matiya, dead. His Nuncle, dead...

Momchillo shoved him into the snow, hard. "Say it all you want Fret, this is entirely your fault! We are leagues away from Redwall!"

Fret was rocking up and down in the snow, his mouth making noiseless protestations of innocence.

"Go on, cry. That's all you do Fret! You cry and you snap! Snap and cry and complain! And whine and whimper and bawl and-" He took another deep breath. He was stuck to Fret, he could not loose Fret, Fret was all he had left. But he was just so angry! It didn't help that he'd dreamed of Redwall. A home and mother he'd left behind for... "Bad-tempered little-"

"Go on say it! Just say it! I'm vermin!" Fret rose to his feetpaws. The words did not want to leave him but he forced them out anyways. "I'm either sad or angry because if I'm not angry I'm sad and I'd rather be angry than sad because-" He could barely see through the tears. He was not making any sense to himself anyways. "No matter who when, where, why-" He wiped his nose on his wrist-fur. "Or how! Everything is always my fault! I'm always guilty because I'm vermin and I'll always be guilty because I'll always be vermin!"

He did not want to continue, but could no longer surpress feelings he'd kept shut for ten seasons. After all, he'd been forced to re-live them a few hours before. "It's alright for you, because you're a mouse! When we- If we ever get back to Redwall you'll be welcomed home! I'm not welcome anywhere! And for what? Because of my temper? My 'bad-temper'? Or because I'm not an abbeybeast? Because I-I-I chose to be bad? Because I l-lie and s-snap and-"

He could go no further. His mind was boiling, his claws were out, his fangs bared, his eyes narrowed into his strongest glare. He was furious. With Connington for dying. With Constance, for ever picking him up in the first place, with Matiya for believing in him, with Momchillo and Grollo and the other kids for everything. With Abbot Martin for all his lessons. The Badgermum, for never being fair. With Clogg, for caring about him. With the dumb book and the dumb portraits for not knowing who he was and where he'd come from. With the yo-yo for...

And at the end of the day, it was all his fault. He could, and would, point and complain and put the blame anywhere but at his feetpaws... but at the end of the day... his existence was the sole cause of all his troubles. His dumb black and white fur, the dumb mask on the top of his snout and around his eyes, his dumb teeth and claws for being sharp! His dumb brain for not knowing where he belonged! Himself for being a lying, nuncle-murdering, rude, snapping, cowardly, blame-shifting ferret!

Fret turned his back resolutely away from the mouse.

Momchillo, though still angry, had been taken aback by the outburst. He was at a loss for words.

The pair succumbed into silence after that.

Sharpfur waited until he was quite sure his companions were asleep. Grollo was snoring softly to his side and Hawthorn was as dead to the world as... Well... A deadbeast. Armed with a candle, the mysterious book and a dick-sigh-on-airy he was determined to discover what lay within the pages of his discovery.

''Dear Diarry,'

The writing was big and messier than his. Each word took half a page and had to be carefully taken apart and deciphered. For a moment he wondered what poor vermin had been forced to write it down. Then he remembered that he was probably the first poor vermin who'd been forced to learn the squiggles.

The weasel's face was the very image of concentration. His brow furrowed, forehead creased, eyes fixed rigidly at the scribble in front of him. Sharpfur paused to flick through the en-sick-o-ped-ya of words to find out the meaning of 'diarry'. No 'diarry' to be found... There was another word with two 'r's though...

'Diarrhea are loose, watery stools-'

The weasel slammed the book shut viciously. "Ew, ew, ew, ew! That is dis-gusting! Even for me!" He regretted the outburst when he heard Grollo roll in his sleep and Hawthorn muttering at him to 'go to sleep'. He paused to make sure both his companions were fast asleep once more. He would proceed more cautiously from now on. Cracking the book open with the tips of his claws, Sharpfur went to the next line.

''Today I saw a taddy-pole in the lake. It was big and black and slimy."

The weasel sniffed at the parchment, before turning to the next page. He was no longer entirely sure a child had written this...

"I can't wait forit to grow into a beautiful froggy. He will have very long legs and be very kind. We will hold hands and play and dance and sing and daddy says he can join my tea-party."

Sharpfur yawned widely. Sixteen pages in and he had yet to discover anything of interest. And it was making him sleepy too, that was not good.

"Spike says that froggies are meanies. He says they're worse than vermin. But I don't think vermin are so bad."

Sharpfur snickered. Silly woodlanders everywhere he looked. Frogs and vermin were equally despicable. Though the weasel had never met a frog... And had no inclination to do so either. He'd probably have to kill it.

"I've never met vermin. But daddy says that they're not so bad to us poor folk. He says if we were rich, however, that they'd murder us. I hope froggy never tried to murder me."

There was an unfamiliar squirming in his stomach. He could not quite place it, it being a never-before-felt sensation. Was this what the weak called pity? It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Anyways Diarry I have to be back afore Nightfall. Goodnight."

"That's it!?" Snapped Sharpfur, surprised by his own reaction. There was the sound of a door opening and the weasel shot into action. He blew out the candle and kicked it under his bed. Then hopped around clutching his footpaw in pain. The footsteps were coming closer. He slammed the dick-sigh-on-airy shut and slipped it under his pillow. He then shot into bed, the blanket disgarded, and lay still in the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever, the 'Diarry' flat against his stomach.

The door creaked open and Sharpfur hastened to snore. His heart was pattering wildly but he tried to make his breathing sound as normal as possible.

"Poor thing. Must have fell asleep with the dictionary." The hedgepig retrieved the fat book from where it jutted out under his pillow. Gently she arranged his limbs into a comfortable position, before placing a blanket over him. His snores were momentarily interrupted by the disgust he felt when she kissed his forehead.

It was only through his powers of extreme patience that he waited until the door to her own room had closed before he started desperately wiping the spot clean off the face of the world. Disgusting soft woodlanders! His mother hadn't kissed him in seasons! Why couldn't everybeast else be normal like her? The book had been a waste of time it seemed... No matter, there were others... Hopefully one had a way off this infernal island.

Of course... he needed to get the rest of the books first.

Hawthorn was surprised the next morning when she found Sharpfur enthusiastically assisting the old hedgehog in the kitchens, chattering endlessly about his mother.

"Oh my mammy was a good cook. Very good. Could make almost anything edible! If there weren't any fruits or borrowed veg she'd grind bark in a bowl and mix it with mushrooms an' some herbs. Boil it in water and ye've got the best soup fer miles an' miles. Ye'd be surprised, I swear on me tail everybeast in our crew would ask fer more an' more an' more until me mam started hurlin' back the bowls at 'em. Hehehehehehehehehe!" His paws scrubbed viciously at the dirty dishes.

"Good...morning." Said Hawthorn slowly.

Sharpfur turned to her, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Good morning!"

She blinked and pinched herself.

"Oh, good morning dear. Sharpfur was just telling me about his home."

"And helped with the dishes." Said Grollo, entering dumbstruck.

"Ye bet I did woodlanders!" Said Sharpfur, placing the last squeaky clean plate on a pile of others. He marched forwards between them, spun on his heel and threw his paws about their shoulders. "C'mon now, breakfast's packed and there are strawberries te collect!" He said, throwing his paws into the air in celebration.

"I just woke up." Grollo complained.

"Can't we go after breakfast?" Agreed Hawthorn. For a split second Sharpfur looked murderous, but then he smirked.

"Why ever not?" He turned to the old hedgepig. "You don't mind of course?"

"Don't be silly dear, of course you can have breakfast. Go and sit yourselves down, I'll be with you in a minute."

Sharpfur looked murderous for half a second, but switched into a smile before anybeast noticed. He could not blow this opportunity.

Breakfast was boring, simply put. It was most likely only ten minutes of noisy chewing, but to the impatient weasel it felt like a full season. Then after Grollo the Greedy had finished his third bowl of porridge the kindly old hedgepig had offered him even more- confirming the weasel's suspicions that she was trying to fatten them up!

"Well... I am a growing beast, mam. I need lots of vittles to grow big and strong." The hedgehog replied cheekily, holding his bowl out for more.

"More like short and fat." Muttered Sharpfur contemptuously.

"Look who's talking about short."

"Now, now boys, there's plenty for everybeast." The old hedgepig chided, dipping her ladle into the bowl of porridge.

Grollo licked his lips in anticipation, when Sharpfur got in the way. "NOOOOOOO!" He gave a great cry and rose to his feet adding an impressively small amount of height to himself. He raised a single claw and closed his eyes as he released a powerful statistic he'd made up on the spot. "One bowl of porridge is good for a snack. Two bowls of porridge are good for breakfast. Eat three and you'll end up fat. Four and you'll walk no more!"

The old hedgepig hesitated. "Perhaps... it shan't be too long before lunch anyways."

Grollo was too well-trained to argue and withdrew his bowl with an air of not caring. "I suppose Sharpfur's right."

The weasel clapped his paws together in triumph. "Alrighty, time fer pickin', coz those strawberries won't eat themselves!"

"Since when did you like collecting strawberries?" Grollo cocked his head to the side, his jaw slightly agape.

"Since I read about the health be-nee-fits of the fruit." The lie came easily and confused the hedgepig even more. The weasel was now putting on a coat several sizes too big for him.

"Sharpfur is good at reading now." Said the old hedgehog with fierce pride.

"Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." Said Hawthorn. The familiarity of an annoyed Sharpfur would have helped make sense of the scene.

As always, Sharpfur disappointed. "It would be me pleasure! First person I greet when we get back te yer abbey will be the Father Abbot!"

Hawthorn and Grollo shared a stunned look, but it was the old hedgehog who Sharpfur kept track of. Sure enough she had stiffened at the mention of Redwall.

"Well then... I suppose, we'll be back afore lunchtime."Started Hawthorn slowly.

"Yes my dears! Of course yes, as soon as your baskets are full." She smiled, but Sharpfur could tell that the mention of leaving had shook her.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the cottage he turned to his companions, his face dark. His pretense forgotten.

"She'll never let us leave."

"Relax man, you're going from all vermin-ey to cheerful to serious too quickly for me to keep track of." Grollo joked, clutching the sides of his head.

Hawthorn frowned. "What is up with you?"

"Nothing! But look, Spring is here and we're not going anywhere! All we get is 'back afore this-time' and 'back afore that-time'. And that's when we're even allowed outside her vis-i-on."

"Snow is still piled up everywhere in case you haven't noticed." The hedgehog pointed out grumpily.

"Yer an idjit and I am going to prove it to ye. Just wait." He stomped off grumpily, rounded a large pile of trees, then broke into a run.

It had been so easy! Almost too easy! First he pretended to be kind so that the dumb old hedgepig didn't know what he was up to. Then he did it just to tick off the abbeybeasts. It had been difficult at first, but he needed to get the rest of the books. For... reasons...

He slowed down when he thought he reached a familiar looking place. First he had to find them.

"He's up to something." Grollo murmured, staring at the direction the weasel had taken. It was like the time Fret had come on the otter trip. His stomach twisted painfully. That had been a disaster. From what he'd seen the Skipper had nearly run the ferret through. That would have been horrible... Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about whatever it was Sharpfur wanted to do.

Hawthorn frowned. "I agree that the dish-washing and 'good morning's were a bit suspicious but he can't really do anything." She shrugged. "Should we follow him?"

Grollo shook his head. "It's like you said, he can't really do anything."

They fell into silence as they picked at the sweet, red berries. Hawthorn let her mind wonder. She and Grollo would probably be the last to reach Redwall Abbey. The others were probably worried sick. Poor Bella, she had always been the Badgermum's favourite. And the kindly Friar who was Grollo's father. The food was probably not very good these days.

But when they returned all would be well. There would be a feast to celebrate. Momchillo and Matiya would hug Grollo tight despite his quills, and Roseheart would probably cry. And Sharpfur would... Replace Fret as resident vermin? There was a small jolt in her insides. Fret... She had forgotten about Fret. Well... She supposed Fret was back too. Sharpfur would like that. He wouldn't be the sole vermin in the abbey. Though perhaps it was best if Fret did not come back...

As far as vermin were concerned however, the weasel was not bad. Yes, he stunk. Yes, it would be foolish to trust him. Yet... The three of them had had fun together. The snowball fights, the food fights, the endless bickering... A lot of it had been strangely... Endearing.

"Do you think we'll ever get back?" Grollo's question snapped her back into reality.

"Of course we will!" She said, far too quickly. "Sharpfur's just being worried. Don't worry Grollo, we'll be back soon."

The hedgehog did not seem convinced. "I don't know Hawthorn. It's... been a long time. And it's not like anybeast's looking for us."

"Don't say that! Of course somebeast's looking for us! Your parents are worried sick! And Bella and Abbot Martin!"

"Well... they haven't found us yet, have they?"

The vole looked stricken. "We... well... the others are back!" She said fiercely. "And just because they haven't found us yet doesn't mean they're not looking!"

He blinked, then went a delicate shade of pink. "I know they're looking... I know. It's just..."

"I know what you mean." She said, cutting him off. "But if we loose hope now Grollo, we'll never get back."

"I suppose." He drifted off into sullen silence.

Hawthorn hated looking at anybeast- let alone Grollo, who was ever so kind- sad. "Come on, cheer up. Imagine er- what Abbot Martin's teaching now?"

Abbot Martin sat cross-legged in front of the young weasels. The four had proven... Difficult. So far, he had been met with silence, snarls and death-threats, usually in reverse order. He had of course faced difficult students before but... Matiya and Grollo were distracted by swordsbeastship and food respectively. Fret was lazy and disinterested. Roseheart was half-blind like most moles. But at the end of the day a single scolding, a stern glance, and the occasional candied chestnut was enough to push them into the right track.

The weasels? Not really. They clung to each other like a pack, and the old mouse had never seen them separated from one another. Scold one and the others would start biting. Throw a stern glance at one, the rest would glare. Give one a candied chestnut... and (as the Abbot had learned the hard way) they would try and choke you with it. He had yet to learn their names. He doubted that would help. Three were indistinguishable and one was a babe.

They slept in an empty cellar, the door was not locked but was too heavy for them to push open from within. They had been given blankets and pillows and clean habits, but refused everything given to them. Feeding them had been difficult at first, purely because nobeast had particularly wanted to do it. And because they had tried to stab the Recorder with a fork when he had eventually started doing it. Abbot Martin had since taken over (and stopped bringing forks). Of course they had mellowed slightly- or at least they stopped trying to chew his tail off whenever he showed up.

This time he was equipped, not only with lunch, but with a book. It was a History book, as was to be expected, and yet aside from Fret nobeast had failed to be enthralled by it. The ferret had fallen asleep over it at least... twice a day. Though the Abbot would not mind a pack of sleeping weasels at this point. They were sweeter when asleep.

"What do ye want?" Snapped one.

"Well I brought you your supper." He pushed the tray forwards slowly. The quartet crept closer and sniffed suspiciously at the food. Finding no issue they cautiously began nibbling a bun each. "And er- I was hoping you would allow me to read to you."

"We don't need a bedtime story." Snapped another.

"Yeah! Go boil in puddin' abbotmouse!"

The Abbot flinched. Still boiling in pudding seemed superior to 'go flay yourself'. This, he took, to be another hallmark of progress. Even if... Only very slightly. "Now, now. Be reasonable. You may have food and er-comfort, but surely you miss some form of, shall we say entertainment?"

"We don't need your help having fun!"

"Aye! We have lotsa fun!"

"Widout the stupid mice!"

"Please. Surely your parents read- er, told you stories."

"Yer not our papa!"

"Or mammy!"

"I never said-" He protested.

"Let's hit him."

"Aye, t'would be mighty en-tur-tainting."

The old mouse knew better than to take such threats lightly and rose to his shaky old feetpaws. "Very well then. Enjoy your supper." And with that he turned and left.

As the cellar door creaked shut the four were left in semi-darkness, having refused candles of every sort before-paw.

"I wouldn't have minded a story." Mumbled Cheesienibbles.

"Shut it Cheese! Only the weak, ugly, stupid and pathetic wear spectacles."

The Abbot was unsurprised to find Roseheart- or was it Rosebrush? He had always gotten the names mixed up. Still he found the young molemaid waiting for him.

It was to be expected, with all her peers gone and the present, dull mood of the abbey, that she would cling to her elders for hope. Yet most turned her away, too busy with their own problems. A steady decline in the richness of the food showed, clearer than anything to the old Abbot, that most beasts had lost hope of reuniting with their young. After all, nearly a dozen weeks alone and out in the snow could kill grown beasts, what to speak of those still growing? Constance was guilty, that her son had caused so much misery. The Foremole was guilty, for having a daughter safe and at home. The others missed their children. Those that did not have children had gradually stopped trying to cheer the others up. The Recorder wrote sad poetry on the few days he could muster the desire to write anything. The words 'I am sure they are all right' were just an empty promise now.

He himself had given up hope a long time ago... Yet the Abbey needed to continue, as it always had. And he would be damned if Redwall crumbled under his bespectacled gaze.

So he smiled. It was only half-faked, for despite his inner misery he was glad that at least sweet young Rose had come home. The search party were still looking of course, but every time they returned it was empty-pawed. "Rose, cheer up now. What's troubling you?" He already knew what troubled her. Every time she closed her eyes she remembered it all, being tied to a mast, the pack of vermin, being on the dinghy... They had been so close to coming home. Then Matiya had turned back and the ship had lurched...

"Oi bin tryin' ter sleep Father Abbot zurr. But oi... can't."

The old mouse shook his head. "Rose, you know I can't help with that."

"Oi knows it zurr, it's just everybeast else's busy."

The Abbot harrumphed. "Busy moping, as per usual. If only there was a way to smack everybeast out of this sorrow!" The molemaid flinched, and the Abbot lowered his ears guiltily, he hadn't meant to sound so harsh. "I mean, naturally, this is a great tragedy but we must rise above it. Throughout this Abbey's history there have been countless such tragedies, and yet do you think we would be here now if those that came before us failed to pick themselves up and rise to the challenges life hurled at them?"

Once more the mole seemed to stir guiltily. "I am not talking about you." The old mouse explained, holding out his paw. "You have been through a lot Young Rose, you have every right to peace and rest. It is our responsibility to look after you, and so far most of us have failed miserably."

"Oi don't think you failed zurr." She said, very quietly. Yet she gripped his paw as tightly as possible.

"Well, that remains to be seen. Come child, let us find a book to read and drown our sorrows in hope."

"You'm ought ter do speeches."

The Abbot's ears perked up considerably and now his small smile was entirely genuine. "That is nice of you to say."

The books had been easy to find- almost too easy. And indeed it had only been too easy because Vulpuz, the cruel lord of fate, had decided to mess with him even further. So when he found them most of the pages were soaked through. The crayon was still read-able, but only the first page of each book. The second he tried to turn it he was greeted with torn paper and a glimpse of jumbled paw-writing.

"Useless, useless, useless!" He hissed, hurling another old book as far as he could. It hit a tree and seemed to explode into a thousand pieces of old parchment. At this rate he'd never get home. He'd never see Grey Claw, Blizzard, Heartrip and Redtail or his little sisters... and little Cheese, and his mother and father. Threeclaw would never spar with him. Gulash would not chase him to Hellgates over a thrown snowball. Sick-Eyes would never-

Then he remembered that they were all dead and his hopes fell even further. Still... there was the possibility he could make a living for himself. He was good with a blade and robbing unwary woodlanders was not difficult. He could hide out somewhere in Mossflower and lay in a bed with stolen jewels and eat food pilfered from half-blind picnickers. He could build a collection of hideouts even! So that when somebeast went looking for him he could just hide out and pig out!

Only... He'd do it all alone... Without the Honest Bunch. He'd be singing to himself and laughing at his own jokes and lulling himself to sleep. He'd steal all his own food. He'd steal all his own treasures. He'd...

He realized that he was crying and slammed his head against the trunk of books. It was not fair, not fair, not fair! He'd be alone and- and... "I hope you can hear me Grey- you great, dumb, stupid ugly rat! Because I hate you! I hate you!" Tears were rolling down his cheeks but he did not care. His miserly weakness hurt him... but his heart hurt more. "I hate you for leavin' me! We had... so much more! Te do! Te talk about te- I hope yer burnin' in Hellgates coz ye know how ye was always scared we'd go an' ditch ye like whatever idiot whelped ye- well now I know what it feels like! Coz ye done it to me ye dumb, dumb bloody rat!"

The weasel's foot lashed out in a vicious kick. He hit something very hard, and felt spasms of pain shoot through his whole form. Yet this time he did not hop around in rage. He lashed out again, and again and again... hoping against hope that somehow Greyclaw could feel his pain. By the time he was done the trunk of books and every dumb diary inside it was torn to pieces. Save for one. He lifted it, ignoring the painful throbbing of his footpaw, and found something inside that briefly made his heart soar. It was a map! Of a small island right bam splat in the center of the River Moss. And drawn roughly into a part of it, was what was unmistakably a boat!

The weasel raced along the ground in what was the wrong way. He paused briefly to get his bearings, checked that he was heading in the right direction, and then doubled his speed, the remains of the old books, and his grief forgotten.

"He'd say that the vermin ate his homework." Both vole and hedgehog collapsed in a heap of laughter, and laughed still more for a long amount of time.

"We should probably be getting back soon." Grollo huffed at last. The two had spent a rather long amount of time laughing and joking, and were both nearly breathless. Their baskets were full and the berry bushes empty, save for those little green ones that would not turn red until summer.

Hawthorn smiled. "You're right. We wouldn't want to be late for lunch, now would we Grollo?"

The hedgehog frowned a little. "I don't eat so much. Sharpfur eats just as much as me. Only he's little so nobeast notices."

"He's little but wishes he was big. Where is he anyways?"

The little weasel came to a halt in front of a small, dilapidated old shed. He grinned and pushed open the old door. He was unsurprised to find that it was not locked. What he saw next was not surprising either. It was so much better! A boat! An actual boat with an oar and- he raced back outside and around the shed and grinned at the sight of running water. A small stream yes, but it would lead to larger water. The River Moss.

"I am outta here!" He whooped in joy. The weasel barged past the door and lay eager claws on the wood of the little boat. He pulled and pushed and... it failed to budge. "Oh come on! Just! Move!" After tugging and shoving from every possible angle, the weasel collapsed into a panting heap on the ground. "Can nothing just go right! Is freedom too much to ask for? Is it!?" He fell back into panting when his ear gave an involuntary twitch. Far in the distance he could hear his name being called.

Was it lunchtime already? He shot to his feetpaws. He couldn't show the woodlanders this! Not now! Not when- his eyes widened in awe at the sight of the chains tying it to the ground. He darted forwards, searching for a lock. He found it swiftly, and shot his claw inside it. A few moments of frantic wriggling and the lock came free. He threw himself into pushing the boat now and to his immense relief it moved forwards ever-so-slightly.

"Shaaaaaaaarpfur!" The sound was closer now and made him jump, as if what he was doing was wrong and he was about to be caught in his mischief. He paused briefly. He did not have much time before they found his trail, which would surely lead them right to him. Would he manage to get the boat out to the stream before then? And if he did... would he ever see the woodlanders again? His stomach growled slightly. He hadn't had anything for breakfast and... his feetpaw suddenly refused to budge. "Move stupid feet we got to go! We have to... go..." Go where? He did not have anybeast waiting for him. He did not have anywhere to be. Sickletail was not there to welcome him home.

