Hey everybody, this is my first fanfic here, so constructive criticism and tips are always appreciated. Now, a little preface.
Yes, I know the whole concept of Tamor's 'condition' is a little weird, and could be seen as stupid, but I draw much of this from personal experience. So just bear that in mind. Also, this didn't originally start as a Redwall fanfic, but kind of an adaptation of it. The original story was a town instead of the Abbey, and some other stuff has been changed as well.
Anyway, Brian Jacques owns Redwall and I don't, so please don't sue me.
Summer's sun had turned the fields gold, sparkling with flecks of intensity and beauty not seen for many seasons. The blue sky was broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud, moving gently across the western sky. The breeze moved flowers and trees in their eternal dance of grace, swaying just so.
The bright rays filtered through the dense grove of trees just half a league from the fields. Each one twinkling with the forest's dust and life, seeming to have its own spark of beauty.
Something flickered between trees, moving like a living shadow. The only sound was a swishing of fabric, hidden by the chirping of birds and groaning of the ancient trees.
Suddenly, it stopped, pausing in the shade of a mighty oak. The figure was hidden as an owl in the night as it stood, bringing his weapon to bear. With a creaking and silent stretch, he released his fingers.
Crack!
The arrow stood quivering, buried past the head, embedded in a still-fresh stump. A colony of ants made a hasty escape from their nearby fortress, scurrying away.
Tamor smiled and stood, letting out a whoop of joy. His plain brown church habit rustled again as he crawled over a rotten log, jogging merrily towards the arrow some sixty paces from him.
He reached the stump, still smiling, and pulled at the arrow with a grunt of effort. He wasn't very strong, even by mouse standards. It was a feat of wonders that he could pull the great oak bow he had made just that morning.
With a groan, the stump finally released the arrow. Tamor stumbled and fell on his backside, still holding the arrow. Without even standing up, he inspected the sharp metal point and fletchings to make sure they were undamaged. It took time and effort to make a good arrow, and he didn't want to have to spend more of both making replacements.
After he was satisfied it was intact, Tamor stood up and carefully slid the shaft into the sack cloth on his belt along with five others. Just as he was turning to find a new target, a voice echoed through the forest, filled with age and a hint of irritation. Well, maybe a little more than a hint.
"Tamor, Tamor, you blasted rapscallion! Come out this instant, or I will have Mathilda find you!"
Tamor swallowed loudly, suddenly feeling a small ball of apprehension in the pit of his stomach at the thought of encountering the badger responsible for dispensing punishment for unruly mice.
He followed the voice to a small bridge leading over a stream about two hundred paces to the north. A figure stood on the bridge dressed in a similar robe as Tamor's, paws cupped around his mouth. "Tamor, Tamor!"
It was Abbot Mengrid, one of the oldest mice of the entire abbey. He was fair and kind, but not one to be crossed. His white and gray fur was always combed to exacting personal standards, and his whiskers were always trimmed to a very manageable length. Overall, a very traditional church mouse.
Tamor swallowed again and raised his paw, simultaneously slipping the bow and arrows behind a clump of bushes. "Here I am, father Mengrid!"
The Abbot tilted his head upwards and peered down the spectacles perched on the bridge of his black nose. "Ah, Tamor! There you are, you young rascal! Come here, let me speak to you."
Tamor hesitantly made his way along the trail to the bridge, finally stopping in front of Abbot Mengrid while shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Tell me, young one," Mengrid started, motioning Tamor to walk with him. He did, following the aging mouse. "What were you doing out here in Mossflower this late in the afternoon? We're almost ready for dinner, you know."
Tamor wrung his paws. "Uhm…yes, Abbot, I know. I was looking for cranberries for the, uh, cordial. Grace had asked me to look for some." He squinted slightly, hoping his ruse would work.
Mengrid cocked his head slightly. "Hmmm, awful late in the season for cranberries, isn't it? And isn't Grace with the rest of the kitchen mice, getting ready for the summer feast?"
