Black and White

[The Grey Coincidence]

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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

 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]

[The Grey Coincidence]

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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"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.

[The Grey Coincidence]

"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.