He sighed heavily, growled, kicked the boat as hard as he could, hopped on one foot, pulled himself together and stomped out the door. The map and the book he tucked into his sleeves and slowly he trudged up the ground he'd come from.

Sharpfur told himself it was because he needed to get supplies first. Because he needed help pushing the boat into the stream. Because he couldn't just go traveling alone. There was safety in numbers! Yet ultimately he had to admit, no matter how much he resented it, that he was not the type of beast who could live alone. Dumb and stupid they might be but... the woodlanders were his only friends left.

"Shaaaaaarpfur!"

"Right behind ye." The weasel snapped, bursting through a small bush that had just begun flowering.

"What happened to you?" Asked Grollo. The weasel's glasses were askew, his large coat disheveled, his left footpaw red and swollen.

"Nothin'. Now quite yer shoutin' and let's go eat! I ain't sure about you numpties, but I'm starvin'!" Adjusting his spectacles he proceeded to lead the way back towards the cottage. He disappeared behind a tree as Grollo leaned down towards Hawthorn.

"He's up to something." The hedgehog whispered to the vole from out the side of his mouth.

"I know. But what can he do?" She whispered back.

"Ye'd be surprised. I've got pretty good hearing." He said, reappearing between them. He threw his paws round their shoulders and now guided them all forwards. "I'm goin' ter be honest with ye, I've grown..." He seemed to be struggling to say the last word, till at last it burst out from him. "Attached."

"Attached?" Hawthorn turned to him, perplexed.

"Te ye lot." The weasel explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Grollo with a frown.

Sharpfur shook his head. "Eh forget it. Let's go grab some lunch."

Momchillo did not realize he was dreaming until he felt a warm paw on his shoulder. The mouse shot to his feetpaws, his jaw dropping as his eyes found the figure before him.

For a very long time he was unable to do anything beyond stand and gawp at Martin the Warrior.

He was dreaming, he realized suddenly. But that did not make this experience any less real. He had heard of course that the fabled warrior would come and guide the creatures of Redwall in times of trouble. But he was leagues away from Redwall and had been in trouble for weeks! Still any misgivings he could have had vanished as excitement set in.

It was almost tradition that every generation of dibbuns dreamed of doing what their ancestors did. Fight for justice and freedom. Solve the nefarious riddles left behind by some old, wise beast seasons prior. Find a great treasure. Feast (of course, for bodies needed nourishment) and meet Martin the Warrior.

Of those activities, the latter had always appealed to Momchillo the most. Matiya wanted to fight. Grollo wanted to feast. But he had always wanted to meet his idol. And here he was! His tail wagged rapidly behind him and he opened his mouth to say something, anything. The warrior smiled and he was unable to say anything. Remembering that the legendary Martin must have come for some purpose he found the larger mouse's paw pointed forwards diagonally across the icy lake.

"I should go that way?" He asked suddenly, his vision swallowed by the vast frozen lake lying before him. The warrior did the smallest of nods and Momchillo gave an undignified squeal of delight.

Martin's smile seemed to widen slightly, and gently he patted the top of Momchillo's head. "You have been very brave so far, but you must be braver still. The path to Redwall Abbey is long and perilous and I can promise you now that it won't be easy. Just remember to be brave, and stay brave. And every turn from this point forwards must be to the left."

"Thank you! Left, right? I mean, just left."

"Exactly."

Overwhelmed with excitement and joy, the young mouse shot forwards, his tail continuously wagging behind him. He was going for a hug, but was met instead with a face-full of snow.

"Fret!" He snarled, pulling himself back to his feetpaws. Wait? He had jumped? So Fret hadn't hurled a bucket of snow at him?

"What?" Squeaked the ferret, shrinking in on himself.

A small bubble of guilt swelled up inside him. "Er-nothing, I was sleeping."

Now Fret looked annoyed. "So what were you pulling my tail for?"

Momchillo grimaced. "I- look it doesn't matter! The point is I know the way back!"

"Yeah. So do I."

Both pointed forwards... only in opposite directions. "That way!"

Fret was scowling darkly. "No, it's right across Blue Lake, which is this way!"

"Yes, but it's Spring and ice melts in springtime. If we go that way the ice will break beneath us." He had no way of knowing of course, the snow seemed to be doing no melting. But still he had to convince Fret to come with him. Splitting up was not an option! Even if they could split up." I had a dream Fret. And you'll never guess who I saw! Martin the Warrior!" This would have delighted Matiya, made Grollo squeal and Hawthorn faint.

Fret merely donned his most sardonic smile and crossed his paws across his chest. "Really? Martin the Warrior? Sure! Sure! Let's go where he says we should go- oh but wait! He told you to go that way, but he didn't say anything to me! Maybe... perhaps... it's because... oh yeah! He's dead. He's dead and he's not here. And if he is here now, where was he when we got kidnapped? Where was he when I-" He stopped suddenly, as if he'd almost said something indecent.

"Fret. You know just as well as I do that in times of trouble Abbeybeasts everywhere have seen him and received guidance from-"

"I know, I know." The ferret snapped crossly. "Martin the bloody Warrior! Slayer of vermin and bringer of justice. Oh wait, I am vermin. Maybe I shouldn't listen to somebeast who goes around-"

"Fret! You're being ridiculous! Why would Martin want to kill you?" The mouse did not give him time to think of anything. "Look, if we don't find anything, we can turn back around. We're far enough from Redwall for it not to make a difference. We have all the time in the world."

"You mean all the time in the world until we starve or freeze to death." The ferret muttered under his breath.

The mouse cradled his head in his paws just to stop himself from loosing his temper. "Please! Just for a bit and then we can turn back and go your way. Okay?"

Fret froze on the verge of speech. Then the ferret deflated. "Fine."

Internally the mouse breathed a sigh of relief. There was only so much arguing he could do... He spun on his heel to begin the trek, when a familiar tug on his tail reminded him of the ferret.

"And how are we supposed to walk with our tails tied together? 'Martin' didn't give a solution to that, did he?" Momchillo was thoroughly tempted to smack him. With difficulty he restrained himself, though his reply was still tempered with anger.

"You could walk backwards then."

"Not gonna happen." The ferret's paws crossed over his chest once more, as the mustelid straightened up obstinately.

"You could try and carry me then!" Momchillo snapped.

"Never in a hundred seasons." Fret snapped back.

"I could carry you!"

"Nah-ah."

"Fret you are difficult! If only we had a sled! Then I could drag- hey that's it! I'll drag you!"

"No thank you!"

"Then you can drag me!"

"Nope!"

"Do you want to go back to Redwall or not!?"

"No! I mean yes!" The ferret growled slightly. "This is ridiculous!"

A tense silence entered the scene. Both held the other's gaze for as long as they could. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Fret gave in.

"Fine! I'll walk." He spat the last word out as viciously as he could, but Momchillo tolerated him. He could not, and would not loose this opportunity! He couldn't wait to see Matiya and Grollo's reactions when he told them of what had transpired in his dream. The hedgehog's jaw would drop to the floor, and Matiya would ask for every little detail. The exact colour of his fur. Length of the tail. Size of the sword hanging from his belt.

He was wrenched free from his thoughts when he found himself slipping backwards on the ice. He and Fret came crashing down onto the frozen water. The pair got up without a word and continued. A few feet after and both came crashing down again. They rose to their feetpaws, Fret grumbling in anger. The third time the pair fell their head's bashed against each other's, making both mouse and mustelid dizzy.

"This isn't going to work." Said Fret, clutching the sides of his head, his vision spinning around him.

"You're right. Plan B."

The ferret was dizzy enough to ask. "What's Plan B?"

'Plan B' was getting dragged. To say that Fret did not like it would be an understatement. He hated it! But what did it matter to the mouse? Momchillo had never really taken Fret's preferences into account. If not for him the ferret would be curled up in an armchair, reading a book or snoring, with Clogg pacing the cabin they shared. He would not be shivering and worrying about his next meal- No!

He was being stupid. Clogg was a pirate. A cruel, sadistic vermin if ever there was one! His crew was the same and Bork was worse. Fret did not belong in such company. Just like he had not belonged with the Honest Bunch and how he had never belonged at Redwall. Perhaps he belonged nowhere...

Still it was a little late for misgivings. He and Momchillo were stuck together. Fate was cruel like that. There was almost nothing he could do now. The mouse would drag him back to Redwall and his doom. Momchillo knew about the stupid book, knew not to trust him and knew what he had done. If they ever got back to Redwall he would be faced with his Nuncle's murder, the other disappearances and a list of further crimes so long that not even Constance could wriggle him out of trouble... Not that she'd want to...

But what could he do? Momchillo was stronger than him, cleverer than him, braver than him... There was no way he could trick the mouse and combat was out of the question. So he let himself get dragged without much complaint.

Even if he could escape, where would he go? Bork would gut him at best and Clogg was not beyond flaying a paw.

The ferret gave a particularly violent shiver at the memory. The blood dripping down Silvertongue's gory hand was as present in his mind as thoughts of terrible things to come. If Sharpfur ever found out about that... The ferret gulped audibly. The little weasel would give him no quarter...

In short his chances of survival were slim to none. He desperately tried to stop his mind from wandering, but that was hard when even the dirty ice reminded him of Clogg's one working eye. And Blue Lake... he'd heard a lot of Blue Lake from the rat.

"I've been under it." He remembered being told. It had been a dark and stormy night and Clogg had found Fret curled up on an armchair, staring at a map of the Northlands, and leaning over the young ferret's head had proceeded to point out all the myths and legends that surrounded the vast lake. "Some say a whale got stuck when it froze over, and the blue's just it's skin shinin' through the ice. Others say that it's where Vulpuz keeps the souls of Hellgates." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I never saw any souls down there. I've heard lots of beasts say it's precious gems what make it so blue. Heh, those ones all end up dead. Ye want ter know what's really under there?" He leaned further forwards, so that he was staring into Fret's eyes upside down.

The ferret gave the tiniest of nods and Clogg's face split into a grin. "Snakes! Snakes an' tunnels. It's a labyrinth lil' Whimper, carved inter the ice centuries ago by beasts tryin' ter escape winter. Those beasts were very clever and brave, an' good diggers too. They wintered in their caverns of ice, and left when the Spring returned. Seasons went by, an' whole generations of young an' oldbeasts had lived and perished under the ice. Then came the snakes. Slowly at first. One by one. But then they all came, and the caves were full of the slitherin' things. There was no escape. Those clever diggin' beasts were trapped in their own beautiful creation. Some say they're still trapped down there, unable to leave for fear of gettin' eaten. And those that try and escape never see the light of day again. Some get lost in their pretty caverns. But most find the snakes."

Fret swallowed. The tale was scaring him, but curiosity forced him to inquire further. "What kind of snakes?"

"Huge ones Whimper. So large they could swaller ye whole an' kickin'. They say they look ye right in the eye, and they hold yer gaze. They watch yer fear and their eyes change colour till ye see the eyes of yer loved ones. Only when ye think yer safe and happy, do they strike!" He lurched suddenly, so that Fret jumped slightly, then the rat straightened up, laughing uproariously. He ruffled the fur between his ears with familiar fondness. "But don't ye worry lil' Whimper. Just stay away from Blue Lake like a good lil' varmint and if ye do have any problems with snakes ye know ye can tell them ter Captain Clogg! He'll sort 'em out for ye. Sure as Hellgates he will!" Then the rat had patted the top of his head and went back to pacing.

Fret sighed. If Clogg ever went down in history it would be as another cursed pirate, dead at the paws of some hero. No mention would be made of his kindness... After all Fret was sure he was the only beast to ever see it.

And yet if he caught the ferret in present company he'd flay Momchillo alive and kicking. And then Fret would have no choice but to stay and be a pirate. A villainous, verminous... Vermin. But wasn't he vermin? His denial had always been 'I am a ferret. Not vermin.' But although not all vermin were ferrets, all ferrets were vermin. There could be no separating the two. And it would be easier, wouldn't it? To drag himself back to Clogg's cabin and let destiny blow him as far away from Redwall as possible...

Nobeast would know for sure what became of him. Nobeast but Momchillo. Who would tell everyone. A small growl errupted from him. He would be damned if he gave anybeast the satisfaction of telling his momma they were right all along. That no good would come of him. That he'd only break her heart.

Were they really wrong though? He had done very little good in his short life. Most of what he'd done didn't count as bad either but ranting about how unfair everybeast was -a favourite pastime- didn't qualify as 'noble', 'heroic', 'kind' or 'good', no no, it was 'selfish' and 'mean' and 'petty'... What did it matter that it was 'honest'?

As for breaking her heart... Well he hadn't really done that. Whoever had told her he'd done a bunk had broken her heart. Whoever had told her that they had been right all along, had broken her heart. His Nuncle... If he was alive, would have broken her heart a hundred times over. He could picture it all so vividly it had to be real. Connington's tail swishing behind him as he approached Constance. The tiny squeaks and excuses his Nuncle would emit... Constance's face shifting slowly from a stunned glare to a look of disbelief... And finally... "Fret did it."

That would break her heart, if nothing else did.

Momchillo was satisfied by what he had achieved this morning. Despite all the misgivings he had about Fret, being tied to Fret, Fret lying to him, Fret hiding something from him, all the ferret had done before, being in the Northlands to begin with! Yet Martin the Warrior had visited him, that was enough to make his day! And as a bonus the legendary warrior had shown him the path home.

The journey was not exactly smooth. Fret was undoubtedly unhappy (though for once he actually had a reason to be so), and the longing sighs and small growls the ferret gave out every once in a while were certainly ominous signs. But Momchillo was not naturally a worrier, and distracted himself with the familiar delight of exploration.

The ice beneath his feetpaws was dirty, like frozen mud glazed in snow, but further out on the lake it was a wonderful shade of blue. Dark, yet luminescent, nothing at all like the dull sky above them both. If Grollo or Matiya were here they would no doubt follow him in his joy of exploration. They would slide along, laughing and singing, without a care in the world. They would have dared each other to approach the eerie skull of a snake that stared right through the mouse with eyes long-frozen. Matiya would do it. And without a second thought too. The mouse doubted he'd run from a living snake either. The squirrel was brave like that... brave but stupid. Bitterly he was reminded that this was really all his fault. 'Let's go rescue Fret', he had said. 'It'll be fun.' He had said.

Dragging a short-tempered little gutter-rat home was anything but fun!

The mouse could not resist the small kick he gave. A minute shard of ice bounced away and came to a halt at the foot of a small hill. Instantly, and inexplicably, he knew he'd found what he was looking for.

"Ta-da!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide to show off his find. Their was a pause, in which Fret blinked away from his thoughts and into reality. "Er-You can get up now."

The ferret climbed to his feet and turned round. His jaw dropped slightly and Momchillo's face split into a grin.

The hill was not too big, yet still towered over them both. Yet it looked minute compared to the mountains they had left behind. Peppered-in were caves small and large, so that it resembled a large, snow-crusted honeycomb.

"This Fret is why we went my way."

"A hill? We came all the way here for a hill?"

Momchillo scowled. Why was the ferret so damn hard to please? "It's not just a hill! We're obviously meant to go through the tunnels." He wasn't entirely sure about that either, but why else would the Warrior send them there? Fret didn't seem to agree...

"That's a horrible idea! You have no idea what's down there! W-what could be down there! And h-how, we'll get lost! No! This is a bad idea. A bad idea!"

"But Martin-"

"You were dreaming!" The ferret seemed to be having a small panic attack. His paws were flailing madly around him. "And you never said anything about a tunnel! Or that we had to go inside one! Or that-"

Momchillo grabbed him by the front and shook sense into him, physically as well as verbally. "You need to relax!" Momentarily the ferret stopped his gibbering, and Momchillo siezed his moment. Throwing his paw round the ferret's shoulder he held Fret close to. "Trust me, okay? I know we have to go this way, I just know it!"

"N-no you don't!" The ferret spluttered, trying to pull himself free of the mouse's grip. Momchillo held firm.

"And we won't get lost, it's simple really. We just have to go left. Every turn from this point onwards has to be to the left!"

Fret merely gawped at him, as if he was nothing short of barking mad. "It was a dream!" He whined, pulling himself free from the mouse and backing as far away from the hill as he could.

Momchillo dragged his paw across his face. Fret was being ridiculous, as always.

"It was a dream." He was repeating uselessly. "And you'd risk my li- our lives- for a dream?"

"And you'd do it for a book." Momchillo snapped before he could help it. The ferret winced, but refused to back down. His spluttering continued but it was entirely ineligible now. Merely the first part of a hundred different words he could not bring himself to finish. Momchillo silenced him with a glare and the ferret shrunk on impact. "Look, if we're going to make it back to Redwall we're going to have to settle a few things. First of all, I'm in charge."

Fret, predictably, did not take things well. "Yeah. Of course you would be. Momchillo the Magnificent. Momchillo the Majestic." He stretched his arms wide in mock glorification. "Momchillo, the Moron!"

"Better than Fret the Foolish, Fret the Frustration and Fret the Fuc-" Momchillo growled. He could not drag himself down to Fret's level. The pair needed one steady head of they would make it back. And for obvious reasons, it would have to be his. "Can we please just go this way?"

"No! Not today! Not tomorrow! Not ever!"

Momchillo felt his tail thrashing behind him in rage. The temptation to smack Fret silly had never been more pronounced. A cunning plan made itself visible to him, and the mouse acted upon it. His chest deflated and he sat down on the ice, arms crossed in stubborn resignation. "Fine then. We'll just sit here."

"Are you mad!?" Fret half-snapped half-whined, the panic visibly returning to him. "We can't stay here! It's cold and and we don't have anything to eat and I'm hungry and and- we knocked out the Prince! W-what if they come after us? B-Bork, I mean the Prince he-he'll-"

"Well Fret, you'll just have to think of something won't you?"

The ferret's lip quivered but Momchillo was unsure if it was out of sadness or rage. "B-but-"

"Don't you want to be in charge? To lead the way? Seemed like that a minute ago, Oh Great and Mighty Fret the Fearsome!"

"This isn't funny!" The mustelid snapped.

"I never said you were Fret the Funny-"

"Momchillo!"

"What is it?" The mouse put on his most infuriatingly sweet smile.

The ferret opened and closed his mouth, before his whole form quivered and clutched the sides of his downcast head. "Why do you always do that?" The question seemed genuine, as if it was the last of Fret's many shields, and came from the very depth of his soul.

"Do what?" Momchillo asked, temporarily dropping the act.

"Win! One-up me! Prove your superiority! I don't know." The ferret shook his head. "I know I'm not good enough you don't need to-" Once more it seemed like the ferret was physically forcing the words out rather than just saying them. "T-to -to all- to always- You're always right! And you're always better and you're always, you're always so, so so-"

"So so-so?" It was almost as if Fret were speaking a different language. Momchillo heard him all right, and the words glued themselves to the front of his mind. But nothing he did seemed to make sense of them. Until at last it clicked. "Are you jealous?" It was not a taunt, not a sneer, merely a question, and one Momchillo thought he already knew the answer to.

The ferret paused, and for one glorious moment it seemed like he was about to say yes, and that finally they would get somewhere. Then the moment was over.

"Of course not! It's just- Everybeast always said- Abbot Martin always picked- Fine! We'll go your way."

This was Fret's way out of the conversation, yet Momchillo did not care and snatched at his opportunity before the ferret could back out of it. "Excellent! Alright, I think it's only fair you get to choose the tunnel."

The mustelid's eyes widened. For a while all he could do was splutter, as per usual, and then he spoke. "W-wh-what do you mean pick one?"

"I mean I'm being nice and letting you choose where to stick your head in."

"B-but- Martin didn't mention-"

Momchillo's lie was swift and to the point. As bad as it was to not speak the truth, the rules of Redwall could not always be applied, especially not out here. "He said that my companion would know the way."

"B-bu-but I don't. And you just said you were being n-nice-"

"And you just said you'd go! Well we haven't got all day and the longer we stay out here, the more likely we are to freeze to death. So grow a backbone and get going!" He hadn't intended to snap, the last thing he needed was for Fret to start crying, but he was getting really fed up of all this!

Fret cowered, and his lip quivered, but sure enough (and to Momchillo's immense relief) he crawled towards a large tunnel near the bottom of the hill. He peered into it cautiously, and sniffed at it worriedly. He swallowed. "I-I still think this is a bad idea."

Momchillo gave no response beyond an inpatient cough and Fret, at last, gave in and began to crawl forwards. The mouse turned away so that his tail did not impede his companion, and walked slowly backwards.

Getting his lower half into the tunnel was not so difficult, and he was up to his elbows inside the tunnel when Fret stopped moving suddenly. He could tell from the gentle, albeit frantic, tugging at his tail, that the ferret was shaking like a leaf.

"W-what if we get stuck?" The ferret gulped. "An-and if this is a dead end and we can't get back out again and-" Fret's voice was quaking and muffled, and right now the last thing Momchillo wanted to hear. The mouse gritted his teeth, and through them spoke.

"We can't get stuck because you're going in first. If you can't fit than I can't. We won't get stuck. Come on Fret, don't be scared." The mouse continued pushing himself inside. "This is all." The ferret was now trying to back out, but Momchillo was not going toet that happen. Not after his dream, not after getting so close to following through with Martin's advice. It was like walking all the way to Redwall and then being too scared to enter the abbey. "One. Big. Adventure."

"This is torture!" Came Fret's indigant reply. The ferret stopped resisting and slumped against the floor of the tunnel. "I don't care, I'm not going!"

Momchillo lost his temper, and tried his hardest to kick him, but alas the ferret was out of reach. Till at last he gave up, and growling, slumped against the floor of the small tunnel.

There was a pause.

"...So can you let me out now?"

Momchillo gritted his teeth with enough force to crack a walnut. "No! You're not coming out, and I'm not coming out. We're just going to lie here and wait for who-knows-what to happen! Go to sleep Fret, and maybe Martin the Warrior can smack some sense into you. Maybe you'll start being more like him, eh? Imagine that Fret, being brave!"

"I can't be brave! And Martin the Warrior was a mouuuuuuuuuuuuse!"

Suddenly they were sliding forwards at tremendous speeds- Fret must have slipped on something- and try as he might to slow them down, it was out of Momchillo's paws. After the first shock it was not entirely unpleasant, it was like sliding down a tree-branch. He used to do that all the time... With Matiya...

Just as his thoughts drifted to the squirrel there came a sudden, painful, lurch and he and Fret were sent rolling over one another in a tangle of screaming, writhing fur. They hurtled head-over-heels, until they came to a halt with a sound like corking a bottle.

There were a few moments of dizziness, followed by the horrible realization that Fret had been right to be scared. His arms were pinned to his side, and legs sandwhiched between his stomach, and some indiscernible part of Fret's back.

The ferret's face was squished between Momchillo's lower half and the icy floor that held them in place. His speech was barely audible, and more muffled than ever. But one did not need to be a genius to guess what he was saying.

"GEROOOFF! I'm notta bear!"

"I know you're not a chair!" Momchillo for his part, was struggling to get his paws free. If he could just move them out a little bit...

"Den ssstopsssitting on me!"

"I'm stuck Fret!" The mouse snapped.