Tamor had no answer. He hung his head, ashamed, as the Abbot reached behind the bush and pulled out the oak bow. "Shooting again, were we?" he said, twanging the bowstring with one finger.
The guilty mouse nodded slightly. Abbot Mengrid sighed and expertly unstrung the bow, sliding the string into his pocket and discarding the stave down a hill. He knelt down in front of Tamor and put a paw on his shoulder. "Tamor, my son, we have spoken about this. You cannot be an archer, not with your…condition. And we are a society of peace, of love, of caring. We are not warriors. The only reason we have weapons are for what little hunting and ceremony we have.
"Besides," he said, standing up. "All the creatures of the realm know not to harm any creature from Redwall abbey. We wage no wars, fight no battles. Our job is to help the animals around us, not to harm them. Even the foxes leave us be, despite their war-like ways."
As they began walking along the trail, Tamor couldn't help but speak up. "But, father, what if we were attacked? Suppose some beast didn't keep to the code?"
The Abbot had to stifle his laughter to a small chuckle. "Oh, Tamor. What other creatures are there? Our expanse is surrounded on three sides by mountains, and by the plains on the fourth. We haven't been attacked in many, many seasons."
"But Abbot…"
Mengrid silenced him with a raised paw. "Now, my son, calm yourself. Today is not time to be thinking of such things. Besides, we have a busy night ahead. After dinner we must attend to those in the infirmary, clean the kitchen, take stock of the cellar…"
The mouse's voice faded in Tamor's as they trudged along the road, sun's castings spread out before them in a blanket of gold.
Redwall Abbey was strong, but not imposing. The massive red-sandstone walls seemed to radiate peace and kindness to any who passed by, or through the great doors.
The Great Hall was used for everything from meals to weddings, its astonishingly tall ceiling and solid stone construction added to the sense of immensity and space. Colorful tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, interrupted occasionally only by a stone pillar or window.
The passageways around it lead to dormitories, study rooms, the infirmary, and countless other quarters. If looked at from the view of a bird, the entire structure was nothing but a giant square with a church bell at the center. However, there was much more to the Abbey than one could see with the naked eye.
During the winter, the fields around the Abbey were covered in feet of snow, which was as white and clean as the roofs. Many a weary traveler had stumbled across the place during a storm; cold, wet, hungry, and tired. The peaceful mice and other creatures inside had sworn an oath to help all those who needed it, so long as they harmed no beast.
The soft warmth of the summer night wrapped around every creature at dinner that night, like a blanket hung near the fire after a long day.
Tamor sat alone, as usual, after being shooed away from the fire by the other mice his age.
"Get away, Cyclops! We don't want a beast like you mucking up our dinner!"
"Yeah, you waste! You probably couldn't see your plate, anyway!"
Tamor had slunk away, sitting near a shrub with his plate of seasoned Silverfin river fish, greens, and cornvine getting cold. His paw was balled in a fist, shaking uncontrollably, while his teeth clenched and unclenched periodically. A single tear rolled down his cheek, landing on the sleeve of the robe. He wiped his eye angrily, trying to stifle the rest.
"Tamor, are you alright?"
The voice was as clear and gentle as river water. He looked up, surprised, right into the worried features of Grace Coppermouse. Her sandy-brown fur looked as soft as ever, and her hair was tied behind her head with a ribbon, which matched the brown habit she wore like all other female churchmice. Deep pools of green stared back into Tamor's own eyes, shimmering with intelligence and concern.
Tamor blushed horrendously and coughed, trying to clear his throat. "Oh, Grace! Yes, I'm…yes, fine. Just fine. Thought I would get away from the crowd for a moment, maybe get some peace," he said, trying to feign a smile.
Grace played along. "Well, would two be a crowd for you?" She sat down, smiling comfortingly.
Tamor stammered a response. "No, of course…not. You're…no, it's fine."
