Teleo Creekrun sagged back against the trunk of a tall ash, peering up at his father, Alder. The giant mouse raised a critical eyebrow, twitching his unusual tufted tail.

"Done so soon?" Alder Creekrun twirled his sword idly. Teleo nodded, panting too hard to speak. "You wish you were finished. Get up and get your sword. You will learn this maneuver if it kills you."

Teleo stooped wearily and picked up his sword as though it were a dead thing. He faced his father once more. Alder flicked his steel in a lazy figure eight, speaking as he did.

"Teleo, you are a Creekrun male," (Here Teleo flashed him a look that clearly said Tell me something I didn't know.) Alder continued, unperturbed. "We are weapon-masters. In every generation there has been one male, and one alone, who excels in arms. My father trained me in this art; his father trained him; and his father's father trained him. Now I am attempting to train you, though you resist my every effort." His blade began picking up speed for emphasis. "Do you not feel any shame at being the first Creekrun to have failed at the sword?"

"Yea, I have! Doesn't it occur to you that I've tried? I've performed every exercise you've given me! I've worked until I can't move! I—"

"Then try harder!" Alder swept his sword towards Teleo. The younger mouse, caught by surprise, swung his blade up to block the blow, but he was carried off his feet by the force. Alder looked on as he straightened up, wincing. The huge mouse was reminded of a time when he, too, had been swept off his paws by his father's blade. He had been Teleo's age, and even worse at weapons than he was. It had always been tradition for the father to school the son. It was passed down through their generations in the same way that their staggering height and strange tufted tails had been passed down. Alder knew he was being harsh on Teleo, but this was the way he himself had been trained.

Teleo was reaching for his sword when he heard a shout.

"Teleo! Tey, try slicing down!" His younger sister, Romula Creekrun, was waving furiously. He turned to her, annoyed. "Listen, Romula, if you think you can do better, come try!" Venting his anger, he drove his blade point first into the loam. Romula glanced at her mother Famma for permission, and then raced over to them, beaming. Alder said nothing. He didn't need to. His expression clearly revealed his irritation. Romula completely ignored this as she tugged the sword eagerly out of the clinging soil. She hefted it up, feeling the weight, testing. Flicking his ears back, Teleo snickered; the sword was over half Romula's height. His laugh ended abruptly as the sword tip snipped off the points of his left whiskers. Alder's eyes widened. Romula danced lightly back, eyes glinting mischievously. Her father flicked his blade lightly towards her, trying, teasing. The sturdy mousemaid sent it flying. Trying again, he used the same maneuver he had been practicing with Teleo. Again, the sword flew from his paws. They continued, attacking and defending, each attempt ending invariably with Alder being forced to retrieve his blade. When they ground to a halt, he stared at Romula.

"In the name of fang and fur, maid, who taught you?"

Romula fiddled with her sword, not meeting her father's eyes. "I dunno. I mean, I just know. I mean…um…" she faltered for words. Finally she met his gaze squarely. "The blade just fits my paws, is all. It tells me how it needs to be used."

The taller mouse had no response to this. He was completely stunned. His daughter, his youngest child, who, to his knowledge, had never touched steel before, had just beaten him thoroughly and with more grace than he had ever possessed. He bowed his head in thought and walked quietly into their cottage. Teleo followed him, glancing at Romula with a mixture of envy and awe. Famma flashed her daughter a quick understanding look and followed the two indoors to begin fixing their supper. Romula watched them quietly. She sensed that something had been broken, but she didn't know what. Her sword dangled in her hand, point tracing limp patterns in the dust. The young mousemaid had never felt so very alone.

Dura Vadi crept quietly over to her sleeping mate. She too had drifted off, but there was no way on her life that she would admit it to Teb Doleann. Sneering, she kicked the other weasel into wakefulness. Teb came abruptly conscious with a stifled yelp, glaring at Dura. She squatted down next to him.

"'s time." Teb glared at her; it was his right to decide when it was time to strike. After all, it was he who had been given the job; it was he who Ardis had called to her tower. He could remember it vividly…

He was in the middle of dining as one of Queen Ardis's burly guards summoned him over. The rat guard had never said a word, simply beckoned him to follow. Teb had followed warily as they climbed higher, feet silent on the old red stone staircases. Only when they reached the door to Ardis's chambers had he begun to fear. The queen was merciless to those who displeased her and she never seemed to run out of ingenious (and gruesome) ways to kill them. The guard knocked thrice on the heavy oak door, and they heard the Queen's strong voice calling them in. The guard merely shoved Teb through the door and left.

As the guard propelled him in, Teb was instantly struck by the richness of the chambers. Weighty tapestries hung from the sandstone walls and opulent runners softened the floors. Strangely, though, it was not a luxurious hanging or plush carpet that held the center of the room. Hanging in the middle of the far wall, surrounded by a framework of gold, was a simple hand-needled embroidery. It had been repaired many times, and the colors were slightly faded. It depicted an armored mouse bearing a great sword, with rats, weasels, ferrets, stoats, even a wildcat fleeing from him. The mouse's expression was stern and disapproving, and Teb felt uneasy looking at it. He was jolted from his reverie when a small door on the right wall opened and Ardis glided through. She gestured for the frightened weasel to be seated and settled opposite him, light silken robes swirling around her. He bowed frantically while fumbling for a cushion.

"So, you are an assassin, are you not?" She didn't sound upset, merely curious. Slightly emboldened, he replied, "Yes, Your Magnificence."

"Superb," she purred, curling her snow-white tail around her snugly. "I have need of your services. My Seers have recently had a most disturbing vision of a mouse that will kill me. You can understand why this is of some concern to myself." Ardis paused, looking straight at Teb's face. "I want you to kill this mouse."

Teb was flustered. "I can't…I mean I can but…which mouse? There're a lot of 'em."

"What do you take me for! This mouse lives on the banks of the River Moss, this my soothsayers have seen. What is more, it has a tufted tail. You cannot miss it. Now begone, and do not let me hear news of failure, or I will kill you. Leave!" Ardis's ears flattened against her skull and Teb ran.

Now here he was, finally preparing to strike after weeks of slogging through Mossflower, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and their bloodthirsty kin, getting lost, getting found, and getting exasperated. He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over Dura. Yes, he thought, it's time. Dura leapt to her feet, sliding her wicked assassin's knife from her belt. He strapped on his throwing knives and signaled to Dura. Together, the two weasels crept silently towards the sunlit, innocent glade.


OOkay. Kinda pitiful, please review.