"Brilliant! You're brilliant Momshillo! Areal geniuth! I thaid this would happen! But of course, I was jusssst being thtupid! And here I am getting crushed by-"

"Ferret's can bend their ribs right?" Abbot Martin had told them that once... long ago.

"Well ssnot like I gan do much bending under your fat-"

Momchillo pressed down on the ferret's back with his feetpaws, doing his best to build some distance between himself and Fret. It also had the added bonus of shutting up his companion. With the new-found space the mouse just managed to get his arms under him. Momchillo pulled himself forwards, releasing Fret's head from the tremendous pressure of the mouse's weight. And also letting him whine to his heart's content.

"I told you it was a bad idea! I told you! But I'm the one who had to grow a backbone! I'm the one being ridiculous and unreasonable. I'm the one who has to get kicked in the back for-"

"Just! Shut! Up!" Snapped Momchillo, popping free of the tunnel like a cork from a bottle. The mouse slid to the ground, panting softly.

Fret did not give him the chance to relax. "You'd be just as 'ridiculous' and 'cowardly', if you were in my paws! Imagine somebeast getting angry at you for being right and not wanting to follow a stupid dream!" Fret pushed himself to his feetpaws and bent backwards slightly. His spine gave a delightful 'click' and the ferret winced. "I think I broke something."

"I'm sorry okay! Is that what you want to hear? Now will you quit whining already?"

"No! I won't! And you wouldn't either if you were squished under my butt! Or if you had to listen to a stubborn little mouse, who's always right about everything, even though he's always wrong and who's so sure we won't get stuck! And we won't get lost! Well guess what, now we're both!"

Momchillo climbed to his feet and tuned out his complaining companion. The mouse now proceeded to analyze his surroundings with keen interest.

The first thing he realized was that it was a lot warmer down here than above ground. Odd considering they were surrounded by ice. The whole place gave off an otherworldly glow of dark but shiny blue. He stared at his reflection, and tensed the muscles along his arm. His reflection looked enormous and strong. He deeply wished that he looked more like it. Then he'd have never been enslaved...

Fret shuffled over to him. The ferret's own reflection looked taller and thinner than in reality. It was disturbing and strangely pitiful. Momchillo noticed one paw was nursing the other and turned to his companion.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing." The ferret replied distractedly, eyeing the surrounding walls with worry.

"What's with your paw?"

"It's fine." Fret snapped and tried to pull away. Momchillo was quicker and grabbed the ferret by the wrist. There was nothing wrong with the ferret's paw, save for his thumbclaw, bent in a painful, unnatural, angle.

"Don't worry. I think I can fix this."

"N-no! It's fine. I can fix it mysel-owowowowowow!"

Momchillo twisted, and with a 'pop' the thumbclaw slid back into it's rightful place.

Fret pulled away sharply, and waved his paw haphazardly through the air, in what the mouse knew to be exaggerated pain.

"You're welcome." The mouse said curtly, turning away from Fret.

The whimpering ended instantly and was replaced with the usual; stuttering and snapping."W-welcome? Welcome! What do you mean welcome!? I AM A HUNDRED FEET UNDER A FROZEN LAKE!"

"And so am I!"

"B-but this was your stupid idea. Y-you wanted to come here, not me! I said I wanted out, but you didn't let me, I said this was a bad idea, but you're smarter and because I'm scared my opinion doesn't matter. And you have a dream about Martin the Warrior and I'm supposed to do whatever you say because of that. And now we're lost and we have no way out of here."

Momchillo had long since decided it was easier to ignore him, and let Fret rant away to his heart's content.

"And now you're ignoring me and-"

"Alright, we should go left here." The mouse said, paws on his hips, oblivious to all that had been said.

Fret growled. "My left or your left?"

"We're facing the same way. So our lefts are all the same."

The ferret's mouth hung open slightly, and then he went back to complaining. Thankfully this time it was under his breath.

Damn woodlanders. You took my freedom... My dignity... And my clothing... The last one really hurt...

Deathglare was still alive and, thankfully, un-eaten. He'd escaped slavery, only to be captured by a drunk mouse and a mad hare. The pine marten was unpleasantly crammed into a barrel far too small for him to sit comfortably. They had also shoved him in head-first. Or rather, the hare had. His rags had been unceremoniously ripped off and used to tie his muzzle shut, leaving him an even more tattered tunic than before. His legs were pressed hard against the wood and his own form, as were his paws. His face was pressed against his chest and his shoulders sore.

The pine marten was becoming painfully familiar with his own stench. Most vermin, particularly the weasel family he'd lived with back in the Honest Bunch, had prided themselves on bathing once a season... at most. Deathglare was not the same. He could not stand breathing in the foul smell of his own fur. Occasionally he could even drag Threeclaw with him and have a companion that did not remind him of a latrine pit... for a few days at least.

"Keep washing yourself Death and maybe you can have fur as white as mine!" The albino would say if he ever caught the marten scrubbing at his form. Deathglare would usually glare at him at this point.

Alas, he had had much difficulty introducing a 'Bath Day'. None of his ilk wanted any involvement with the nasty things he got from woodlanders called soap. In truth he hadn't liked it either, but there was no denying the scent of roses was far more appealing than musk and sweat. Of course the only other beast that had agreed to 'Bath Day' was Grey Claw, and at times the rat behaved more like a mouse.

The lid was wrenched free and the barrel kicked forwards, so that it's sole occupant came spilling out.

One-Eye frowned. "So vermin, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ungag you nice and easy now, an' you can answer some questions honest-like. Think you can manage that?"

Deathglare nodded slightly. The hare tugged the muzzle off and dragged the pine marten to where he could prop him against a wall.

"Alright. Name first me laddo. And quick-like, wot. I haven't got all day."

Deathglare licked his teeth. "Deathglare." The hare was familiar, and he was almost entirely sure he'd seen him before.

"Profession?"

"I was a member of the Honest Bunch before we were attacked by the beasts currently in possession of this castle. Most of us died. I was taken captive and made to work in the mines." He failed to mention that the Honest Bunch had lived a very dishonest life, and that his latest 'profession' had been the abduction of several children.

"Hmm, come to think of it I think I've seen you a couple of times before. Where's your little rat?"

It took Deathglare a moment to realize who he was talking about. "I know very few rats." If he gave the woodlanders too much too quickly then there was nothing stopping them from killing him. His life, as usual, hung in the balance. He had to play his cards right. Unfortunately he had not much room to play.

The hare nodded at the information and paused. The Captain seemed on the verge of asking him another question, but decided against it. "Well alright then. Thank you for the help." The hare promptly threw him into a headlock and squeezed. For a second Deathglare was worried he'd lose consciousness again, but then he was freed and his muzzle once again bound by ripped cloth. "It's nothin' personal ole chap. Just can't tell if you're telling the truth or not, wot, wot. Don't worry, I'll figure it out. But for now, it's the barrel for you mate!"

The pine marten began writhing in the hare's grip, but it was too late. A moment later his head hit the floor of his prison. The lid was slammed shut over him, and Deathglare was left in darkness. His nose was pressed against his stomach, and there was no escaping his own horrible smell. It was a smaller barrel... wider, but shorter. And more crammed, he could not move a muscle and his position was anything but comfortable.

"No hard feelings, eh? Wot, wot." He heard the hare patting his cage before walking off. "Connington! Stay off the ale! No! Stop drinking, wot!"

Stupid dumb woodlanders... Still, he was alive, wasn't he?

If Fret had not grown accustomed to staring at the grinning skulls that lined the walls he'd have probably fainted. Here and there within the icy caverns there lay the definite signs of death. The abandoned quills of a hedgehog. The missing teeth of a squirrel, abandoned by the skull that lay a few feet away. Spines and ribs. Skulls and arms. Even a small sword that lay just out of reach of what could have been either a rat or a mouse.

All of which Momchillo pointedly ignored.

Despite all of his protests, all his suggestions, the mouse stubbornly refused to believe in anything he said. He was just a coward after all. A vermin and a coward and... he shook his head despondently. Thinking like that had never been useful, no matter how honest it was.

A fox glared down at them from the ice above. It's old, gnarled figure forever frozen into a snarl. "Momchillo."

"Left, Fret. Left." The mouse replied, ignoring the old, dead fox and turning left.

The ferret let out a snarl of his own, before a tug at his tail reminded him to follow. There was a strange smell within the icy caverns... one he had never encountered before, yet sent chills down his spine. He shivered uncomfortably, ignoring the now-painful growls of his stomach as best he could.

Momchillo's ears were better than his nose, and as such he had no such worries. Yes the skeletons were worrisome, but if he lost his head now then he and Fret were both doomed. And it would be his fault. The poor creatures had gotten lost, he would not. Every left turn, he took. Although his heart hammered against his chest and panic lurked beneath his skin, there was too much at stake to give in. It would be almost as bad, however, if Fret suddenly panicked. So the mouse decided it was in his best interests to make sure that did not happen.

Yet he knew so little about his companion that he had no idea how to reach his goal.

"So Fret... What do you like?" Mentally, he facepalmed.

"What do I like?" The ferret repeated bitterly. "Hmm, let me think. Not starving to death under a frozen lake. Not getting lost under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake with you-"

"Fret! For the last time, we are not getting lost! Now please, stop complaining. Anyways the only way out now is left."

"Or we can turn around and go right." The ferret snapped.

"Too late for that. Now, stop changing the subject. What is it you like to do?"

"To do? Well I don't like talking to you. I don't like walking. I don't like-"

"Let's sing something. Should keep our spirits up."

"Really? Really? No thank you. No thank you. We're doomed. We're lost. We're trapped. And sooner or later we'll..." The ferret shivered suddenly and searched the walls, as if worried they would burst out at him. "I'm not singing!" He spat.

Momchillo gritted his teeth. "Fret, I will go mad if I cannot do anything until we get to Redwall."

"If we get to Redwall."

"We will get back!"

"I have my doubts."

Silence overtook them, an uneasy silence that did nothing to help Momchillo's beating heart. "Fret. We're so far away from Redwall that... that we have to work together to get home."

"Humph. Work together? You mean I have to listen to every single one of your stupid dreams until something kills me?"

"Nothing is going to kill you Fret. Look. Okay." The mouse stopped, and turned, his paw stretched out ahead of him. "I promise, I promise that from now on I'll listen to you."

Hesitantly the ferret made to shake his paw. Momchillo, barely concealing his grin, snatched Fret's paw and shook it.

"But, you have to be fair."

"Fair?" Fret tried to pull away, but the mouse held him firm.

"You can't just say no to everything I suggest."

There was an extended pause until finally the ferret spoke. "Fine."

"Good." The mouse turned back, now grinning completely. That had worked out nicely. Perhaps, for now at least, Fret would not be so bothersome.

There was silence now, that seemed to stretch out forever. Left, they kept going left. Through cramped tunnels barely taller than Fret, to narrow passages Momchillo had to be pushed through, to wide passages that would not look out of place in a Palace- least of all one lined with the skulls of deadbeasts.

Contrary to Momchillo's expectations, Fret grew jumpier and jumpier the further on they went. The scuttling of a small pebble made the ferret leap into the air, his black and white fur standing on end. If he himself had not been on the verge of a panic attack, Momchillo would have laughed.

"You okay?" His voice was filled with genuine concern.

Fret gave the smallest of squeaks and a tiny nod.

"Let's- Let's get out of here." The mouse said with a swallow.

They continued with more caution. The cavern walls seemed to be closing in on them, and getting smaller and smaller. Panic was bubbling within both and Momchillo's movements were almost frantic now. Had he taken a wrong turn? Perhaps he'd taken a second left instead of a first? His heart was racing.

Now they turned left again, and squeezed through the smallest cavern yet. The walls of ice wrapped around him and squeezed him tight, like the coils of a serpent. He'd done something wrong, hadn't he? He had... he had... they were doomed. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

Just as his ears began to droop in despair, the cavern came to an end. Momentarily, his worries vanished and the breath was taken from him.

It was a huge cavern. One that was reminiscent of Redwall's Great Hall, yet at the same time vastly different. The walls of ice around them shone with a brilliance to rival a thousand candles. At the center there lay a small pond, the water tinged green.

"Woah." The mouse's ears picked up the distant echo of his own voice as it bounced from corner to corner of the vast cavern.

"There's nothing to the left." Fret said quietly. "THERE'S NOTHING TO THE LEFT!" The ferret's paws were shaking madly, not from fear now, but from anger. "We're lost! We're doomed!" His voice, already loud, was magnified a hundredfold inside the walls of ice. "ALL BECAUSE YOU HAD A STUPID DREAM!" He was breathing deeply now, a whole cesspool of emotions boiling and tossing under him. Panic, rage, fear, anger, self-pity, regret... it was a mixture to make a murderer. "You had a stupid dream and you didn't listen to me when I told you it was stupid. 'Let's go left', 'Just keep going left', THERE IS NO LEFT!" He dragged his paws along his muzzle in despair. "We're doomed." His voice was strangely hollow. Shouting would give him no benefit, and he was too tired to cry. Not that he wanted to cry anyways, Momchillo would just make fun of him for it. And his last days alive would be spent listening to the stupid mouse mocking him.

"Relax Fret." The mouse was now holding a small rock in his paws. "I think I know exactly why we were supposed to come here."

"Other than to starve to death?" The ferret spat.

"You'll get it in a bit." The mouse sat upon the ground and tugged his tail closer, so that the knot that tied mouse to ferret was within reach.

Fret's eyes widened in horror and instinctively, he pulled away. "No! Nonononono! You're not smashing my tail in!"

"Fret!" The mouse sounded exasperated. "I can't drag you all the way back to Mossflower." His voice morphed into one of calm explanation- Abbot Martin's on a good day. "Look, I'll just bring this rock down quickly, the ice'll break and we'll be free. I bet it doesn't even hurt!"

"It will hurt! It will hurt very much, and I've had enough pain to last a lifetime!" The ferret made to turn around, tripped over his own tail and landed on the ground.

Momchillo, no longer as worried as before, laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, and not something he would have done if he could help it. It was just... there hadn't been much to laugh at in the past few weeks.

Fret whimpered, and brought his paws to his face. Pathetic, why was he always so pathetic and clumsy and... always at the worst times. "You just said you'd listen to me! Y-you promised."

That made Momchillo pause. The mouse sighed. "Fret... You're right. You're right and we're lost and it's all my fault. Now, you can pick an exit."

A tiny sigh of relief escaped the ferret, who swiveled around to find something they could both fit through. "That tunnel doesn't look half-ba-AWAWAWAW!" Instinctively, the ferret went for his tail. It was, thankfully, whole. Yet at the same time it hurt worse than Hellgates. It was the kind of throbbing pain found only on the most uncomfortable of bruises.

Momchillo was on his feetpaw now. His own tail hurt very much, but he did not complain. It was a necessary evil and besides, the feeling of his tail whipping freely back and forth behind him again was worth it. Or at least it was, until Fret started complaining.

"You promised!" He snapped.

"Sorry Fret." The mouse turned around to find the ferret glaring at him skeptically. "I am sorry. But we have to be realistic. I am a pragma-"

"You're a bully." The ferret snapped. "But no matter how much you pick on me, I'm the bully, I'm the wrong one, I'm the vermin."

"The difference Fret, is that what I just did is for the good of both of us. Stabbing me wouldn't have helped much-"

"No! Stop! Stop blaming me!"

"Then don't blame me!"

The pair growled at each other, paws clenched. Then the noise came, a low hiss that made them stop and shiver suddenly.

"Did you hear that?" Fret was quivering, his paws no longer clenched, but desperately trembling. His voice was barely a squeak, and yet nevertheless Momchillo's sensitive ears picked up the sound.

He did the smallest of nods, and both remained shaking in silence. There was no noise and the quiet stretched out into eternity. Then the hiss returned, louder this time, and closer.

The mouse was not sure when they had started hugging, but was suddenly aware that they were each holding the other as firmly as possible. Not that that helped. Fear crept through every inch of their forms and filled them up, all the way from their flattened ears to their tails, intertwined for comfort both needed yet neither could give.

And then there was the loudest hiss yet, and the great, ugly head of a snake, it's scales a beautiful, shimmering white, slithered free of an icy cavern above the terrified two.

Momchillo did not remember everything clearly. He knew that with speed neither could hope to match, the snake's ugly head shot forwards. Perhaps Fret had pulled him out of the way. Perhaps he had pulled Fret out of the way. Perhaps they had both done it. Yet somehow, the reptile missed and hit the ice. Neither really cared, or noticed. All they knew was that a second later they were hurtling away. The mouse was unsure whether they were screaming or not. His mouth was open, but the only sound he could hear was the mad beating of his own heart.

All instructions were forgotten. Going left or right no longer mattered, so long as it put some distance between them and their certain death. Their paws pounded like pistons as they shot through the ice. Adrenaline rushed through him, like overflowing milk, making him race at speeds he had either never achieved or had ever needed to reach.

Then Fret slipped, and his rodent heart missed a beat. The snake lunged, but the ferret's momentum and the cold ice slid him just out of reach. To Momchillo's immense relief the ferret was back to running in mere moments.

Surely this was not their end. It couldn't be, for why else would he have dreamt of coming here. Unless Fret was right and it had just been a stupid dream. One that had doomed them both.

Then he slipped and was sliding along the ice. In a sudden, mad panic, he managed to scramble forwards, not even sure where he was going. He did not stop his desperate racing for anything. Not to notice the sudden darkness of the particular tunnel he'd entered. Not to notice that he was heading up something. Not even to notice that the snake was no longer chasing after him.

What he did notice, after his panic had subsided, was that he was tired. His limbs were aching in pain, and now that he was no longer running on adrenaline, literally and figuratively, he was all out of fight. The mere thought of getting up from where he lay was torment. His heart pattered like a vicious drum that would not cease it's beating. He was hungry. He was cold. He was thirsty. And he was so, so tired...

It was with a jolt that he remembered Fret, and suddenly the adrenaline returned. His heartbeat shot up, faster and more violently than ever. "FRET!" His voice was shrill with panic, and echoed around him- as if underlining his loneliness. He shot to his feetpaws and searched around him. The ferret was nowhere to be seen. He heard something, the definite hiss of a serpent, and something else. A whimper that was all too familiar, and shook him to the very core.

His heart racing he shot forwards through the tunnel, and came to a halt at the mouth of a tunnel, one suspended several feet off the ground. His heart stopped and his eyes widened in horror.

Fret was frozen in place, unable to move beyond the heart-rending quivering of his black and white form. His eyes were wide and wet, yet fixed in the gaze of the serpent, which advanced ever-so-slowly towards him. The ferret's back was against a wall, and the tunnel was too narrow for him to somehow get around the snake.

He was not surprised to find tears were trailing down his cheeks. As much as they bickered, all the anger and resentment... they had grown up together. They had been classmates, neighbors... The mouse remembered vividly that they had once played together every day. Him and Fret and Matiya and Grollo. That had been a long time ago, yet the memories came flooding in. Every time they'd try and fail to pillage the kitchens. All the clever plans they would spend most of the day disagreeing over, only for whatever they did try to fail. All the times they had played Hide and Seek, only for Fret to be scolded for getting himself filthy by vanishing up a chimney. All the times they had come crashing into some poor beast while they chased one another around.

Yet Grollo was gone. Matiya was dead. And Fret... was about to be lunch. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

His ears fell and his face contorted horribly. He could barely see anything from all the wetness in his eyes. Not like this... it couldn't end like this. He wanted to shout something, anything. But what? Fret could not run and shouting at him to do so would only make him feel worse. He wanted to apologize. He should have listened. It was a stupid dream, and a stupid idea and... Fret was going to die.

"What'sssss wrong? Why sssssssssssso sssssssssssssscared?" The great, white serpent came to a halt in front of the poor, frightened mustelid, it's face curled into a cruel smile. "I can ssssssssssssee it, you're sssssssssssshivering. I can sssssssssmell it, you're ssssssssweating. I can hear it. Your heartssssssss beating. Don't be ssssssssssssscared. Everything will be fine."

The snake's eyes bore into the ferret's, and the eyes seemed to be changing colour. Once icy blue, then a darker shade and darker still, till the eyes were black as night.

Momchillo watched on. Not that he wanted to see Fret's demise, yet there was no taking his eyes away from it.

Fret stopped shivering suddenly. His body seemed to relax, ever-so-slightly. His eyelids drooped. And then the snake struck, and with a sob Momchillo managed to pull away.

His paws were clamped over his face and his legs gave out from under him. Fret, Fret was dead. Just like every other beast he had ever been friends with. And yet there was something more horrible about this. This was his fault. He had gone and convinced, or rather, forced, his companion into this. This horrible fate. He doubted anyone deserved to be eaten alive- least of all someone he had spent so many seasons laughing alongside.

"You're a bully!" The ferret's words echoed throughout the young mouse's head. Every argument, every snap, every conversation- all at once.

"It's alright for you, because you're a mouse! When we- If we ever get back to Redwall you'll be welcomed home! I'm not welcome anywhere! And for what? Because of my temper? My 'bad-temper'? Or because I'm not an abbeybeast? Because I-I-I chose to be bad? Because I l-lie and s-snap and-"

"You promised!"

"Ferret soup? That's bad even by your standards. And you won't have to. I'm coming too!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He rocked back and forth desperately. Tears were running down the side of his face, like raindrops on a window.

"I'm sorry too Fret." His voice was barely audible. A squeak that could not begin to think about spreading it's echo.

And now... Now Momchillo was alone.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash. A horrible crunch. And the whole underworld of ice seemed to shake and shiver, like some great beast that had been dealt a sound.

Momchillo peaked out from around his tunnel, and felt his hopes lift. The snake lay motionless, save for it's writhing tail. A humongous bolder lay on top of it's lower neck. And just one swallow shy of vanishing were a pair of weakly-kicking feetpaws.

"Fret!" It was foolish of him to rise so quickly. Balance was lost in favour of exhaustion and the mouse teetered over the edge. He landed on the smooth scales of the dying serpent and scrambled to his feet. Racing along it's long form and climbing over the boulder Momchillo found the snake. It's eyes stared into space, a familiar brown colour. But it's eyes were the least of Momchillo's concerns. And first amongst them was Fret the ferret.

Grabbing the mustelid by his feetpaws Momchillo pulled with all his might, until Fret came free of the jaws of death with a gasp. The ferret's attempts at refilling his lungs were abruptly cut short by the mouse that hugged him.

"Oh Fret! I'm so, so sorry! I-I-I'msogladyou'realive!"

With another gasp Fret managed to pull free. He slid to the ground, panting. He looked alright, save for the mess that was his slime-covered fur. His eyes were filled with worry, but as soon as he had recovered some breath they shrunk back into his signature scowl.

"Martin the Warrior, eh? Every left turn, eh? Nothing's going to kill me, eh? We won't get lost, eh?"

The mouse raised his paws in defense. "I'm sorry Fret. I- you have no idea how sorry I am- I d-didn't want. I didn't want any of- I-I-I'm-"

"Save your breath! You're just going to keep saying that until you need me to do something- then when I say I don't want to do it, you're going to make me do it anyways! I-I and when I'm sorry-" His voice cracked slightly. "When I-"

"Fret! I'm sorry! Okay? I mean it! I'm not lying, I-"

Fret smacked him. His claws did not dig deep, but blood still dripped from the cuts. "You have no idea, how long I've wanted to do that for!"

Momchillo did not mind the pain, he'd had worse bee stings. "I get you're mad-"

"Mad? Mad! I WAS ALMOST A BLOODY LUNCH!"

Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. The words bounced from cavern to cavern, like a ball being passed from paw to paw.

There was a silence, wherein all that was heard was Fret's panting. Then, all of a sudden, Momchillo laughed. He had no idea why he did it. There was nothing funny about what had just happened. Was it relief? Was it meanness? It did not last very long, and left as abruptly as it had come. But by the time it was over Fret looked more hurt than Momchillo had ever seen him and guilt made his ears droop.

The mouse slid down on the ice so that he sat next to the ferret.

"If it's any consolation. I think you'd have given it indigestion."

Fret glared at him, and for a second it looked like he was about to lash out again.

"But as fun as that would be. I'm glad you're alive. You don't have to believe me, but I am sorry."

Fret's glare seemed to melt away, but the ferret still turned away from him with a skeptical 'humph'.

"Hahahahaha! Best bait in seasons!" A new voice made both children stare at the bolder that had saved them both. And from behind it popped the white old face of a grinning stoat. "Been 'untin' this beauty fer ever!" At the looks on their faces he cocked his head slightly. "Ye looked older from up above."

Being a mouse was hard. Or rather being a rat pretending to be a mouse was hard. Grey Claw honestly had no idea how he was doing it, but so far he- or rather the Skipper- had managed to convince an entire holt of otters that he was a mouse.

Jack and Tibbers had liked the idea very much, probably because it meant they wouldn't have to explain what they were doing with a rat to begin with. And as Jack assured him, it would make fitting in at Salamandastron much easier.

"Well it's bally hard to trust your kind, don't cha know? Rats and hares have fought tooth and claw for longer than we've both been alive and I don't think a lot of the older hares would fancy having the companionship of one. And ahem, some of the younger... recruits. Just act like a mouse and call yourself something mousey!"

"But I don't know any mouse names! And I don't want to go to Salamandastron, Sharpfur said vermin all die there. And Sharpfur said that there's a badger there, and everybeast knows badgers are vicious an' bloodthirsty and like using our tiny skulls to spoon sugar into their tea. Sharpfur said so anyways."

"Try Bartholomew." Offered Tibbers. The shrew was looking a lot less pale now that he had both decent food and rest and well... a healer.

"Or Berty! Don't worry Grey, everything'll be swell when we get there. As it happens my old pops was rather high in the chain of command- wouldn't surprise me if I could just admit you're a rat and no questions asked."

"No! Nonononono! The Long Patrol hate rats." Otters, the Guosim and the mad hares of the Long patrol- all three he and Sharpfur had been forbidden from approaching.

"Well they don't hate you good fellow, they've never met you. I have and say that you're not half-bad, honestly speaking. Besides, it's not like we don't have our reasons to ahem, dislike your form of living."

"And badgers can't be so bad." Tibbers was nodding in agreement. "Oh yes, there was one at Redwall and she didn't seem likely to eat our skulls."

"But you're not a rat!" Whined Greyclaw, clutching at his ears and rocking to and fro.

"And neither are you." Jack reminded him with a wink. "You're Bartholomew Berty Bally Bandana, the mouse."

"I'm Barsolomew Barty Bully Banana?"

"See! You're already getting the hang of it, wot."

"Alright... Banana... my name is Banana."

"That's the ticket! Now, let's think of what we're going to say." He gave both companions a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows. "The two of us were just the Dishonest Bunch's latest victims-"

"Guests-"

"You on the other hand." The hare poked Greyclaw in the chest. "Have been their captive for as long as you can remember. You don't know where you're from, nor do you know anything that is not somehow related to verminkind- but still you have managed to maintain the good teachings of your sweet mother-"

"Mother said to avoid the Long patrol at all costs!"

"Of your mouse mother."

"But she was a weasel-"

"But they don't know that and cannot know that no matter what, wot. Remember, you're not adopted."

"What?"

"Wot."

"Alright." Greyclaw nodded in understanding. "So I'm supposed to pretend that I'm a mouse that was raised like a rat that's not a rat pretending to be a mouse?"

"Bingo." Jack patted him jovially on the head. "Now, let's practice. So Banana, where're you from?"

There was a long pause.

"Banana." Jack's voice was slightly more stern this time around.

"Oh right, I'm a banana, yes. Um, I don't know."

"Why do you not know?"

"Er- is it because I only remember the Honest Bunch?"

"Is it?"

"It is?"

"See Grey, you're really getting the hang of this mouse-business, wot."

"Okay. I'm Banana. I am Banana."

"Exactly! Now remember Grey, if ye ever feel like yer going to get caught- don't panic. Me and Tibbers are here to help you fool the wool, wot. But if yer ever caught unawares, change the subject."

"To what?"

"Anything! Anything except vermin and yourself. Talk about the weather. The weather always works."

Greyclaw nodded. "Okay."

Several days went by and Grey's cover had yet to slip. It was probably because the Skipper doted on him so much that nobeast dared point out anything discrepant about 'Banana'. And there were many. Now that his body was not in mortal peril the monsters were all in his mind, and when he went to sleep they crawled out the corners of his head and filled his mind with darkness and blood and Sharpfur screaming. It was lucky Tibbers and Jack had warmed up to him, or else he would have been caught by now. The hare in particular was good at covering for him. Once Angus and Andrew, a pair of identical twins, had been probing into his name.

"So, Banana,"

"What exactly is a banana?"

"I heard it's a yellow fruit-"

"Yer thinkin' of the orange one mate."

"Oh, right, so banana's red?"

Grey opened his mouth to say something, but found his throat filled with air. No words could find their path to freedom and his heart pattered into a panic.

"No. Banana's purple. Oranges are orange."

"But he's not yellow, orange, red or purple."

"It's why we're asking him numpty."

"Don't call me numpty, numpty!"

"Numpty!" Shouted Jack, throwing a bucket of water (bucket and all) at the two. Grey breathed a sigh of relief as the hare was promptly chased by the inseparable pair.

For now he was safe...

But nothing kept the nightmares at bay. He woke up earlier than the rest, covered in cold sweat and breathing deeply.

There was a storm that night, outside and inside. The wind howled and and cried like a swarm of deadbeasts. Grey could do nothing but shiver beneath his blanket, whimpering as in his mind's eyes Sharpfur was hitting him. But it was not the usual smack of annoyance, or the little weasel testing his punches. No, Sharpfur was furious with him. The little weasel was so much bigger now, and spared no inch of him. Long red claws drew gashes of crimson along his soft flesh. They dug deep, deeper than Sharpfur had ever poked. And in the background the noises of his family shouted encouragement. Silvertongue was singing ominously. Blizzard, Heratrip and Redtail were giving cruel, painful suggestions and Cheese was chewing through his tail. His little sisters were at his feet, peeling the skin off with their little claws. And Sickletail was cooking chunks of his side in a soup and forcing him to drink. The liquid burned his throat. Silvertongue's voice rose in pitch and there was a grave crescendo as Sharpfur went for his dirk.

A flash of lightning made the rat squeak into life. He was dripping in sweat and was shaking uncontrollably. Try as he might he could not push the thoughts of his nightmare out of his mind. His throat was uncomfortably dry and Greyclaw decided he needed a drink- anything to keep him from thinking about Sharpfur's claws digging deep.

He shivered and padded over to a barrel, only to find a small, wooden cup waiting for him. He looked up and found the Skipper smirking slightly.

Greyclaw accepted the drink gratefully and took huge gulps. Unfortunately, he drank too quickly and had to cough.

The otter gave a hearty laugh and pulled the little rat next to him. "Trouble sleeping."

Grey nodded timidly. As frightening as the huge otter was, with all the battle scars and his booming voice and all his stories filled to the brim with dead vermin... he was nice.

"Ah, I get them all the time." For a second his mind seemed to drift. "Say Berty... how was it like livin' with vermin?"

"Well... not bad."

The otter raised an eyebrow and Greyclaw's heart went into a frenzy.

"I mean they didn't kill me, or torture me or anything like that. I'm still alive, eh?"

His smile returned slightly. "Ye got lucky." Then his face fell into a frown. "Lost a couple of mates of mine to vermin." There was a long drawn out pause, wherein Grey had no idea what he was supposed to say. "One of 'em looked like ye, you know." He said suddenly, turning to the rat besides him and staring with interest.

"Small wood, eh? Hahaha." Grey was growing more and more nervous by the second. He did not want to be caught in the act of lying by this vicious killer of vermin.

"I... don't suppose... your mother found you in a river?"

For half a second he couldn't breathe. He had been found in a river. How did he know about Sickletail? "Nope! My mother was a mouse and er- she was my mother." He remembered what Jack had told him and repeated with interest. "I'm not adopted."

The Skipper chuckled, but failed to hide a hint of disappointment that lingered in his eyes. He patted Grey softly on the back. "Ah well. The woods aren't so small after all. But still..."

"Mr Skipper?" Change the subject. Jack-is-lucky had told him to change the subject. "The er- the weather's not nice today, is it?"

The Skipper raised an eyebrow, before he began to shake with laughter. "The weather- Ha! Course it's not nice."

"W-what I meant to say was er- what's the difference between a rat and a mouse?" He blurted out the first question that popped into his head, and continued with his speech. "B-because you said that- that any idiot can tell the difference but... I don't know many- any mice and, and I want to um, not mistake them for a rat."

It took a short amount of time for the Skipper's face to split into a grin, but when it did it was wide and his teeth were white. "To be honest, there's not much to tell 'em apart physically. Rats are generally bigger, got longer snouts see-" He said, tapping Greyclaw's snout. "An' they're dirtier, like when we first found ye. The untrained eye would have said ye were a rat- but like I said, ye look like me old messmates- and none of them were rats I can say for certain. Never had a rat on this ship before- and I never will."

Greyclaw swallowed.

"I s'ppose the real difference is the way they act. Rats are vermin. Mice are not. It's not hard to tell 'em apart when ye meet 'em."

"W-why? W-what do vermin act like?"

Skipper patted him on the head. "Ye'll have nightmares again. Go to sleep Berty. It's late. It's dark. Yer..." The otter unexpectedly hugged him, and squeezed tight. "Yer too young to know."

I think I already do...

The closer they came to Salamandastron, the warmer the climate became, till all snow was left behind and they were sailing through coastlines with sandy beaches and the swath of the ocean.

The closer they came to Salamandastron the more worried Greyclaw became- and the more worried he became the more he slipped up.

"We did it!" Angus cried, lifting a bowl of steaming hotroot high into the air- where the sun could bask it in bright light.

"Took us all morning-"

"But we've mastered hotroot!"

The pair slapped tails and, beaming, approached the nearest member of their holt- who just so happened to be Grey Claw.

"Here Berty-"

"Banana-"

"Bartholomew-"

"Have some soup!"

Grey, who had been absorbed in thoughts of his old life, was reeled back into a reality where a pair of grinning otters- fangs gleaming- were threatening him with what looked like steaming blood.

"I'm not a rat!" He shrieked, scrambling backwards as quickly as he could.

The twins gave each other the most confused look ever.

Worse still was that the closer they came to Jack's home the more relaxed the hare became. And the more relaxed he was, the slower he reacted to Grey's failings. He spoke often of Salamandastron, yet this only filled the young rat with dread. From all he'd gathered it was a militaristic woodlander stronghold built into a volcano... rats did not seem welcome.

"Supposing I don't belong." He had said to the Skipper one night they had shared in sleeplessness. "Supposing Salamaderastron... isn't... Supposing I don't fit in with the... martial... hares... or the badgers and their... well their-"

Skipper snorted and patted him on the head. "Berty. Badgerlord Umber is a personal friend of mine and has been for many a season. Anywhere I'm welcome, you're welcome. As for being martial-" He poked the rat's round stomach. "Lots of beasts aren't. Besides, it's just for the winter, after that you could stay with us. Or if you prefer... maybe Redwall will take you in."

"B-but Redwall's haunted." Greyclaw blurted out. His heart shot into a panicked frenzy, but to his luck the Skipper laughed it off.

"Then stay here! I don't see what the problem is, really. You're mates with Jack and Tibbers. They'll look after you, and if they don't I will. Besides Salamandastron isn't really all that 'hard training' and the like. You're a guest, not a recruit."

The Skipper's assurances did little to dampen his doubts, but he clung to them like a lifeline. After all, he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

The day-or rather dusk- came sooner than he'd have liked, and it came with Jack's loud whoop of joy. For a beast with his ear-length it was surprising how inconsiderate he was when it came to the power of his voice. The otters landed their rafts and all set off for the fortress. Grey would have stayed behind as long as possible, but Jack had other plans. Taking rat and shrew by the paw he promptly raced all the way there, half-leading, half-dragging his hapless companions.

Worse still was what awaited the rat behind the gates. As if he'd been waiting for them, and he probably had, Badgerlord Umber was waiting for them.

Grey felt his whole form go limp and his ears droop. He had heard much of the fabled badgers- they were the stuff of nightmares and the bogeyman of all vermin tales. Yet there was something in the creature standing before him that Sick-Eyes' stories had never been able to describe. A kind of majesty. A kind of control. Power seemed to ooze from the large beast, it was evident in his wide arms and broad shoulders. His eyes did not glow red, as Sick-Eyes had always claimed. They were blue and filled with an old kind of wisdom, yet the smile upon his face was that of a younger beast. His clothes were plain, a simple robe of green- yet the beast would not look out of place in plated armour. His black and white fur was like that of a ferret's, yet at once so unlike a ferret's that it was entirely new to the young rat. The badger towered over them, like a second mountain, yet his shadow was a welcome relief from the hot sun.

All in all he was both terrified, and impressed. Dazed as he was, he barely heard the conversation.

"I was expecting you." The great beast was saying.

Jack, despite being from Salamandastron- and having seen the baderlord for most of his life, was as giddy as a school girl. "It must have been in a dream." He turned to Grey and Tibbers nodding madly. "Badgers are prophetic beasts, wot."

Grey felt himself going faint. If this badger was prophetic then he was doomed.

The badger rolled his eyes and with one paw fixed Jack's bobbing head in place. "No, I did not have any dreams. You were due back several weeks ago- along with the other hares that went to celebrate." The young hare opened his mouth- but the badger held it shut. "I know what happened because it was reported to me. From what I've heard you three were the only ones found."

The rest of the holt caught up by then, the Skipper ahead of the rest by a considerable margin- sporting a very wide grin.

Jack was quick enough to drag himself and his companions out of the way, for when otter and badger collided the very ground seemed to tremble. Angus and Andrew slunk next to hare, rat and shrew, looking eager. And the source of their eagerness became apparent within seconds.

"Say, old matey old pal-"

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show us to the mess hall-"

"We're a bit hungry see-"

"It's dinnertime-"

"And these two-" One twin pointed a thumbclaw at the Badgerlord and Skipper- who were gripping each other hard enough to crush a lesser beast.

"Will be like that for seasons-"

"So you could save us all a lot of time and trouble-"

"If you just lead the way."

Jack nodded in understanding. "Alright, wot. The mess hall it is!"

"M-maybe that's not such a good idea." Greyclaw pointed out, raising one meek paw. "I mean, we're not all that hungry and besides..." He trailed off, unable to voice his deep-seated worries without giving himself away.

"Don't be daft Berty!"

"How could getting grub be a bad idea?"

The twins lifted the rat from one armpit each.

"B-b-b-but I'm not a rat." He squeaked in protest. But there was nothing he could do. He did not want to fall, and fall he would if he tried to run. Leaving the Skipper and the badger and the rest of the holt behind the four followed the proud hare through long, lantern-filled halls that were a deep, mesmerizing red. The likes of which Greyclaw had only seen on the Cursed Abbey's walls. The shadows bounced up and down, growing and shrinking as they walked forwards. The blackness cast cruel shapes and danced among the flames. Jack was skipping ahead, humming to a tune Grey did not know the words to. Tibbers was pulling up the rear, if only because he had to run to keep up with the larger mammal's strides.

The five came to a halt in front of a pair of great, gleaming wooden doors. Jack stopped humming, his paws shaking in anticipation as they reached towards a small knob. The hare's eyes were wide and a grin grew along his face. "It's been so long- I- I-"

"We're starving."

"Just open the door."

"D-don't open the door!"

But Grey's last plea was caught on deaf ears and the doors were opened wide. The rat was dropped softly to his feet and felt himself stiffen as all eyes turned towards the new arrivals. He raised a shaking paw and did the smallest of waves.

He was promptly lifted off his feetpaws, along with his companions, by a sea of shouting, clamoring over-excited hares. Terrified, and fearing that he would be sacrificed to the volcano there was nothing Grey could do but whimper. Not that it was heard even by the long ears of this new armada. Their were shouts of joy, elation, surprise- and in the case of the otter twins, hunger. There was a mad pounding that the rat was sure was his heart.

The group were deposited onto a bench, and were promptly assaulted with a volley of questions. The pounding grew ever stronger until it was all Grey could hear. The rat curled in on himself. Why couldn't it all just stop?

Then there was silence and the rat's eyes peaked open.

"Order! Order!" Shouted an overweight, red-in-the-face hare clad in more medals than Grey could count. He was holding a fat stump, which turned out to be the source of the pounding. "All of you back to your stations!"

"But sah!"

"We want to know what-"

"I said ORDER! You will all know what happened in due course of time, wot."

Many opened their mouths to protest, but the fat hare's stern gaze silenced them prematurely. Muttering mutinously the sea of long-eared rabbits scattered.

Then the fat hare sat down next to Jack, a wide grin on his face, and threw a chubby paw round the thinner hare's shoulder. "It's good to see you ole chap! Now tell us what happened! We heard you got captured by vermin- gave them a good one-two didn't you ole boy? All that training payed off, didn't it?"

The hares lucky enough to have been sitting around before the group's arrival, now leaned closer, desperate to hear every detail.

Angus and Andrew were oblivious to it all, and seemed to be having a pie-eating contest between them. Grey shook his head mournfully- they were both hopelessly slow.

"Well, perhaps captured is too much. We were ambushed, wot!" Jack cried, dramatically slamming the table for good measure. "As for training. Oh yes, very helpful. If it weren't for Tibbers and Grey here-" He pointed at the shrew and rat respectively. "I'd have drowned. And, with all due respect sah, I'd like to say that the handbook never properly explained how to handle an over-depressed rat, wot."

Grey, who had managed the courage to sip at a nearby glass of water, swallowed too quickly and began to cough. This had the unfortunate side-effect of attracting everybeast's attention. Which made him panic and cough harder. And soon his eyes were wet from all the force of his coughing.

"Of course, the rat died two seconds later so it wasn't too much trouble and er- this is Berty by the way. He's a mouse, don'tcha know. And well, he was already the vermin's captive for as long as anybeast could remember. Don't mind him he's a gentle soul, wot. Real nice mouse he is."

"What were they like?" This new question was posed by a mouse. Her gaze was fierce with intent, and seemed fierce in general. There was a kind of fire in her eyes that Grey was worried would burn him to ashes.

"Not that bad." Tibbers chimed in, passing Greyclaw a piece of lettuce in an attempt to ward off any dangerous conversations.

"Well, they stunk, were rude and rather-" He noticed the mournful look in the rat's eyes and gave a little cough. "They stabbed Tibbers in the shoulder but patched it up quite well and well, Gr- Berty- didn't suffer from lack of food, as you can all see." He smacked the rat hard on the back, producing another ill-advised coughing fit.

"You could use a bath Berty." The mouse said with a small frown that made Grey shudder. "And what's wrong with your teeth?"

Grey did not know how to reply and shrunk a little bit more.

"Yes Berty stinks." Tibbers snapped. "Get used to it, coz it takes more than soap to wash it off of him. We know, we've tried."

And with that the conversation strayed away from the rat. After a while, Grey grew comfortable enough to eat- and found that he was quite hungry.

And it was simply marvelous.

Hare's Pawspring Vegetable Soup, bubbling and spreading the vapors of sweet and sour vegetables in a mist that set the young rat to drooling. Crispy Cheese'n'Onion Hogbake, one bite was enough to make him shiver in spasms of ecstasy. Gourmet Garrison Grilled Leeks that he avoided like the plague. Stuffed Springtide Mushrooms,a recipe he would have to find ans show Sickletail. She loved mushrooms...

Yet nothing was better than the Strawberry pie. Thick and creamy jam, with a soft, slightly crunchy exterior. It was heaven, pure heaven. And again and again he wanted to dive in and lick at the jam, and break the crust and chew it- and he just realized that he was being watched.

Tibbers was staring at him from behind eyes crusted in fresh jam.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to-" It was an innocent gesture- one common among vermin. His tongue passed across the shrew's face, wiping the jam away. Grey swallowed, and found even more creatures were staring at him. "Er- sorry?"

"It's... fine." Tibbers murmured, wiping away at the left-over saliva.

"Well that was weird." The Junior Corporal said, to general agreement.

Grey opened his mouth- but found no words could come out. He was panicking- and Jack noticed too.

"What a bally brilliant idea Berty!" Seizing the nearest strawberry pie the hare proceeded to launch it at the nearest hare.

The Junior Corporal was quick enough to duck- the approaching Skipper- who had just arrived- was not.

A week had passed since Greyclaw's arrival in the pit of hares. So far he was still Berty, but tension was mounting around him and threatened to squash him flat. And he had enough difficulty avoiding the Badgerlord's feetpaws already!

Sleep had not yet embraced him and it was starting to show in large bags around his eyes. Angus and Andrew had advised a tonic- but he had decided against following their advice. From what he'd heard them talking they had once slain a stupid ferret (they had even claimed that if one looked closely enough you could find the last claw marks of their dreadful opponent on one of their cheeks), he did not doubt their willingness to use poison on a rat. And even if they did think he was a mouse (unlikely) wasn't poison-in-the-soup a classic prank?

To compensate for the extreme pressure building up around him he ate twice as much as usual- and usually he ate more than Sharpfur. Of course this only further ostracized him, hares loved their food and with a whole holt to feed there was less to go around- it did not help that the wonderful fare- their breakfast's alone would be called a feast by sane vermin everywhere- mesmerized him. Tibbers had taken to sitting a considerable distance away from him ever since their arrival for fear of the rat's tongue.

Of course, the shrew only abandoned him at mealtimes- Jack had done so altogether. Not out of spite or because (like Sharpfur) he was dead, but because he was still a hare of the Long Patrol determined to earn his badges. And for that he had to do extensive training.

Grey had watched him at it, and while the young hares did not have the experience and discipline of their seniors (creatures Greyclaw was determined to avoid as much as possible) they were just as determined and almost as talented, if not moreso.

This was not the casual afternoon dueling Threeclaw had done with all of his older brothers, this was training. The stoat had never instilled in them different battle stances though he knew many himself. He had never taught them teamwork, or formation-fighting and probably didn't know half the weapons the hares used. He had never explained the importance of trust, and what could be achieved by standing united. He had taught them how to survive, and now the only beast he hadn't taught was the only one not dead.

Life was ironic like that. Of all the Honest Bunch he had stuck out the most. He was not a rat like Gulash, big and brawny and bad-tempered. He was not good at insults, nor was he good at fighting. He had always been soft and sensitive, and remembered painfully all the times he had broken into tears over something that was not meant the way he'd heard it.

Perhaps that was why he'd been dumped into the river. Somebeast had gotten tired of his crying.

He had never given them much thought. After all he'd had Sharpfur to cling to ever since. But Sharpfur was gone, and his mind raced back to them.

Had they known he could swim? Had they just abandoned him or tried to drown him too? Both were horrible, but one was unforgivable. Or had it been an accident? Had they just dropped their baby and watched it get swept into the paws of a loving mother?

They couldn't have been watching if it was an accident. They'd have asked for him back... Unless they hadn't wanted him...

"Hey Berty."

Greyclaw was brought back to reality by Victoria. She was the sole mouse of the volcano, having been adopted many seasons prior. No older than him, and reaching no higher than his neck, yet she was a force to be reckoned with. He'd seen her on the practice yard obliterating waves of potatoe sack dummies painted to have snarling fangs and bloodshot eyes. Vermin. He'd watched her stab and slice and rip eyeballs (little pins) off her opponents with speed and swiftness that would have promoted the three W's had he still been Greyclaw.

But he was Berty. And Berty was a mouse and although he did not share her passion for dead vermin, and smelled awful and was plain weird... he was her friend.

"Hullo." He replied, swallowing. Tibbers was nowhere in sight and Jack was probably training. He would have no back-up for this conversation.

"Another nightmare?" She asked knowingly, noting the bags on his eyes.

He nodded, rubbing at them awkwardly untill they began to wetten.

"Happens a lot after trauma." The mouse said knowingly. "I used to have them all the time after... when I got here."

"Is this place haunted?" He asked cautiously. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not mice believed in ghosts, Fret hadn't and he was raised by mice. But didn't everybeast know it was ghosts that haunted and stole sweet sleep away?

Victoria shook her head. "Honestly Berty do you hear yourself? You say the silliest things sometimes. Course it's not haunted or else we wouldn't live here. Anyhow ghosts aren't real."

Ah, so mice didn't believe in ghosts. But hadn't there been-

"Martin the Warrior's just a fairy tale before you bring that up." She said sharply. "Wars weren't won by ghosts. It was real, hard-working soldiers what won our battles with vermin."

The way she said that last word, a mix between a hiss and a snap and full to the brim with loathing, made Grey flinch.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up." She added. Tibbers had spread the rumour that vermin had tortured Grey (or rather Berty) in unspeakable ways, this was to avoid lengthy conversations on the topic and also to cover-up on his mishaps.

"It's fine. I don't really mind. I mean..." He trailed off. Victoria would have killed him had he still been Greyclaw. Three W's be damned. "Not all vermin are bad though, are they? I mean, it wouldn't be so bad to have a vermin as a friend, would it?"

Her face hardened- it was like watching water turn to ice. "They are and it would. And you should know better than anybeast else."

"But... have you ever met a vermin?"

She frowned at him for a second then broke into a smile. For all her harshness and dummy disemboweling she did have a very nice smile. And her teeth were very white. And were exactly the same size. It made him feel distinctly unmouse-like. He looked stupid when he smiled- Sharpfur had always said that.

"You're too good Berty. Or maybe you're just mad. After all those monsters did to you you still try and find some good in them." She put a paw around his neck and the proximity as well as the compliment made him blush. Despite the fact that he was a monster. "I know these things are complicated sometimes. But for me trusting vermin is stupid and risky. They... well they're the reason I'm an orphan and you're an orphan. And from one orphan to another, stay away from vermin. They'll act nice and sweet to get close to you, but one day they'll rise up all big and ugly like the monsters they are, and you had best have your wits about you then, lest you want a knife in your back."

Grey Claw swallowed.

"Don't worry though. I'll be there for you. When the monsters come for your chubby belly just run to Vicky and she'll send them running."

Or to Hellgates. "Did that happen to you then? Did the vermin that killed your parents come in all sweet-like?" It was probably what they would think of him, if he was ousted. That it had all been an act. Every kind favour. Every compliment. Discomfort grew inside him and he found himself scanning the beaches for Tibbers.

"Well... no." She was frowning now. "I just know that one day my mother told me to hide and I did. And I heard lots of screaming but she told me not to come out for anything. And when I did come out... there was blood on the floor and lots of it. And pawprints leading to the beach. And I followed them and I found a ship and there were vermin on board. And they... well they were eating my mum and dad."

Greyclaw felt dizzy, disgusted, sick and guilty all at once. Victoria was gazing into the sea, watching the waves as if under a spell.

"I'm sorry." He said in a very small voice. He should never have opened his fat mouth.

"You didn't do it, did you?" She asked with a small, sad smile.

Grey shook his head in earnestness. The Honest Bunch had never stooped so low. "Of course not! I would never- it's not-"

Victoria was laughing now, and pinched his cheek. "I know it wasn't you silly. You're not a rat. Anyhow those monsters are all dead. Not long after I found them the Long Patrol did, and they didn't just cry in the sand."

Greyclaw shivered as he imagined the hares coming down upon the pack of pirates with bloody retribution.

"Say Berty, I've got the day off, but if you want we could do some training together. Just me and you. I could teach you how to fight."

Grey swallowed. "Fight?"

"Yeah! Here come on, it'll be fun." Without waiting for his garbled reply she seized his paw and half-lead, half-dragged him towards the training dummies. Angus and Andrew were failing marvelously at hitting a particularly fat one. The face painted on it slightly resembled Gulash that one time Silvertongue had made him drink hotroot.

"Berty, come to test your worth, eh?" Andrew started, mostly to cover up a particularly bad shot on Angus' part.

"I guess." He said, tracing little circles in the ground with his feetpaw.

"Don't worry, we'll make a soldier of you yet." Angus said with an encouraging whack of his tail.

"Humph. Learn it yourselves before you teach." Victoria snapped, hitting the great big target square on the nose with a gentle flick of her sling.

Both otters went red, but made no further comment.

Victoria frowned. "A strong throw but a bit off the mark. I'd need another to put it down for good. Alright you try." She passed the sling to Grey, who took it in a shaking paw. "Just swing it round and release when you're ready. We're aiming for the big one."

The rat nodded and spun it round half-heartedly. The projectile fell out and hit the sand half a foot away.

Angus snorted and even Victoria looked bemused.

"Come on, you can do better than that. Spin it a bit quicker next time."

Grey obeyed and spun the sling round as fast as he could. The rush of the wind next to his ear was strangely thrilling and for half a second he was sure that he'd hit the target, and it would come crashing down in a heap and then Victoria would give him another smile and-

"Yowch!" He had caught his own tail. Holding the writhing, throbbing appendage in his paws he bit down on a whimper. He did not want to start crying in front of everybeast.

Victoria patted his back soothingly. "There, there. I'm sure you're a lot more um... ferocious... in melee."

After he had recovered from his own devastating attack, Grey stood in front of the dummy, armed with a short wooden sword.

"Alright Berty, just hit him."

"Right." Grey repeated. He had hit things before, he could do this. Then he hesitated. What had the dummy ever done to him?

"Hit it." Andrew whispered.

Grey poked it lightly on the chest. "But it's a dummy."

Victoria facepawed. Andrew laughed.

"Okay. Imagine the ugliest, most frightening, mean little vermin you can think of- then hit him."

Grey focused hard. Gulash was probably the ugliest vermin he knew, but that was only by default. He was probably really good-looking to those interested in big, muscled and bad-tempered rats. Deathglare was the most frightening, but Grey was too scared to hit him. No two words described Sharpfur better than mean and little. He could just imagine the little weasel smirking up at him. 'Go on Grey, hit me. But I'll hit ye back twice as hard. Nah, make that eight times.'

"But-"

"Just hit it."

Grey, very gently, put the flat of the sword against the dummy's cheek. He turned to the others, wearing a nervous grin. One look at their faces was enough to make him hit it properly. And twice for good measure.

"Berty," began Victoria. But he never learned what she had meant to say. For at that moment a shadow fell upon them.

"Morning sir." Chorused the twins. Victoria had straightened into a full, very stiff, salute.

"Morning." Squeaked Grey.

"Good morning children." Said the massive badger, beaming down at them. "I'm sorry to interrupt your, ahem, very important training. But I just had to borrow Berty for a second."

Before the rat could even open his mouth he was lifted off his feet and into the badger's paws.

"I won't be long. Don't worry, you'll soon have your friend back."

Greyclaw went uncomfortably stiff within the grasp of the creature. Majestic or not, the rat would be dead if Umber squeezed even a little bit tighter. He was so lost in crippling fear that he didn't notice where he was being taken until he had arrived at the badger's office.

He had never been there before, but knew it based on the size of the chair alone. He was deposited gently on the table and Umber sat down so that they were almost eye to eye. Of course, that did not change the fact that the badger's head alone was probably bigger than him.

"So, you're probably wondering why I kidnapped you. Well to be honest Berty- or should I call you Greyclaw?"

Horror washed over every inch of Grey like a hot bath. He was momentarily torn between wetting himself, cowering for his life and making a run for it. The badgerlord must have seen the panic in his face and proceeded more gently.

"Whichever you prefer-"

"I never killed anybeast. I didn't cook any mice or eat 'em. I stole things sometimes but I didn't mean any harm I just wanted the things they had and-" his brain had come to a decision. The rat squeezed his eyes shut and raised his paws as if in prayer. "PLEASEDON'TKILLMEANDUSEMYSKULLASADRINKINGCUP!"

The badger paused for a moment, then exploded into a hearty chuckle. He clapped his paws together in applause. "When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?" He chuckled again, but stopped upon noticing the rat's continued terror.

"I'm not going to hurt you. For all accounts and purposes you are still Berty."

Grey relaxed ever-so-slightly.

"And beyond these walls I'm guessing you still want to be called Berty?"

"Well... Greyclaws not a mouse name."

"And why are you pretending to be a mouse?" The tone was gentle, but made the rat shiver in panic. "B-b-because y-you kill rats. A-an-and it's the Skipper who said I'm a mouse. And then I got scared 'coz all the other otters were looking at me and I said I was a mouse b-b-bec-"

The badger held up his paw for silence. "Would you like a drink?"

The question took the rat by surprise. Either way he nodded.

A cup was pulled out of a drawer and something that smelled of strawberries was poured in.

The cup was slightly smaller than he was, and the bubbling, bright pink juice reminded him horribly of flesh. Poison perhaps?

"I don't want to frighten you. But I won't lie to you either. I have killed rats before. Many times, many ways, I'm an old beast. But, I do not kill children."

He noticed Grey's hesitancy and chuckled. "Do you really think I'd use poison if I wanted to kill you?"

The rat went as pink as the strawberry, his ears drooping in shame. More for something to do than actual thirst, Greyclaw drank.

"Besides, I like to fatten things up first."

Grey choked on the strawberry cordial and exploded into fits of violent coughing.

"That was a joke." The badger said, gently patting Greyclaw's back. "Ill-timed, ill-advised. The fault is mine. Now, aside from letting you know that I know your little secret I did want to ask you something. You see, our mutual friend the Skipper thinks you are a mouse. He also thinks you are the son of two very specific mice. A pair of old friends." He raised a large paw to keep Grey silent. "Please don't interrupt. Let me finish first. He believes that you are the son of one Rowland and Constance, of Redwall Abbey."

Greyclaw frowned. The Cursed Abbey... but that would mean that he really was a mouse and he was pretty sure he was a rat.

"Now, there is some resemblance, I'll give him that. The nose, the eyes, a bit of the ears. But nothing that quite leaps out at you. It doesn't help, I suppose, that Rowland lives on only in our memories. Moreover, their children are dead. Quite horrible, I know. Stabbed. Butchered. Cast into a river and washed away by the current."

Greyclaw blinked. "I-I-I-"

"Judging by your reaction you're familiar with this?"

"I-"

"Were you found on a riverbank?"

Here Greyclaw could only splutter out words and shallow excuses. "Dates and time and and and I-I-I- it's not- Sickletail-" It was too much for his feet, Greyclaw fell on his rump, his head spinning.

"Of course you're right, we won't get anywhere unless someone more involved comes forward. Perhaps Constance would recognize you? Or your mother could tell us. This... Sickletail."

"So I'm a mouse?" The apparently-not-a-rat asked abruptly. He felt like he was falling, but he wasn't falling. But his world was. If he wasn't a rat then he wasn't vermin. And if he wasn't vermin then... Grey forced himself to laugh. "You're pulling my tail, aren't you? I- you know- I- I can't be a mouse."

"Well, we cannot say for certain but it is a possibility. I am unfamiliar with rat biology so I cannot, unfortunately, tell the difference. I suppose I could say you are mouse-like based on your behaviour so far but you smell more like a rat." The badger chuckled at his own joke but stopped abruptly. "Are you alright?"

Greyclaw felt numb. He was lost, deep, deep in thought. Still he replied with 'I'm fine'.

The badger frowned. Perhaps he hadn't been prudent in pulling the trigger so fast. "I heard you were having nightmares. There is a tonic I generally brew for the Skipper but I am sure will work on you, for nightmares. I think you will find it most satisfactory."

Greyclaw accepted a large (for him anyways) phial of light green liquid, his mind still adrift in memories.

"A few drops before bed should do the trick." Said Umber with a wink, but the rat-mouse was still lost.

"Berty." Grey snapped back into reality, his eyes wide. "I think it's best you take the day off. Jack and Tibbers are listening in as we speak, they'll help you to your room. I advise you take the tonic." He adressed the door. "You can come in now!"

The hare opened the door, looking sheepish. "Sorry sah, just had to make sure you didn't skewer this one, wot. Now, we'll just be going now. Sorry for ratting you out Grey, wot. I held it in as long as I could but..." He deflated at the lost look on the alleged rat's face.

"Are you okay?" This was Tibbers, staring at the rat with nothing but worry.

"I'm... I'm... a mouse?"

It was too much for him. To have the last pillar of his old life torn from the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces... he was not a rat. The Honest Bunch and Sharpfur had all left him. And he was a mouse. Every day of his life so far had been built upon... nothing.

Of course he fainted.

Browneye was sick. Being first-mate was really not all it was cracked up to be. Of course his sudden promotion hadn't helped in the slightest. Many of the crew probably missed the old one, or had hoped to replace them. One startingly pretty she-rat had been rather polite, though. No doubt she had wanted to enter into his good graces. She'd shown him the ropes rather well- told him all about how she was at his service if he needed anything and explained that the first mate's very important job was to stay up in the crow's nest and make sure to keep an eye out.

Clogg had chosen him for the job- he'd even been considering it for a while even.

Of course the job description hadn't said anything about dry biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Or about sea-waves as tall as mountains. Or about curling up in the crow's nest, shivering your fur off while you could hear laughter from down below. His new shipmates at least, were enjoying themselves...

"Daft little land-lubber isn't 'e?" Giggled Scringewhiskers. Darkhide had just told her mates all about how she'd tricked the poor, naive 'first-mate' into climbing up to the crow's nest.

"That's putting it lightly mate. I told 'im he has to stay up there all day and snore with one eye open. Very important job ye know. Especially when all there's to look at's the sea."

They laughed again.

"He ain't the only land-lubber though, is he?" Fleaback pointed with his muzzle, at the large, green-faced form of Bork. The wolverine was not born for the sea either, it seemed, and had spent most of the journey so far taking up perilous amounts of deck. He had even taken to skipping meals- a living nightmare for the glutton.

"Humph, still not sure why we're taking the fat little princess in the first place- he's just a bigger Whimper. Only he expects ye to lick his horsie."

"At least he ain't no unwanted bad-luck bringing baby."

"Not too sure about that Flea." Darkhide cocked her head slightly in the Prince's direction. "His daddy insisted he come. And ye know how it is when he insists his sons leave." She traced a line along her neck to cement the picture.

"Ah, so he's just a corpse then?" Scringe giggled. "Hope he keeps skippin' meals then- no point waistin' good vittles on a deadbeast."

"He might be useful fer raidin' though. Bet no door could keep him out." The she-rat shrugged. "But who am I to speak? Bork, Whimper. We're better off without the brats with great fathers."

"Speaking of Whimper, how's the new one doin'?"

Darkhide shook her head. "Testin' the Captain's patience. Proof he's gone soft really... couple of seasons ago he'd have flayed that ferret. All things considered... We might need a change in leadership."

The air seemed to drop three temperatures, so that all around them lay an icy mist.

"Yer talkin' mutiny." Scringe whispered, making sure nobeast else was within earshot.

"Aye. And nobeast'll care. All of last voyage Clogg was up in 'is cabin, playin' with his pet. He'll do the same this time. The rest of the crew don't love 'im more than I do. Anyhow we won't need 'im after we're finished. Captain might just slip on the way back North."

There was a long pause as all three mulled this over. At last Fleaback spoke. "We'll do it... I'll help ye gut 'im. But ye do the first stab. Then we're with ye."

"Speak fer yerself addlebrain. If he's gone soft, why're we whisperin', eh? I'm with ye if ye do it- but ye only do it if'n ye can prove he's not our Captain anymore. Challenge him, go on. See who's real soft inside. Now drop this. We're not doin' it now anyways."

"No! No! No! No! No! No! Ye do not say anythin' at any point in the conversation."

"But shouldn't I try an' win the Captain's over? Go on about my father- Mad-Eye Marik, the greatest warlord whatever lived. Shouldn't I inspire them by example?"

Clogg gritted his teeth and rubbed his only good eyelid. "Ye don't win creatures over by braggin' about how many times ye've been in bed with somebeast pretty. We're dealin' with pirates. Real pirates that don't dress in silk like princesses an' feel the need te show-off." Clogg paced over to his books, his foot tapping impatiently on the ground as he chose his documents.

"We're dealin' with things like this." He slammed a small collection of parchment in front of the fake Whimper. "The Manywhispers." He pointed at a wildcat, his face covered in jagged lines of battle, and sharp, white whiskers that spread out like a slider's web. "Got eyes an' ears everywhere."

He presented another page, and pointed at what looked like an insane, multi-coloured rat... Which described the Dreaded pretty well. "Covered in beads, the largest rat ye ever saw. Been te more places then ye can count. And fer every place he's raided he adds a bead."

"Very impressive." The burly ferret shoved the papers aside.

Clogg growled. "Don't ye get it? There ain't no point bragging if one already knows more about ye than ye do. An' if the others already done it."

"But I happen to be the son of Mad-Eye Marik. And was he not, a greater beast than they?" He stood up and stretched his paws wide. "Southwards, the Northlands, Mossflower Country- even the badgers in Salamandastron shook at the sight of his sails. Ye were with 'im. Ye know it to be true."

Clogg leaned forwards so that his eye could better ensnare the young ferret's pair. "Keep sayin' yer Marik's son an' it'll start to smell real fishy."

"Fishy? Yer acting like I'm lying. But for all you know, I could be. I'm an orphan. I was with his horde when he died. Perhaps I just got lost in all the chaos."

"Yer too old." Clogg snapped impatiently.

"How would ye know? Didn't he bed any women?"

Clogg's foot beat the ground like a drum. "Yer not Marik's son and as soon as ye stop foolin' yerself an' start foolin' others the better."

"Humph... can I at least change my name then? Give myself a name worthy of a warlord."

"No." Here he left no room for argument.

"But Whimper's a runts name!"

"It's supposed to be yer name until ye earn a new one! So we ain't changin' it."

The ferret opened his mouth to argue- but Clogg waved him away. "Go ask Darkhide fer somethin' to do, I ain't got time fer this."

'Whimper' left with a furrowed brow and a snarl, and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Marik's son." Clogg spat. "I find that unlikely." And he would... He knew Marik's son better than anybeast else alive.

"He's small." The burly ferret complained. "And scrawny." He kept the stupid, grinning baby ferret at arm's length. "I don't want it."

"Humph." His wife, known to most as Slit-Eye the Slit-Throat, snatched the thing back. "I go through all the trouble of givin' ye an heir an' ye don't want 'im. Pah, some warlord ye are."

"I want an heir." Snapped Marik. "But not... whatever that is. He'll probably be dead by mornin'. No muscle. No-"

"Give the babe a break Marik. He's two weeks old, not even yew had muscles then." Clogg threw his paws out. "Here, let me hold him."

Slit-Eye, who was not the best kind of mother, thrust the silent babe into the rat's waiting paws.

Clogg promptly tossed it into the air, amidst shouts of alarm and dismay. He caught the giggling babe without difficulty, laughing himself as both parents sighed in relief. He brought it in close and wriggled his nose until the young ferret bit it. The rat laughed harder. "He'll be a pirate one day, mark my words."

"Yes, well... I hope he's more than just a pirate." Marik snapped impatiently. "Now what shall we call him? I haven't got all day- the Dreaded grows impatient.

"Marik Junior, the Scrawny Wonder." Clogg cackled, as he wrestled with the infant desperate to nibble his nose off.

"How about Whimper?" Suggested Split-Eye, as she pried her baby off of the rat's snout.

"Huh?" His eyes could not help but widen slightly. Marik scoffed.

"Well, he goes by Clogg now, might as well call something Whimper. What'd ye say, eh 'Clogg'?"

"Geez Split... I-I dunno what ter say. I'd be hono-"

"It's not meant t' onor ye, stupid. It's a baby name. When he's older he can give himself a proper name. Something that ain't so stupid." The ferret snapped making Clogg go pink. "But for now he can be our Whimper."

"A fitting name." Said Marik coldly, his bad eye rolling out of sight. "For a runt."

Clogg recovered quickly and resumed his game with the baby- who now bore his former name. Whimper.

How long had he been there? How many days had passed since he'd sent Momchillo scurrying to freedom? Had it even been days? And not weeks? Or months? Perhaps it had been seasons... It was not like he would ever find out. He was stuck in a barrel. In a cellar. Farther North than he had ever been.

It was a torturous state to be in. Complete discomfort that went paw in paw with the perpetual desire to vomit. He wasn't even sure what he hated more. The stench or the confined space. The barrel had but one hole it it, out of which dangled one of his feetpaw. He could hear the crackling of a bright fire nearby, but the warmth only brought further discomfort. Sweat poured out from him like rain from a rain cloud, and filled his tiny cage with a thick cloud of foul-smelling steam.

He had resisted all torture so far, but the hare had played especially low today. He had asked all the usual questions.

'What did the Honest Bunch do?'

'Describe Gulash.'

'Describe Threeclaw.'

'Did you steal a mouse?'

'Did you steal a squirrel?'

'A young hare?'

'Tiny shrew?'

'Ferret?'

'Vole?'

'Mole.'

And Deathglare gave him the same reply- devoid of any of the smugness he'd managed to retain the first time. "You can't steal mice. They're persons, not valuables."

He'd been stuffed into the barrel for that. And worse still was what came after.

"Better out than in, eh Jon?"

He had known, of course he'd known, that this was Deathglare's barrel. And he'd still ignored his muffled screaming and kicking feetpaw, and let the dumb, drunk mouse puke all over him. Damned hare. One day he'd lose more than an eye.

The Long Patrol General or whatever he was, showed no mercy after that either. He'd pulled one of his flailing legs through the stopper in the barrel lid- and with brutal force had proceeded to tickle him.

Deathglare had seen dibbuns do it to each other all the time. But a full-grown hare that had no doubt a hundred badges to brag of... it was almost silly. But it wasn't silly. It was painful and humiliating. Any and all laughter was stuck in his gagged-snout, forcing him to snigger- his whole body convulsing and hitting odd angles of his filthy prison. His empty stomach shaking like a rag in a gale, reminding him that he could not remember the last time he'd eaten. And then he'd pissed himself. And then he'd found himself crying. Not because it stunk- though that did upset his nose. But because any semblance of control he could convince himself he had, vanished on the spot. He couldn't even control his bladder- let alone his destiny.

And so the convulsing and kicking had stopped, replaced now by whimpering and tears that he would have wiped away in shame had anyone been looking.

Suddenly his barrel shifted and the lid came off. The dismal light of a small fire forced him to squint, or else go blind. He was lifted by the tail this time, and dumped into another barrel.

This one was filled with ice-cold water and made Deathglare scream and thrash. He did not want to drown- there were so many better ways of dying... he didn't want to die at all to be honest.

But to his surprise he was then wrenched from the icy depths and dumped unceremoniously before the fire. His bonds were cut and his gag removed and the remains of an old sail were thrown over him to act as a makeshift towel.

A bowl was then shoved into his shaking paws. An extremely thin slice of bread, small lumps of what could have been anything from chunks of potatoe to sausages of a very oily fish, and a ladleful of soup that stunk of rotten mushroom.

"Alright vermin, wot. We can do this two ways. I can keep starving you and messing with your feetpaws and whatnot until you tell me the whole truth. Or you can answer honestly now and spare me the trouble."

"So either way I die?" He asked after a moment 's pause.

The hare seemed to mull this over for a while before he gave his very stiff reply. "You put too much value on your own flesh and blood vermin. But, answer me honestly and you shan't die by my paw. On my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

"And if I don't?"

"Well it's back in the barrel with you and once I've broken you... well some would say death would be a mercy, wot."

Deathglare knew intimidation. He was a master at it- and you had to be if you didn't have real skill behind you. But still chills went up his spine and turned his blood to ice. Because it was not a threat- the hare had spoken only the truth, his only eye never once leaving Deathglare's own good one.

More for something to do, the marten munched at his dismal supper. Hungry though he was the food did little to satisfy his gurgling belly.

"What do you want to know?" Came his voice at last.

"Where's the dibbuns? And don't lie. I know the 'Honest Bunch' is what got 'em, wot."

There was a long pause wherein One-Eye glared at the black-furred vermin, who for the first time since he'd been a scrawny child, radiated nothing but fear.

"There was one molemaid- she's back at the abbey safe and sound now." The hare said slowly.

"G-good." Gulped his target.

"We're only missing a shrew, a vole, a hare- my own son don'tcha know- a squirrel, a hedgehog and a mouse." At that moment Connington stumbled over and nearly fell into the flames. Fleetfoot set him down against the cellar floor. "Oh and a ferret I suppose."

Deathglare was shaking so much now that the bowl of vittles fell from his paws and cracked against the ground. Neither seemed to notice.

"You are going to tell me exactly what happened. How you got the young 'uns and how you lost them and most importantly-" the hare leaned in as close as the fire allowed him to. The glaring inferno made him seem like nothing less than a beast right out of Hellgates. "How I can find them."

Deathglare started from the beginning. Despite his fear he managed to distance himself from the words so that it all came in dull monotone. "Well, one day Sharpfur and Greyclaw came back from fishing. They said they had met a ferret who lived at Red- your abbey. Well, we didn't believe them until a few weeks later they dragged him over to our camp. Weird little thing, he acted... well like a rude little woodlander. Then me and Threeclaw found the other young ones, they seemed to be looking for him. And we thought-"

Here he hesitated, unwilling to incriminate himself lest the hare go back on his word. "We thought we could ransom them for rations if supplies got short. Far easier to trade then to raid. But we got a message from a mute rat, and he said we had to go North, so we headed South-kids in tow. A week or so passed, we kept our... ah... guests, fed and watered. They were all healthy and in high spirits- thought it was only a matter of time before you came to rescue 'em."

Except the shrew had had a nasty wound on his shoulder, one that had gone bad. Threeclaw's doing, dumb stoat.

"Then we were attacked and..." he paused again- not daring to even glance at the hare. "We lost track of the children. It was a hard battle but I'm no fighter and... when I woke up most of me shipmates were dead or gone. Your kids too, unfortunately. The mouse was with us too and... well we looked after him for a while. Made sure he was alright and stuff. We got here and were separated, so it was just me and the mouse. Tough lad, I'll give him that. Never backed down. Got half a hundred lashings for it, but it never stopped him. And his spirits were high. Kept going on about Martin the Warrior or somewhat like that. Said he was a slave once."

This was the same mouse he'd captured, tied to a mast and had sent to his death. What fool thought that a child, not even on the cusp of adulthood, could somehow go through the ice and snow and everything else between here and Redwall... alone. He'd been desperate sure, but that was just an excuse for his stupidity.

"And then he vanished. Escaped. Left us all in the dead of night. Baffled the slavemaster it did, n-not even I know how he got out. He escaped and they blamed me for it. Sentenced me to freeze to death or get eaten alive. I escaped and... got shoved into a barrel."

There was an extremely long pause, wherein the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"And you too, were flabbergasted by his great escape, wot?"

Deathglare stared intent at the burning wood- the remnants of an old barrel. "Yes."

Silence slunk in and stretched itself out for eternity.

It was a lot to take in for Fleetfoot. On one paw it contradicted the molemaid's story- apparently it hadn't all been the fault of Connington's nephew. But the marten didn't gain anything from lying.

"So none of the children are here?"

"None."

"And your crew? How many of them are here?" He could not trust vermin- but he could trust that they hated their captors more than him. A plan was forming in the cunning hare's mind.

"Three others. Two weasels in the kitchen and one in... threading... I think." Deathglare's eyes were narrowing now. How did that question serve the hare?

"Well... you hear that Connington ole chap? We're leaving!"

Deathglare blinked, and for the first time since he'd begun talking, he locked eyes with the hare.

"And I'm going to need your help, wot."

Deathglare widened his eyes. "I-"

"You don't really have a choice you know, old chap. You either help me out or I barrel you. But riddle me this, how many beasts does it take to man a boat?"

His palace was often quiet. It was built that way, built around silence and secrets. Most floors didn't have any staircases, just long corridors that slanted ever so slightly. One could walk all day thinking they were safely on the ground- but were in reality, perilously high up. Dozens of secret passageways were known to the wolverine king and to him alone. Staircases that lead from the slave-dungeons to cellars. Tunnels that lead to a far deeper system all across the Frozen North. Unfortunately, he had always been a bit too big to explore those himself.

But his palace was quieter now than it had been in seasons, not since Marik had it been so empty.

Sure, the slaves were still there, but he never sullied himself by associating with them. Most of his Silent Guard he'd sent away with Clogg and the other pirates- to make sure his interests were always guarded against anybeast that outgrew reasonable ambition. He doubted he'd see most of the tongueless wonders again, still, so long as he was not forgotten.

Bork was gone too, thank Vulpuz, the boy was annoying and fat and asked far too many questions. Not even the first two had been that bad. Whether his son returned mattered little. Either Bork would be dead and he'd have to produce another heir, hopefully one that clung to him less but was also not overly ambitious, or his youngest son would return with a name worthy of a prince. Perhaps he'd even start acting like one and would even be worthy of the King's precious time... highly unlikely, but weren't all dreams like that? If it could even be called a dream.

He watched from a hidden window- one that looked exactly like an outer wall might to the outside world- as his new Slavemaster bullied his bunch down in Construction, where bricks of red sandstone were being made and added to his walls. There was magic in those stones, Longclaw was certain. What exactly it was or how it worked he did not know, but how else had Mossflower's Abbey not yet fallen? The badgers were wise creatures, and knew these reasons better than he, but he did not need to know to copy.

Brown-eye's replacement was a fierce old fox. He was of an age with his king, but lacked Longclaw's longevity and as such was already gnarled and rusted by age, yet fit enough to command the submissive creatures all around him. He had had the misfortune of being in the path of a badger with bloodwrath. It was rumoured that half his face was missing and that was why he wore a multi-coloured mask- but Longclaw knew better. His whole face was missing. Flayface the Foul they called him, though Longclaw knew him as Flayface the Fool. He almost trusted the fox, but alas, knew that his current slavemaster had tried to murder him half a dozen times over the course of their lifetime, half of those before the age of seven.

It would be foolish to trust him. Still, he did his job well. Construction, Mining, Threading and of course, the Kitchens were all running smoothly. And Longclaw had barely anything to worry about. It was a relief after all the haggling he'd been forced to do between pirates that quite frankly hated each other.

But that didn't mean he could rest easy... No king should or else they were no king.

Silvertongue eyed his pile of carrots dismally. He was a deadbeast. A very, very dead deadbeast, marked out by the missing skin on his right paw.

"Damn that ferret." He hissed as the root he was currently cutting shot away from him. He would have been stirring soup or doing something easy if his paw was decent. Frankly it was all he'd done over the winter. Now though his flayed paw marked him out as an easy target. His height didn't help and neither did the new slavemaster, who seemed determined to prove that he was just as cruel- if not moreso- than the old one.

Ever since the feast he'd been moved to cutting, which was agonizing. His paw felt numb and ached at the best of times, let alone when he was using it to hold something still. He wasn't handy with knives and had cut himself a dozen times. It was like pouring oil onto a burning beast and weak and pathetic as he was he couldn't help the hisses of pain or the yelps or the tears that inevitably followed such an action.

Sickletail was out of sight, being occupied with innumerable tasks to prevent her from helping out. Still the fox had underestimated his wife. The first few times she had against all odds managed to finish her duties and his own. But then exhaustion had begun to set in, she could not keep this up forever and as he watched her now, furiously struggling with a ball of dough, he knew his life was forfeit. This time at least Sickletail could not save him.

He only wished that he would be allowed to say goodbye. He hadn't managed to do so for his children, and even if he had to shout it mid-execution he wanted to give her a goodbye... and a thank you. She deserved that much at least.

His life had been eventful to say the least. Born a runt he'd outlived his litter, which had been wiped out by a particularly harsh winter. Silver-tongued and smarter than most he'd won the heart of the most beautiful weasel to grace Mossflower Country. Eight children of their own and one happily adopted. Life with the Honest Bunch had been simple. Occasionally raid, forage supplies, avoid woodlanders and live in peace. Not every beast needed a great castle or to lead a horde. He had been happy watching his children come into the world and grow up. He'd been happy carrying around their fat little rat and calling him part of the family.

Hellgates he was crying again. With a viciousness the carrot didn't deserve, Silvertongue stabbed forwards.

"Alright, I'm done. Hand over the knife." This was Sickletail, who panted as she wrenched the knife free of his paws. "Carrots, eh? Not too difficult." With speed that Silvertongue could not hope to match, the weasel proceeded to slice the carrots into neat little pieces. She was done in a few, short minutes and slid to the floor of the kitchens with a deep breath.

"Ye can't keep this up." Said Silvertongue, sliding to the floor next to her. He took her paw in his good one and squeezed it tight. "Forget lil' old me. I'm a deadbeast sooner or later, no point gettin' yerself killed too."

"Everybeast's a deadbeast sooner or later. I don't care, we've bin over this. I ain't gonna let ye die. And stop moping so much. Yer not leavin' me and that's final."

"Ye'll wear yerself out. Look at yerself, ye don't even get any sleep."

"Shut it! Yer not dyin'!" She snapped, pulling her paw away from his.

"I am." He snapped adamantly. "Ye deserve better though."

"I don't! I deserve just as much as ye do an' anyhow what have I got ter live fee? Our kids are dead!"

"But ye don't have te be! Ye can have more kids... Live fer my sake at least."

"Don't make much sense if yer goin' to die yerself." Sickletail pushed herself to her feetpaws. "Anyhow ye know ye can't argue with me." Taking his good paw, she lifted him back to his own feet.

"That I do." He said with what would have been a grin in any other place.

"I warned you hare." Came Deathglare's voice.

"Yes. I see what you mean. How on earth do you put up with them? Wot. No wonder you were such a tough nut to crack."

The pair of weasels found themselves staring at Deathglare, who for some reason was wearing a sail and was standing besides a one-eyed hare. The pine marten also had a leash (that looked suspiciously like his old clothes) which the hare held tight in one paw. He raised the other in greeting.

"Top of the ... late afternoon to you, wot. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Fleetfoot One-eye of the Long Patrol. You already know Death here I assume."

"Death?" Repeated Silvertongue, dumbstruck by the pair's sudden appearance. "Since when were ye pals with the Long Patrol?"

"We're not exactly pals." The marten replied, indicating the makeshift collar round his neck.

"But we share a mutual interest in escape." The hare butted in. "And I am sure that you do too."

Every eye in the kitchen was on them. A long pause followed his words.

"B-b-but if you try to escape they hurt you." Stuttered a small otter that looked twice his actual age and sported less fingers than Threeclaw.

"Ah ole chap, thing is we're not trying. We're doing."

"Ye've got a plan?" Asked Sickletail skeptically, but the excitement in her eyes gave vent to her true feelings.

"Cover of dark. Steal a boat." Deathglare explained.

"That won't work." Said an old mouse, shaking his head so that his ears flopped at his sides. "Best to just do as they says. They won't hurt you then."

"Well we haven't perfected it yet." Fleetfoot grumbled impatiently. "But where there's a will there's a way, wot. It is of utmost importance-"

"Flayface is coming." Whispered a hedgehog, just loud enough to be heard. There was a mad scramble to get back to work. Sickletail vaulted over a table to get to her station, Silvertongue picked up a pawful of carrot slices to put into the bowl as soon as the fox showed himself. The otter went back to stirring. The mouse to rolling. Despite the fact that neither knew who Flayface was, Deathglare and Fleetfoot too, scrambled for cover. The hare snatched the marten, and ignoring his sudden protest, stuffed him into an empty barrel. The hare himself promptly dived into an unused oven.

And all in the nick of time, for Flayface announced his arrival with a crack of his whip.

"How's lunch coming along then?" He asked, eyeing the assorted slaves, searching for somebeast to make an example of. "Weasel..." Unsurprisingly he chose the smallest one. "How are those carrots?"

"Done sir." Silvertongue replied, driving as much contempt into the last word as possible.

"Impressive skill. Yer wife is quite talented." The fox chewed thoughtfully. "Now, show me what yew can do." The fox picked up a fat, stray carrot off the floor.

Silvertongue searched for the knife, and picked it up with a shaking paw. His flayed one held the root in place and carefully the weasel dug the blade into the carrot.

The fox shoved him to the side and the knife blade gently skimmed his bad paw. It did not cut deep, but enough to draw blood. It hurt and his eyes could not help but begin to tear.

"Just as I thought." He turned to Sickletail. "Yer with me tomorrow. We'll see how well yer precious pup does without his mama." The fox brought the whip down twice on the whimpering weasel, and kicked him for yelping. Flayface spun on his heel and strolled over to the otter.

"Yer a good lad riverdog. It'd be sad te chew off any more of those fingers, wouldn't it? Tell me, why do I smell hare?" He drew in close. The otter shrunk.

"I-I-I don't know sir."

"Really?" He drew close to the otter's face. To the slave's credit he didn't mean to give Fleetfoot away. But instinctively his eyes darted to the unnocupied oven. "Yer a good lad. Soup smells good today. Very good. Almost... Like hare."

Flayface strolled towards the oven. "Some slaves from Threading have gone missing. Mostly vermin but I think there could have been a hare or two." He made his way to the oven. "I wonder what's cooking in here..."

The otter was shaking. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean- I just did and- it's nothing sir!"

Flayface was a skilled bully. He was expecting a frightened slave he could beat into submission. He most certainly did not expect an oven door coming towards him.

Fleetfoot shot out of his hidhng place with speed worthy of his name, but by then the fox had recovered and shot the whip forwards. It's cutting barbs tightened round the Captain's foot and brought the hare crashing down.

"Nothing, eh?" Flayface wiped at his nose. "Ye'll be sorry otter. As for yerself hare-" A mad dash to escape he should have seen coming, but the hare's sudden twist and swing of his paw was another thing. The whip was knocked out of Flayface's grip and the hare scrambled to his feet. Both grabbed the nearest thing to them.

In the vulpine's case it was a cleaver. In the Captain's a rolling pin. Flayface darted forwards with a snarl and swung the blade at his opponent's ears. Fleetfoot hastily flattened them, and tried to parry with a rolling pin that was promptly cut in half.

Not missing a beat the hare slammed the other half into the fox's face. The slavemaster didn't miss a beat either and brought the cleaver down, aiming for the hare's long feet. But he wasn't 'Captain' for nothing and had earned all his medals through blood sweat and tears. He kept his toes by a fraction of an inch, having managed to scoot backwards in the nick of time.

Sickletail pounced from a tabletop and dug her claws into the fox's mask. She'd been aiming for his eye but missed. To her surprise the mask neatly slid off and her with it.

Flayface's grizzly features were now free for all to see. Gnarled, pink flesh the colour of spring roses. A single eye that bulged out far too much to be natural. And his teeth- shining white for all to see despite the fact that his jaws were technically shut. He lacked a muzzle and cheeks and his nose was a pair of small holes at the edge of a wobbly bit of flesh.

"You are certainly uglier than I expected, wot." The hare had gone pale at the sight of his opponent. It was... Rather horrifying.

Fleetfoot threw the remaining half of his rolling pin at his opponent, and caught the fox in the stomach. The hare used the side of a cooking top to ricochet towards his opponent. He barreled into the fox and knocked him flat on his back, the cleaver sliding out of reach.

Flayface opened his mouth to shout, but using both arms, One-eye snapped the jaws closed. The fox's claws shot forwards and forced their way into the hare's sides. Fleetfoot ignored the pain as best he could and released one paw long enough to bring it crashing down on the Slavemaster's face.

The pair continued to scuffle, until with a tremendous effort Flayface lifted the hare into the air. Fleetfoot sent a flurry of kicks into his opponent's midriff, but was nonetheless thrown off. The hare crashed against a barrel which was promptly sent spinning about the kitchens until it crashed against the side of an oven. Deathglare came spilling out of it with a groan.

"Yer a tough one." The fox growled, rising to his feet and reaching for a nearby knife. "But I've fought badgers an' lived. No hare's gonna stop me."

Silvertongue reached the knife first, and slammed it through the slaver's paw and into the table. Flayface howled in pain, and was promptly slashed across his face by the vengeful weasel's claws. Before he could retaliate Sickletail slammed a cleaver down and neatly sliced off his left toes.

But the fox was screaming and as the other, terrified, kitchen workers knew- someone would soon hear the commotion. Deathglare also knew this, which was why he rushed (dizilly) in from behind and pounced upwards. He brought his leash around the fox's neck and squeezed, so that no sound could come spilling from it's jaws.

But the fox was fighting back. One blood-soaked feetpaw knocked Sickletail onto her back- his unpinned paw swatted Silvertongue away before it went for Deathglare. He had forgotten completely, about the hare.

Like a river bursting from a dam, Fleetfoot charged and ripped Flayface's paw free from the knife and table. With a grunt of exertion, he forced the flailing fox into a flaming fireplace.

There was hissing from the burning coals, and a smell foul enough to knock out somebeast with a better nose. If Deathglare hadn't spent an unhealthy amount of time crammed into a stinking barrel he'd have been sick. There would have been screaming (and lots of it) but the pine marten held firm despite the proximity to the flames, until the vulpine's thrashing form went limp.

One-eye pulled the dead fox free of the fire and helped a disgruntled (for some of his fur had singed) Deathglare to his feetpaws.

"Y-y-you killed him." This was the old mouse, sounding thunderstruck. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack. To be fair so did every other slave.

"Chap didn't give us much of a choice mate." One-Eye rubbed at his sides. Ten long gashes, but none very deep. They were sore and blood still gently trickled free from them. On the whole though he was unharmed.

"He had it coming." Silvertongue was looking very pleased with himself. Far too pleased than anyone who had just participated in murder should have been.

"Now they hurt us." Whimpered the otter, curling in on himself as tightly as he could.

"Don't worry boys. Nobeast'll know. I always get away with my murders." Sick-Eyes made her grand entrance.

"What're ye doing here?"

"I escaped threadin' while they were movin' us back to our cells. It was difficult and required a lot of skill. I'm fine, thanks fer askin'. As to yer other question, same as Death an' his pet hare."

"I'd say he's more like my pet. The leash really does the trick, don'tcha know?"

Sick-Eyes ignored him, there was childlike excitement in the old pine marten's eyes. "Let's start a rebellion!"

The other slaves looked rather like one would when faced with the prospect of dying. In other words, terrified.

"They'll have ears for this!"

"And fingers!"

"Nevermind ears and fingers- they'll have heads for this!"

"No they won't." Explained the old beast patiently. "The hare's a tall beast an' there are fox skulls all over this damn place. Give 'im the mask an' nobeast'll know the difference."

"B-but the b-b-body."

Here Sick-Eyes looked demented enough to make even those who knew her, not to mention a hare of the Long Patrol, take a few steps backwards.

"Don't ye lot know how to make soup?"

"Soup?"

"Aye! With carrots and that. Details don't matter, just get the biggest pot ye have boiling. I'll tell ye what ter do as ye do it. But first Death is gonna tell us why he's wearing a sail."

"I'm not-"

"I was gonna ask that too." Added Sickletail.

The pine marten shrunk slightly. Fleetfoot patted his back jovially. "Go on chap, tell 'em what happened."

It was not the best disguise, but it was serviceable. He lacked about an inch or two of the fox's height, but that wasn't too noticeable from a distance. An old, yellow fox skull was jammed to the top of his head, before the former Slavemaster's mask was placed on top. The woodlander kitchen staff were dressing him in the vulpine's clothing. Awkward though it was to have his uniform unceremoniously taken off and to be dressed in corsair clothing by complete strangers it was preferable to cleaning up Connington's vommit. He'd left the drunk mouse tightly bound and barreled for his own good. In hindsight he should have done that the moment he'd started drinking.

The slaves worked quickly, but with shaking paws. His long ears were pressed flat against his back and tied round his neck so that instinctive stiffening did not give him away. A cloak was thrown round him, though he had to fasten it himself for all other paws were shaking too hard.

Poor souls, all of them. They kept staring at the door, as if expecting it to unleash bloody retribution for the punishable offence of killing a slavemaster.

The weasels were similarly hard at work, though their job was considerably less pleasant. Guided by the elderly pine marten they peeled fur from flesh and flesh from bone. What had been a fighting fox a few moments before was reduced to chopped up pieces of meat.

"Chop 'is liver with the kidneys. Finely, mind. Too big an' it's hard to chew, see."

"How do ye even know all this?" Silvertongue ventured to ask, as he dumped a few fingers into a large, boiling cauldron from which spewed the most foul-smelling concoction to ever greet the hare captain's nose.

"Comes with age." She replied evasively, the smile on her wrinkled face sending shivers through all present. "Ah hare, yer ready! Lookin' very verminous indeed."

"As do you, wot."

Sick-Eyes shook her head despairingly. "Deathglare, teach 'im how to talk right." She sniffed. "An' stink 'im up a little, I can smell the flowers all over 'im." Addressing the remaining slaves she smiled widely. "Why don't ye lot go an' have a little lie down in the corner over there? Relax a little. Give each other massages an' the like. Don't worry, S'long as yer with me ye don't have to worry 'bout any other slavers."

Still shivering in fright they nodded and huddled in a corner. Some used paws and ears to cover their faces, others watched in morbid fascination as Flayface was reduced to soup.

Deathglare, who had been unsuccessful in removing his bindings, and publicly humiliated by the tale of his torture made his way over to the foxhare. At his approach, the hare stirred guiltily.

"No hard feelings ole chap, eh? Fresh start, clean slate and all that. What do you say, wot?"

"It's 'ye' here. Yerself. Ye lot. Yer face. Not you. If you want to pass for vermin you had better start sounding like one."

"Ye don't use 'ye', do ye Death? Wot? How about that?"

"Better." The pine marten muttered begrudgingly.

"Why not old cha- mate? Why don't ye use 'ye's matey? Ye had better talk right or we'll boot ye te Hellgates, wot."

"Impressive. But ditch the wots."

"Answer the bloody question ye dummy! Wo- wot's wrong with yer?"

"Does it matter?" Deathglare hissed, growing annoyed slightly. "Take the accent down a notch but be ruder. 'Dummy' is for children. You're a slavemaster. Think like one. You want to reduce me to tears. What is the most effective technique?"

"Kickin' that sorry horsie of yours all the way te yer bloody mother so ye can cry yer eyes into 'er. Sorry I tortured ye, but a beast what wants to live 'ad better not trust every idiot what 'e stumbles by. Sorry I ain't sorry. Now pull that stick out yer bumhole before I shove it in even deeper!" The hare cleared his throat. "What have you got to say about that?"

Deathglare was torn between being impressed and hating the Captain for all the barreling. In the end he conceded. "You sound like a fox. But it's 'ass' not 'horsie', lose the 'r'."

"Sound advice ole chap. Now shake paws and let bygones be bygones."

Deathglare frowned at the hare's outstretched paw. "I'd rather not."

"Come on me matey. Sacrifices be a necessity of livin'. Everybeast makes one or two."

Deathglare turned and walked away resolutely. "And what, pray tell, did you sacrifice, when you robbed me of all dignity?"

One-eye lifted him by the back of the collar. Nobeast turned his back on him. "I wasn't jokin' ye know? That stick can go a hellofalot deeper!"

"Our fox is ready." Deathglare declared with clear resentment. One-eye dropped him.

"Good coz the soup's nearly done too. Just need to add the stummick!"

Both hare and marten grew dizzy and uncomfortably green.

"An' another thing. He ain't ready till this is hangin' out his tush!" Sick-Eyes held up a neatly cut-off fox tail.

Deathglare recovered enough to pat the hare jovially on the back. "Let's see how deep that can go. Otter." He waved over a slave. "Help our good hare here with his tail."

Lunch was five minutes late. That was not the only anomaly Longclaw noted. Flayface was the one delivering it to him. Normally it was some unrecognisable slave he could torment merely by his presence. Fear was the most intoxicating sensation and his slaves were full to the brim with it. If he so much as stretched his claws or yawned they would shiver, most likely due to the size of his natural weaponry. There were other times however, when he got more creative. An otter had pissed himself once, after the king had commented in a low voice that the soup was cold. He'd then chopped off a finger as punishment for sullying his halls.

The fox strolled forwards with a spring in his step- as if excited by something, yet his tail was dragged along the ground behind him as if sad. A large bowl of steaming hot soup was precariously balanced in his paws. That same fox had the audacity to come within five feet of him. The King's bodyguard, a pale white fox with a scarred eye who went by Spitteeth caught him by the tunic.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Te deliver lunch you uncultered- ye ugly white-faced son of a cow!"

"What'd you call me?"

"Spitteeth. Be still. Let him go. Flayface has been loyal to me for a long time now."

Grudgingly, the bodyguard let go of the masked fox.

"Now Flayface. I am honoured that you brought me lunch personally."

"No honor yer majesty, just doin' my civic duty wo- wot my mother told me te."

He must be planning something. Poison in the soup no doubt. Flayface had tried it before. It had killed a mutual friend Longclaw no longer remembered the name of.

"Such a hard worker. You must be famished. Please, help yourself." He pointed at the soup and ignoring the impatient grumble of his belly, silenced the fox's protests. "You are my oldest friend. Of course it is good enough for you. Spitteeth, ensure that he eats his fill."

The soup had been poisoned. Flayface tried to squirm away but was unable to- the pale fox was stronger. A spoonful of soup was shoved into his mouth and the fox's jaw clamped shut.

"Now chew." Commanded Longclaw.

Flayface did as he was bid, his one good eye bulging.

I'll need a new slavemaster. Clogg took the best one south...

"And swallow."

This last order took forever to be carried out, but in the end Flayface did as he was bid and with a gulp that echoed throughout the hall, swallowed.

Spitteeth dropped the fox to the ground, where he coughed heavily. But to Longclaw's surprise he stood up straight, apparently no worse for wear.

"Hot, that soup is your highness. Too rich for my stomach I'm afraid wo- wot did you think I put in?"

The wolverine nodded at his bodyguard, who took a spoonful of soup for himself. This was to make sure Flayface had not taken an antidote before coming. Spitteeth was a good fighter and loyal, but he was expendable.

"Anything wrong with it?"

"No your grace. It is good soup, with an unusual meat." The white-furred one turned to the masked one. "Pike?"

"Nope. Haha. I'd need a good strong beast like ye to catch one of those."

Longclaw slurped up the soup greedily. Being King was hard and required patience- something he had yet to master. The soup was exquisite. Whole and salty, yet not overly so. Hot enough to make his blood shiver, but not enough to burn. Lightly spiced and topped with tiny herbs. And the meat. A flavour he had never encountered before yet could not get enough off.

"The slaves have outdone themselves." He decided. "Spitteeth shall bring me plenty more. And my compliments to the chef. Pray, what meat is this? Not a foul or fish it's- well what is it?"

Flayface paused for a while but spoke before Longclaw got the chance to guess. "The chef's already here te hear ye sah- yer high an' mightiness. Nasty weasel kept tryin' te stir trouble in the ranks. Figured 'e was fat enough to be put te good use. Plenty more where 'e came from too! Lots of troublemakers need to be dealt with." Flayface devolved into nervous chuckling.

Another pause followed his words, wherein Spitteeth stared at his King, unsure if feeding him another beast was considered poison or not. But then Longclaw smacked his paws together and gave a great booming laugh that echoed throughout the halls and made the skulls shake in their place.

"Flayface, forgive me. I should have known you to be the wise beast you are. You have the right of it. Clean up the trouble-makers, a few less slaves won't hurt anybeast." The wolverine belched rather loudly and then burst into more laughter, looking very much like a more-sadistic, grown up version of his resented fifth son. "I daresay they'll be put to better use here." He slapped his stomach, showing off many long, sharp claws.

"Of course you-yer majesty."

Fleetfoot was glad to be out of the King's company, both so that he could empty his stomach out the nearest window, and because Longclaw was a frightening beast. Brave though the hare was he'd seen badgers reduce creatures to mincemeat. And badgers were creatures of peace. The wolverine was larger than him, and larger even, Fleetfoot was certain, than Lord Umber. His teeth were large enough to make daggers- perhaps not for a hare, but certainly for mice or shrews, and his claws, the few unsheathed inches he'd seen of them anyways, were sharper than the quills on a hedgehog. Any one of them would have found slitting a throat easy, trivial even! Standing against a creature like that was not brave so much as it was foolish.

He'd been so wracked with nerves that his accent had slipped several times, but luckily the savage hadn't noticed. He'd been a bit distracted by the potential for poisoning as well as the apparently delicious flavour of his slavemaster- the one who's clothes One-Eye now wore. A shiver passed through the hare's spine. No doubt the King would find hare to be just as delicious if it ever came to that. Hopefully it didn't.

He reached the kitchens now, and although bound, his long, sensitive ears picked up the distinct sound of scurrying and desperate scrambling. Fleetfoot entered and a huge sigh of relief spread through the slaves, who dropped back to the ground.

"So..." Silvertongue began, his face splitting into a pointed grin. "Did his highness like the soup?"

"Very much." Replied the Captain, shutting the door behind him.

"Weasel?"

"He asked about the meat. I said it was a troublesome slave. He thought it was a great idea. Says weasel's exquisite, wot. I can't say I share his sentiments." He pulled at the fake tail and breathed a sigh of relief as it came loose from where the young otter had tied it to his own. Removing the skull and mask was just as euphoric, but nothing compared to the relief that came with stretching his cramped ears.

"Ye weren't meant te eat it hare."

"Y-yes w-well cir-c-cumstances-"

Sickletail chuckled, until she noticed the pality of his face. Then she exploded into laughter. "Oh my seasons!"

Others laughed as well, though Deathglare did not. The pine marten picked up the skull and tail where Fleetfoot had dropped them. He patted the hare almost consolingly. "Sometimes sacrifices are necessary, wouldn't you agree... old chap?"

"Most certainly." Was the hare's stiff reply.

"Well good job hare!" Sick-Eyes declared. "Well done ye lot! Ye've gotten away with murder. Have a cookie! Go on have a cookie." She pointed at a large jar of freshly baked delights. Hesitantly the kitchen slaves made their way over to it. "An' Silver hand me yer paw. I'll have it right as thunder 'fore next season."

"So... How're we escaping?" Asked the missing-fingers otter as he nibbled at a sweet biscuit.

"Simple. We die." Sick-Eyes stuffed her mouth with dried leaves and chewed to build up excitement. The old creature spat the paste directly onto Silvertongue's paw hard enough to make the weasel wince. "Flayface 'ere is slavemaster. What's stoppin' him from puttin' all the slaves in one ship an' sailin' away? Well Longclaw'd come after 'im, wouldn't he? Unless all them other boats don't work. So how do we break all the boats?"

"Cut the sails?"

"Break the rudders?"

"Burn 'em?"

Sick-Eyes shook her head ruefully. "Kids these days." She muttered, ignoring Silvertongue's pathetic squirming as she tightened a piece of cloth round his paw. "We can't break 'em if we're stuck here, all accounted for. So we preten' ter die, hide out in the ships and break all but the biggest 'un. Then somebeast causes a diversion an' we all sail away. King Stupid keeps 'is castle and we get all his slaves."

"We liberate all his slaves." Fleetfoot corrected icily. "It's an ambitious plan."

"But ye like it?" The old marten patted Silvertongue's bandaged paw, ignoring the weasel's whines.

"Well... better then leaving so many poor souls behind but..."

"Details come later hare! Now yer with us, ain't ye?" She spat on her paw and stretched it towards him. Hesitantly he took it in his own. They shook paws once.

She spun on her heels, satisfied with the day's work. "Now who wants a story?"

One-Eye found Deathglare nudging him gently.

"We should check on your mouse."

"Huh, didn't think you'd get so attached to us, wot. Weren't you all serious-faced and angry a short while ago?"

The pine marten scowled. "Do not fool yourself hare. I still loathe you just as much as ever." He glanced at Sick-Eyes, who now began to weave a tale of woe and treachery and waves as high as mountains for her enraptured audience, most of whom hadn't heard a good story in years. "But I hate her stories more."

Sharpfur had changed, Hawthorn realized one morning with a jolt. The weasel's consistent meanness had hidden this for a while, but it was hard to miss now.

The spectacles he had resented so much were now his constant companions. He did not wear them per se, but they always seemed close to paw. Dangling from his claws or being twirled around. He could read now, fluently, and in fact seemed to enjoy doing so. He never volunteered for it, but no longer complained when he was inevitably chosen. He helped in the kitchens, without protest. He brushed his teeth every morning and evening. He occasionally said 'please' and 'thank ye'.

Sharpfur was still rough around the edges, but on the whole he was a brand new weasel. Had she not seen him before and heard that once upon a time he'd been an underaged thug she wouldn't have believed it.

The vole herself was in an excellent mood. The snow had at last melted and Spring had come in full. Birds tweeted from invisible treetops. Flowers bloomed and blossomed and shook their rainbow-coloured petals in light, gentle breezes. Everything was perfect and wonderful. And best of all, now that the snow was gone, the journey home loomed on the horizon. Redwall and all within it would soon hear of her and Grollo's exploits.

Her mood dropped slightly upon entering the dining room, where her companions were looking particularly sullen.

Grollo had been so for a while now. Ever since the trip to the strawberries the young hedgehog had somehow convinced himself that they wouldn't get home. That some great calamity stood in their paths.

"You're being ridiculous." She had said, sounding exactly like the Badgermum did. "Of course we'll get home."

"Not if that witch has a say in it." Said Sharpfur darkly, returning to his vermin roots. "I've heard stories ye know. Seers and hags that fattened up children so they could eat them alive. Hantel and Gretsel or somethin' like that."

"She's not a witch." Hawthorn said coldly. "That's not a very nice thing to say. You slept under her roof. Ate the food from her table-"

"'Coz she wants te eat me!" The weasel snapped.

"That's a little much." Grollo conceded. "But he's right about some things, and that old lady isn't going to let us leave."

"That old lady is a sensible creature who knows that travelling through snow is hazardous! What if we got caught in a storm, eh? You two are both being ridiculous. And when we get back to Redwall you can both fess up and apologize!"

"Te who?"

"To her stupid!" Hawthorn got up from the soft chair, no longer satisfied with her company. "I expected better from you Grollo." And with that she stormed off to bed.

"Humph, expectin' better from the woodlander. Typical." Grollo was unsure as to whether Sharpfur was angry, hurt or unaffected. Nicer though he was the weasel was still an enigma.

"If only we could prove it to her." The hedgehog sighed longingly. "Then we could get home sooner."

"Proof..." Sharpfur seemed to be mulling something over. "If only we could get some of that." He had said at last.

"Good morning." Said Hawthorn, taking her seat opposite them. Neither responded.

Sharpfur was tearing apart a loaf of bread he had no intention of eating, and Grollo was aimlessly stirring his porridge. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." The weasel said flatly, shoving aside the neat slices of bread. "We're stuck here for good."

"Not this again..." The vole rolled her eyes. These two were probably doing this on purpose.

"Oh it's this again alright." Grollo sat up. "No more snow. No more excuses- but what do we get but another excuse? 'It's still chilly'. So what if it's chilly? I want to go home."

"So do I Grollo but-"

"But nothing. Every time it's the same thing. She's not taking us anywhere because of the weather or the pies or because she's feeling ill. This can't be a coincidence."

"Prove it! Okay? I am sick and tired of your theories. She has been nothing but nice to you, for no good reason I might add. How many creatures let strangers into their homes for as long as she has?"

"Any decent folk-"

"Well if she's decent she's not-"

"A liar?" Interjected Sharpfur.

"And what, pray tell, did she lie about?" Hawthorn frowned at him.

The weasel tapped his glasses. "One of my good friends has just the thing ye need', it's what she said, right? Well fun fact, we're the only four beasts on this here island."

"Island?"

"Piece of land in the middle of wat-"

"I know what it is!" The vole snapped. "But who says we're on an island?"

"I do."

"Proof?" She asked cooly. Sharpfur gave no reply. "I thought not."

"Hawthorn-" Grollo protested, but Hawthorn gave him no leeway. She was tired of this rubbish.

"Save it! I've heard it all. But the truth is you're both jumping to conclusions. Now pass the jam."

"What if I gave ye proof?" Sharpfur had a strange smile on his face. Hawthorn did not like it.

"I'd like to see you try." She snapped, siezing the jam herself.

To her and Grollo's surprise the weasel stood up and scuttled over to the halfway, where he began to sniff at the coat rack. "Nope. Not this one. Not that one. No. Nah. Aha!" He practically dove into an overly large one Hawthorn remembered he had worn once. To her surprise he came out, holding two books and a piece of paper against his chest. His eyes darted around, as if to make sure nobeast else was looking. And then he slammed his evidence onto the table.

A claw was jabbed at the parchment- which landed facing upwards- and revealed itself to be a map.

"We're on an island." Sharpfur announced, unable to contain a smug grin. "Go on, say I'm bein' ree-dick-you-less."

"So we're on an island." The vole conceded.

"Told ye so!"

"That doesn't prove anything though! Just because we're on an island doesn't mean we're not going to leave eventually."

"What about the books?" Demanded Grollo- surely Sharpfur's evidence was worth something.

The weasel himself put down that theory. "They're both diarrheas. Nothin' te help our case hedgepig."

"You mean diarrys." Hawthorn corrected, spreading jam over a slice of a nutbread.

"It's what I said, wasn't it?"

"But..." Grollo was at a loss for words. He'd been hoping that Sharpfur had something substantial, but the old parchments seemed worthless now.

"But nothing." And Hawthorn chewed away at her breakfast, happy in the knowledge that both her companions were witless buffoons who would one day most certainly apologize for all their back-chatting. Well... Grollo would for sure. She wasn't sure whether or not Sharpfur had progressed to that level yet.

Grollo however, was not satisfied and snatched up the diaries. He flicked through the first one and was disappointed when he found nothing of interest.

The second one he went through more slowly. Sharpfur had found the map within this particular piece of literature... however he hadn't actually been bothered to look through it himself.

Slower now, but still rapidly, the hedgehog flicked through it, going ever slower the further on he went, until he finished it, his face pale.

Sharpfur was watching with keen interest and trying to read over his shoulder (the quills and the fact that Grollo read quicker than he did made this especially challenging). Hawthorn though, was gradually making her way through slice after slice of jammed bread. She was on her fifth when the diary fell from Grollo's paws.

"Hey! I was tryin' te read that!"

Ignoring Sharpfur's protests the hedgehog handed the diary to Hawthorn.

"Read this!"

"But I wanted te read it!"

Harrumphing, the vole stuffed the sandwich into her mouth and began to flick through the pages.

Hissing in frustration Sharpfur tried to read over her shoulder- to less success as she was faster than even Grollo.

'Dear Diarry,

Something terrible happened today. I was playing by the river with Spike when I fell into the water. I nearly drowned but a froggy saved me. He seemed very nice at first but he scared Spike. And then he did something that hurt a lot and Spike told me to run. So I went to get dad and he went and he took an axe with him. Mum says he'll be back but if he isn't we're going to go looking for him. And Spike. I need your help diarry. I want Spike and dad to come home.'

The story shook Hawthorn to the very core, it did not take somebeast as bright as her to fill in all the gaps.

"This still doesn't prove anything!" She snapped, shoving the book away. Sharpfur growled and promptly snatched it up- his spectacles at the ready.

"It proves she's hiding something!" Grollo snapped.

"Creatures see what they want to see." Hawthorn shot back. "You don't even know if it's hers!"

"Dear Die-Ari." Began Sharpfur out loud- mostly because he could read quicker if he said the words. "Something terrible happened two-day. I was playin'- playing by the river with Spike-"

Something shattered behind them and all turned to see the kindly hedgepig, her paws shaking. A shattered jug of greensap milk lay forgotten at her feet.

Sharpfur stirred guiltily. "I- er- it's just somethin' I- er found-"

"I know you're frustrated." She said, struggling to put words together. Her eyes seemed to be staring at something far away- something that was not really there. "B-but-"

"We're sorry." Said Hawthorn nervously. She snatched up both books and the map. "It was wrong to go snooping around. I tried to tell them-"

"No, don't be silly. It's only natural. You want to go home." Here she hesitated and silence held the room still for what felt like forever. "B-but- it's not safe!"

"It's not." Hawthorn agreed. "But we have to go back."

The older creature shook her head mournfully. "N-no. Nobeast ever comes back. D-dad never came back. Neither did Spike. And mum didn't either. An-and-" She burst into tears. "The frogs took them." After a good few minutes of sobbing she managed to pull herself together. "I-i-it's safe here. Nobeast'll hurt you. And you'll always have a roof and f-food and- and you'll be safe."

"Will you or will you not take us to Redwall?" Grollo demanded, so viciously that even Sharpfur scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

There was another long pause.

"It's not safe." Was her stiff reply.

Grollo- all manners and good behaviour forgotten, slammed his paw against the table in frustration. "Then you're no better than the frogs!"

"Grollo!" Hawthorn snapped- aghast. "How can you say something like that?"

"I've got a father! I've got friends! I've already got a home! And is going home too much to ask? Is it?"

"Grollo!" Hissed the young vole, just as the old hedgepig dissolved into tears.

"What!?" He roared. "Can't you see?" He too had tears in his eyes, but he still sounded more angry than sad. "We'd have been back by now if she wasn't such a-"

"Grollo!"

Ignoring all present, the young hedgehog stormed away from the breakfast table.

Hawthorn followed him, her mind set upon beating some sense into him.

That left Sharpfur with the crying hedgehog. Still, he had some experience with crying beasts. Greyclaw had always been soft- if he had half a hair for every time Blizzard or Heartrip had reduced their little brother to tears he'd have been a pillow. 'He don't really mean it.' He had always said. And that was what he said now.

"He doesn't really mean it." Stepping over the spilled greensap, the weasel carefully put his paw round her shoulder. "Yer a lot better than frogs. I've never met a frog. But Gulash said they tried to eat him once. So he crushed their skulls in."

The hedgehog shivered and Sharpfur was made aware that this method of comforting was not effective on the soft-hearted woodlanders.

"But would a frog teach vermin like me the elf-a-bet? Thought not." He eased her gently into a chair. "Just rest easy. An' don't worry. Nobeast'll make ye leave if ye don't want to."

"It's not safe." She sniffled and Sharpfur handed her a tissue.

"I know it ain't." But we can look after ourselves.

"You will go in there and you will apologize!" Hawthorn demanded.

"No I will not! She's been holding us captive all winter! And don't deny it. You know I'm right."

"We're not her captives." Hawthorn hissed, her paws clenching into fists.

"We're her guests?" He paused to let the words sink in properly. "Isn't that what the vermin said?"

"Did she tie us to a mast?"

"She might as well have!"

"Easy woodlanders." Sharpfur entered, looking smug. "We'll get te yer Abbey. No need te panic now an' lose yer heads."

"We're not panicking." Hawthorn snapped.

"When are we leaving?" Grollo demanded, ignoring the glare the vole shot at him.

"Leave the last part te me. But first, we gotta let this die down a little. She wants the bests fer us. But we ain't ever gonna leave this place with her."

"So we just abandon her?" Hawthorn raised her paws in frustration. "Didn't you hear what happened? You want to just vanish on her? She's already lost her whole family!"

"So have I!" He snapped and the air seemed to chill. "An' we don't vanish, ghosts vanish an' we ain't ghosts yet. We leave a note. We explain. We say thank ye, and yeah, we go. An' we say that if she ever grows a backbone she's always welcome at Redhall-"

"Redwall."

"Same thing. But we say we liked her cookin' an' that she was nice an' that I'll always keep her spectacles."

Grollo stared at him with a kind of wonder Sharpfur did not like.

"Or somethin', ahem, soppy like that. So when she reads it she's both happy an' sad. But not now. We leave when I'm ready. Deal?"

"Deal." Said Grollo instantly.

"No." The vole hissed. "If we're on an island then we need a boat. And seeing as we don't have that we can't disappear into thin air. So we'll stay and convince her to take us to Redwall. And she can stay too. Living alone all these seasons, it's unhealthy."

"Alright." Grollo agreed before Sharpfur could cut her off. "You can try and convince her. And when you fail we'll be here."

Hawthorn growled and stormed off. She would prove them wrong if it was the last thing she did.

Yet this was soon proven to be easier said than done. The vole waited until the awkwardness of the next few days subsided. But it seemed her target was avoiding her. She was always there, yet at the same time conveniently never there. A week passed, and each day Sharpfur grew more and more smug whilst Grollo grew grumpier and grumpier. Then, borrowing an idea from Sharpfur, she woke up early one morning and made her way to the kitchen.

The old hedgepig smiled at her as she entered. "It's a little early for breakfast darling."

"Oh no." Hawthorn barely managed to stiffle a yawn. "I'm here to help. Can't sleep so I might as well put my paws to good use." The vole picked up a ladle and watched with drooping eyelids as it slipped through her fingers.

"It's alright dear. You don't have to." A gentle paw lead her to a chair. "Here, just sit still."

"Can we go to Redwall?" Hawthorn asked suddenly. Perhaps it was because she was tired. Or because she had grown frustrated by her lack of progress.

"D-dear. I- you know it's not safe."

Hawthorn nodded. "But if you were with us... well, Redwall can't be too far. We're still in Mossflower aren't we?"

"Well, I've never been to Redwall. So it may be a little longer than usual. An- and it's not safe."

"But we're being looked for. The Log-a-log and the Skipper and the Long Patrol and Bella-"

"And when they come they can take you to Redwall." The hedgehog explained gently. "But I'm an old creature and it's not safe outside. You saw Sharpfur's back when I first found you. And cannibals too. It's simply not safe."

And it was at that moment that Hawthorn realized that her companions were right.

Grollo took her surrender well. He smiled and patted her back. "I knew you'd come around."

Sharpfur was more annoying. "Took ye long enough. But it's good ye admit yer mistakes. Oh an' before I forget. I told ye so!"

Hawthorn frowned, but the weasel did not stop and pointed at Grollo.

"An' I told ye too! I was right from the very beginnin'. Told ye so! Told ye so! Told ye so!"

"Fine. You were right." The vole conceded. "Now when are we leaving?"

"Why don't ye shout that a little louder, eh? We go when I say we do."

Grollo opened his mouth to say something but the weasel cut him off.

"An' ye don't need te trust me te know that I want out more than the both of ye."

Everything seemed normal. As it had been all winter. They had a sumptuous lunch. Sharpfur had a few quick lessons and then the weasel read a story. It was about 'Klunky the Scrooge' and his ill-fated attempt at taking 'Redvall' from 'Massias the Warrior' and culminated with a violent death by bell. There was dinner and then Sharpfur asked for some paper and a crayon. The weasel spent much of the afternoon working on it, whatever it was he claimed it was a 'surprise' and took it with him to bed. The old hedgehog tucked them in and wished them goodnight.

Yet none slept. Sharpfur was working furiously on whatever he was writing and the other two stared into space, dreaming of escape and home and everything they missed about Redwall.

Then, a few minutes short of midnight, Sharpfur shoved a paper and the crayon at Grollo. "Yer turn hedgepig. Write somethin' nice."

"Huh?"

"The note. Remember, so she don't get a heart attack?"

"Oh." The hedgehog took the items handed to him. "What did you write?"

"None of yer business innit."

Hawthorn had already taken Sharpfur's note and, in a near perfect imitation of the weasel's voice, read it in a loud whisper.

"Dear hedgepig, Ye may have never taught me yer name, but ye taught me a lot of things. I didn't like learnin' the squiggles or brushin' me teeth or bathin'- but ye were kind te me so I thank ye. The spek-takles I'll keep till I'm a ghost in Hellgates. Yer weasel, Sharpfur. Aaaaaaw!" Hawthorn put the note down. The same weasel had gone a shade of red that would have put cherries to shame. "That's so sweet."

"It ain't sweet!" Sharpfur snapped, determined to hold onto what little verminicity he had left. "I said I didn't like half the hell she put me through!"

"But in a nice way." Hawthorn put the note gently down on Sharpfur's bed. The weasel was glaring at her- and seemed determined to tear it to shreds now, but the vole would not let him. "And that's a good thing. Now pass the crayon, I'll write mine on the back of yours."

Hawthorn's note was not much longer, though her paw-writing was neater. She thanked the old lady for everything she'd done and assured her that the three would be safe and always remember her.

"Ye woodlanders are all so soppy."

"You must be part woodlander then."

Sharpfur looked stricken. Then he glared. "I ain't soppy!"

"Shush before you wake her up." Grollo chided, passing them his own note. It was by far the longest but more of the same. Both sheets of paper were neatly placed upon the folded blankets.

"I hope she doesn't get sad." Hawthorn murmured.

"I hope she don't get angry."

"Let's go."

The door opened with a creak, but from then on there was only silence. The trio tip-pawed past the empty table and the bookshelves. Past all the coats and into the cold hallway.

Sharpfur's claw unlocked the front door with ease and a soft 'click'.

Here they hesitated. The hut was safe and warm. Nobeast knew what lay in the darkness outside, except for the promise of home. Home that was somewhere not far, yet also so far away.

Silently, the vole, hedgehog and weasel vanished into the darkness.

"En garde mon copain!"

This was Threeclaw for 'I am about to lunge so quickly that my warning will be completely useless and I'll hit you anyways'. Of course, Matiya put up his token resistance, raised his stick, which Threeclaw's darted past before neatly landing between two of his ribs.

The squirrel lost balance, completely winded by the sudden attack, and landed squarely in a puddle of mud.

"You are becoming better." Threeclaw declared, stabbing his own stick into the soft ground so that he could use both paws to pull the dazed squirrel to his feetpaws.

This was either a genuine compliment or sarcasm. It was hard to tell with the stoat's accent.

"Yeah, nearly got your ear once." Matiya's paw traveled to where the wood had struck and winced at the twinges of pain.

"Another bruise?" Asked the albino. He spoke with a small frown but there was a mocking kind of laughter in his eyes.

"Like I'm not used to them." The squirrel retorted. And indeed he was used to them, sporting quite the collection himself. A small one on his left cheek, three divided along his sides, and, he suspected but didn't want to ask, a rather large one at the base of his tail.

"Perhaps we should be spending more time walking?" Threeclaw suggested, now beginning to twirl his rapier. "What would the abbeybeasts be thinking if they saw-" He jabbed quickly forwards, and halted the blade a milimetre away from his cheek. "That. And that one. And that one. And that other one." Now he began to spin around and point at all the bruises along the squirrel until, with a final poke of the squirrel's tail he finished. "And that one. Why! They'd be thinking I was beating you!"

"Well you were. But I hit you back."

The stoat gave a particularly smug grin. "And where, exactly, a vous tappe moi?"

"Here!" Matiya spun suddenly, and caught the unprepared stoat firmly in the stomach.

Threeclaw fell over, the blow having successfully knocked the wind out of him. By the time he had recovered, however, he was laughing.

"Tres bien mi amigo. Very unexpected." He rubbed at where the stick had struck. "But I am not remembering hitting you so hard."

Matiya helped the stoat to his feetpaws. "Well, desperate times, desperate needs. Should we restart?"

The stoat shook his head. "We've been hitting and kicking all morning. And we still have a river to find."

How they had not yet found the river was anyone's guess. Yet it had remained ever ellusive. The fact that they changed direction every day or two probably wasn't doing the pair any favours.

"And while we are walking." The stoat declared, sheathing the rapier. "You can tell me what is it you learned at the abbey." Here Threeclaw failed to surpress a snigger. "C'est obviously pas the art of war, but mayhaps it'll be funny."

"Well..." Matiya begun. He started a lot of sentences with 'well' these days. For one, it sounded a lot smarter than 'uhhhhh', which is what he wanted to say every time Threeclaw expressed curiosity in abbey life. From the cooking, to the history, to his friends... if the stoat was paying him any mind he probably knew a lot about Matiya. Far more than the squirrel knew about his own companion. But still, he saw no harm in telling the stoat. After all, he wasn't paying attention. "Well, sometimes we help out in the kitchen. We learn how to make pies and cakes and stuff. Sometimes somebeast takes us swimming. But mostly it's history. Abbot Martin likes to read the old books. The stuff our predecessors used to do."

"And what is it they did?" He did not sound particularly interested and was tossing and catching the rapier as if it were a simple stone, and not a pointed piece of flesh-piercing metal.

"Well." Matiya said again. "They ate. And there was usually some kind of riddle left behind by Martin the Warrior to solve. And fighting. Lots of that." The fighting was what Matiya remembered best, the only times he'd ever paid attention in class. He knew every warrior, every weapon, every duel and every grisly death. He had even tried to recreate them with his peers. Fret had never been particularly fond of it, and Grollo did not like the bruising, but Momchillo- despite considerably less skill- had been keen on it. The two had ran up and down the stairs and walls and kitchens, around the pond, along the grounds, across the orchard. Sticks clacking, faces laughing. If he had a nut for every time they had crashed into somebeast, the abbey could eat nutfarl for the next three seasons. A part of him now wondered if he'd see Momchillo again- but he surpressed that thought. Of course he would! Momchillo was back at the abbey now, playing with Grollo and teasing Hawthorn and... and missing him no doubt.

"Fighting." Threeclaw repeated, uncomfortable with the squirrel's sudden silence. "I heard that you abbeybeasts have a magic sword. Every vermin what touches it turns to ashes. Is it, as they say south of here, a fab-elle?"

"It never turned Fret to ashes." Matiya pointed out. "And he had to polish that thing once a week." The squirrel had never understood how that could possibly be a punishment, but Fret had hated it. Of course, polishing a sword that never got dirty was in and of itself a conundrum.

"Frettie wasn't exactly big on being vermin though."

"Well... I don't know." Matiya scratched the back of his neck.

Threeclaw shook his head in disappointment. "I would be thinking that you beasts call vermin vermin because they are being bad."

"Well we do. Vermin keep trying to conquer the abbey."

"Vermin or warlords?"

"Are they mutually exclusive?" This whole conversation was treading towards previously unknown paths, much like the creatures having it.

"Vous comprenez pas. You misunderstand. Is every creature what is trying to break your red walls, a vermin?"

"Well..." Now he was moving into dangerous territory. He did not want to offend Threeclaw, but at the same time felt the need to be honest. "Redwall was never besieged by mice." The young squirrel hoped and intended that to be the end of the discussion, but once more Threeclaw pressed on.

"But mice have besieged castles of their own."

"Yeah, but not for glory."

The stoat spun round and began to walk backwards. "And I was thinking freeing slaves was glorious."

"It is, but we never freed slaves for glory. We did it because it's the right thing to do."

"Exactement. But I am pointing at something else. Not every verminous creature that broke your abbey walls did it because it was doing la right thing to do."

It took Matiya several seconds to fully comprehend the statement. "Cluny the Scourge forced some vermin to join his horde." That was the only one he remembered, but he was sure there were more. "Is that what happened to you?" He asked abruptly, so suddenly had his question arisen, that the stoat- taken completely by surprise, fell over. "Were you forced to join the Honest Bunch?"

Threeclaw shook his head. "Squirrels are always jumping. Malheuresement you have landed on the wrong conclusion." Threeclaw got to his feet and spun around and that was the end of the conversation.

In silence now, the two tramped through the fresh greens of Spring, which was now in full bloom. This made foraging for food much easier, as an abundance of berry bushes provided enough nourishment for both, however, rainclouds were a rare sight and without any melting snow or icicles to suck on, hydration was proving far more difficult than it had been over winter. The only time it was in abundance, was when morning dew-drops dripped from the overhanging leaves.

Yet Spring had also come with more dangers. Winter meant that the world was asleep, blanketed in snow, they had been the only living things for miles around. Now, however, life was their constant companions. With blooming flowers came swarms of bees and hives filled and dripping with honey. Birds darted from branch to branch, singing their strange avian songs. For the most part, feathered creatures stayed away from those with fur, but on occasion an overly curious magpie would have to be chased off by a few well-placed prods of a rapier.

Spring had always been his favourite season. In Redwall it would mean finally being allowed out to play after a winter of biting cold winds, warm fires and stuffy classrooms. It meant longer days, fresh fruit and enough strawberry fizz to fill a lake. It meant that Abbot Martin would let them play in the sun more often than not and that their chores were minimised to the point of non-existence.

It also meant that it would soon be his nameday. How many seasons was he now? He raised a paw to count with, and promptly bumped into Threeclaw's back. The stoat's ears were swivelling left and right.

"What's wrong?"

"Shhhhh! Listen mi amigo."

Matiya grew still, his ears stiff. Then he heard it. The sound of rushing water.

A grin spread itself wide across Threeclaw's face, and Matiya soon found himself competing with him.

Wide-eyed, the pair advanced, until they reached the edge of the trees and a thin bank revealed itself to them.

"YES!" Matiya shouted, so loud that the nearby birds flew off suddenly with many an indigant squawk. The squirrel raced forwards into the river, the water was bitterly cold, but real! He raced back to the bank with another whoop of joy. Then he fell over, and rolling onto his back, laughed as hard as his lungs would allow.

Home, they were so close to home.

Remembering how thirsty he was, he made his way to the river and drank mouthfuls of the clear, fresh water.

There was a splashing to his side and Matiya turned round to see Threeclaw dragging what looked like a hairy ball of spikes, but what anyone who knew Grollo would know was a hedgehog.

Upon reaching dry land the ball began to uncurl, revealing a very pale old hedgehog. Her spectacles were askew and her apron in tatters, but otherwise she was only shaken.

"Woodlander!" Said Threeclaw, waving him over. "C'est ta grandmere!"

The squirrel wasn't sure what that meant, but came over.

Instinctively, the old hedgehog began to curl in on herself and emitted a whimper.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. We're not going to hurt you." Matiya put on his most friendly smile. Threeclaw on the other paw, had grown disinterested and was cleaning around his claws with the point of his rapier.

"I- my name is Matiya." He stretched out a paw. "And I come from Redwall Abbey." He was made aware, rather brutally now in the presence of this stranger, that he needed a wash. Mud, dust, dirt, sweat- he was covered in so many layers of filth that it was a wonder his fur was still red.

She stopped whimpering abruptly, and hastily adjusted her spectacles.

"Redwall you say?"

"Yes. And er- this is Threeclaw." The stoat neatly waved his three-clawed paw. "He's from er- he's my sword... fighting... tutor."

"Threeclaw." The hedgehog repeated, as if she'd heard it before.

The stoat, with all the air and grace of one raised a gentlebeast, bowed, his paw flourishing in front of him before he neatly folded it behind his back. "Enchante madmoiselle."

"You, but of course." The hedgehog sat up abruptly. "I have heard much of both of you."

"You have?" Asked Matiya, then it occurred to him that he was still being looked for. No doubt somebeast had asked for him.

"Both of us?"

"Yes! Threeclaw! Sharpfur mentioned you."

"Sharpfur?" The pair asked incredulously. What had the little weasel been doing with this old creature?

"He's alive?" The stoat had a look of surprise that clashed viciously with the pride on his face. On the one paw Sharpfur was an undersized runt, though Threeclaw had taught him how to use a knife effectively, his survival had been unexpected. Especially considering he had been above deck at the time of the attack.

"Yes. And Grollo and Hawthorn."

A part of Matiya was relieved. His friends were alive. Another part of him, however was shocked. It was this side that spoke. "They're not back yet?" But it had been weeks! The poor friar! And the Badgermum, Hawthorn had always been her favourite.

Here the hedgehog stirred guiltily. "W-well. I-it's- I was scared!" She cried, her eyes beginning to tear up. "It wasn't safe! And Sharpfur had a burned back and, and Redwall's so far and I've never been- I've never left the island before and I thought it was best if- if they were safe and-" She was clutching her knees now and rocking to and fro along the ground.

Threeclaw neatly wiped away her tears with the point of his rapier.

"Shhhhh, relax. Breathe. Taking deep breaths now." Now he began to inhale and exhale and the hedgehog followed his lead until she was reduced to sniffles.

"Where are they now?" Matiya felt compelled to ask after a few minutes of awkward sniffling. He regretted his curiosity when the old hedgepig exploded into more loud sobbing.

Threeclaw gave him a mock-disgusted look which the squirrel responded to with a disgruntled one, before both attempted to calm down their new companion.

When she had recovered, she managed to answer. "They left. Took the boat and left. They said they were going to Redwall but... but it's not safe and-and-"

"Shhhhhh. It's alright. I connait Sharpfur. He can be looking after himself."

"Yeah." Matiya agreed. "Who knows? Mayhaps they're already at Redwall by now."

The old hedgehog sniffled. "B-but all alone an-and- they left in the dead of n-night and I didn't see any boats. Supposing they hit a r-rock-"

"Hawthorn can swim." Matiya said fiercely, refusing to believe for a second that any ill-fate could have befallen his friends... and their weasel companion he supposed. And he had thought he and Threeclaw were an unlikely pair!

"B-b-bu-"

"By the time we get to Redwall." Matiya declared, helping her to her feet. "They'll be stuffing themselves silly on more vittles than you can count." He dusted off her apron and took her shaking paw in his own, far more confident one.

"Speaking of the grand, red abbey. You don't happen to be knowing the way there, do you?" Threeclaw asked casually, as if he himself had a general idea but was otherwise uncertain.

"Oh, um, I think I do. There should be a path a little further upriver and that should take us up to their front gates. B-but I- I've never been there."

Threeclaw took her other paw in his whole one, his three remaining fingers twirling the rapier.

"I'm sure finding it will not be being too difficult."

"And so, Lutra's famous pearls were lost amongst the waves. Never again would the desire to possess them ensnare another creature's mind and soul. And the good beasts of Redwall returned to the abbey. The end." With an aching back and a pair of very sore buttocks after what felt like hours of sitting on the hard floor, Abbot Martin closed the book.

"It's over." Cheese sounded stricken. After many days of pleading with his sisters they had finally relented and allowed the old mouse to read to them.

"Thank Vulpuz." His sisters declared in unison. One removed the paws from around her ears.

"B-b-but what about Tansy?"

"What a stupid name." Snapped the oldest one. A clever trick had allowed Abbot Martin to tell the sisters apart now. He had conveniently 'dropped' a bow and a necklace one breakfast, and now he knew the weasels as Bow, Jewel and Fang. For the most part they hadn't complained about the names, although there had been a great deal of swapping and arguing at first.

"Tansy." Abbot Martin explained slowly. "Was in due course of time given the post of Abbess. Of course, some recordings say it was immediately upon Abbot Durral's return but such writings rarely have a credible source."

"Stupid abbotmouse, course ye can't eat a book."

"Credible. Not edible my child."

"I'm not yer child mouse!"

"I never said- oh no you misunderstood. Ahem, as Abbot of Redwall I am, technically speaking, the father of all creatures within this abbey."

The young weasels looked disgusted suddenly, and tried to get away from him.

"So how did ye give birth to a mole?"

The old mouse had to adjust his spectacles. "I-I- I beg your pardon?"

"If yer everybeast's daddy that means that mole what we stole's yer daughter. But yer a mouse."

"Oh, no! No, no, no. It's just a title. A formality. It's just a, er- a slip of the tongue. I'm not truly everybeast's father. Just- er, referred to as such."

"So ye didn't mate with a mole?"

"Of-of course not." The mouse replied, rather flustered.

Collectively, the weasels breathed a sigh of relief.

Remembering his other duties, the old mouse took his leave of them. And although they still threatened to rip him to pieces, and sometimes attempted to, he did not doubt that they were growing fond of him. Even if that fondness lay... very deep down.

He had called a meeting, the first since the children had been taken. Life in Redwall had to go on. And so, the seasons had to be duly named. Winter had gone unnamed due to circumstances beyond their control, but he could no longer ignore his duties. Spring was here and that too, had to be named.

He came into the Great Hall, expecting the whole abbey to be present, but instead found only a few faces. His successor to the post of Recorder, a bespectacled mouse now pacing furiously. Constance who looked as glum as ever. The Foremole and his daughter. And Bella.

"I-I- said tell everyone." The old mouse was shocked. For one of his summons to be so blatantly ignored...

"I did." The badger replied. "Rosebrush's busy. Mormont's looking after his wife. Apparently she's with child. That might brighten up the place." She did not sound particularly hopeful of this prediction. "Blind Agatha is ill. The Friar's cooking porridge. Again."

Abbot Martin clutched at his ears. "Onion porridge... what on earth has gotten into him?"

"He is convinced his son is dead." The Recorder answered impatiently. "Besides, nobeast has to do any actual work for that filth. The state of the abbey is quite frankly disastrous. Orchard's filled with fruit but not a soul's willing to pick them. Dust everywhere. Itchy bedclothes. I already proposed to you-"

"That I force everybeast to just move on. I am aware of that." The mouse rubbed at his forehead. "But as I said before grief is a wound that requires time to heal."

The Recorder harrumphed. "Everybeast's had quite a lot of time."

"Moibe iff'en 'ee 'ad a mizzin' dowter zurr, 'ee'd be a gruit bit more understandin'."

"Or maybe I'd be as lucky as you." The mouse replied, continuing to pace frustratedly.

"Shut up." Constance snapped at him. The subject of missing children was especially unforgiving on her, and the Recorder wisely paced in silence, lest he find himself on the recieving end of all her pent-up rage.

Abbot Martin cleared his throat before beginning. "Well if nobeast else will come we can start with the winter. What shall we name it?"

The Recorder was the first to give any suggestions. "The Winter of Snowy Sorrows. Or perhaps, the Winter of the Tear-Filled Snows."

"Burr aye, doin't be goin' tur dramatik."

"I'm not being dramatic!" The Recorder snapped. "Merely conveying the truth. We've had lots of snows and even more sorrows. Snowy sorrows."

"Perhaps it is a bit much. Any other ideas anyone?"

"Winter of the..." Bella frowned in thought, her face going a shade of purple underneath her black and white fur. "Disappearing Snowflakes." She replied with a sudden sniffle.

The abbot brought his paw to it's familiar spot on his temples.

"I have one." Said Constance very quietly.

"Alright." The old abbot braced himself for the inevitable impact of whatever she had to say.

"Well... it's not a name but... I- I thought we should make a feast."

"A what?" The Recorder sounded stricken. "You can't be serious. What could we possibly have to celebrate?"

"Mormont's baby for one. Spring for another." Constance answered, rather coldly. "I just thought it might help everybeast move on. This all started at a feast after all."

There was a long pause, broken by Roseheart.

"B'ain't a bad idea zurr. Oi'm thunking it could wurk."

The Foremole patted his daughter's head. "Clever goirl. Courzz it'll wurk. Everybeast been missing a gud feaist."

Abbot Martin thought this through for a second, and suddenly inspiration rushed through him. "That is a brilliant idea! Closure, yes, that is exactly what everybeast needs. And a feast. Yes, that has always been the solution, hasn't it?" Well... clearly nobeast had ever thought of a better idea, but if all the previous recorders were to be believed then it near-always worked. "It should be a surprise that- that way we can properly address the issue. And- and... we're going to need the kitchens."