For a moment, both of them were silent as he shifted his gaze to the fire. Finally, Grace sighed and put a paw on his arm. "Tamor, don't let them get to you. They just don't understand, that's all. You're no different from them, at least not inside."
His eyes were watering, and this time Tamor couldn't make an effort to dry them. "They're right; I'm just…I'm just a waste of space. I shouldn't be here; I shouldn't be friends with any of you. Everyone would just be better off if I left forever."
With a start, he stood up and ran towards the great hall, eyes shut tight.
Grace blinked tears from her own eyes. "Oh, Tamor. Please find peace."
Tamor sat on the edge of his bed, sniffling quietly. There was a piece of torn cloth in his paw, just big enough for it to cover his fingers. There was a small illustration on it; a mouse, chest covered in maille, holding two long daggers and a bow, pointing towards a mountain covered in snow. Stitched into the fabric was a short sentence. Tamdril, archer of the east. Sleep me now, forever not.
My father's last gift, Tamor thought bitterly. Before he left our family to die.
Father Mengrid had told him the story of how Tamor came to Redwall when he was twelve, almost four years before. On a foraging mission into the surrounding hills, a group of Redwall mice came across a cabin, almost entirely burnt to the ground. They found the body of three mice; a female and two children. A note tacked to the door was from their father. It read,
"I was out hunting when I saw the smoke. But I was too frozen in fear to help and watched the cabin burn. I heard my wife and children die. Please, if anyone finds this, bury them. And if there are survivors, help them, but do not tell them of me, for I am ashamed and wish to go die alone in the hills like the monster that I am. - Tarfor the unforgivable"
In retrieving the dead, a crying infant was heard. Found under the still-smoldering beams of the cabin, baby Tamor lay, clutching the piece of tapestry. Blood covered his face, and the crying soon stopped. The rescuers hurried him back to the Abbey, fearing the worst. Somehow, he survived, but at a cost. His right eye was blinded, but by what no one could understand. The Abbot said it may have been a falling beam hit him somewhere on the head, causing the blindness. But then, others argued, why wasn't his entire vision taken?
The Abbot never found an answer, and neither did the hordes of healers, scholars, and curious folk that tried to piece together the mystery. After a few years, they simply accepted fact and moved on.
Tamor's paw touched the right side of his face, and then moved it in front of the useless eye. Nothing. Just blackness, an ever-present, perpetuating darkness.
He bit his lip, trying to stop the tears from surfacing again. But it was useless. He sat on the bed, sobbing quietly while clutching the fabric in his paw. A tear fell onto the dusty bedroom floor, leaving a small pool.
What fortune condemned me to this fate?
"Tamor?"
Tamor knew that voice. It was Mathilda, the badger. She had been like a mother for him since he arrived at the Abbey. Feeding him, nurturing him, disciplining, praising, everything a mother should do. But it was something Tamor would never know truthfully.
She sat down on the bed next to him, wrapping a powerful arm around his shoulder and pulling him close while the tears came. For a while, all Tamor was capable of was choking sobs. Finally, he was able to look up with bleary eyes into the white and black-striped face of the badger. "Why me, Mathilda? What did I do to deserve this?"
Hugging him even tighter, Mathilda tried to comfort him, whispering soothingly. "You haven't done anything, Tamor. You were made this way for a reason, and all we can do is to wait and see what that reason is."
"What could that possibly be," he said, still fighting back sobs. "How can this be for a good purpose? I'm…I'm just a waste!"
Mathilda held him at arm's length. "Tamor, I never want to hear you say that again! Nobody is a waste, not the smallest ant or bee. You were put here for a purpose, remember that. We all were."
Tamor murmured something. "I'm sorry?" Mathilda asked patiently.
He looked up, eyes red and bloodshot. "It's not fair. All I've ever wanted to be was an archer. Brave, strong, like Tamdril! Then I could prove myself; prove that I'm not a waste. But now it's all gone, every last bit of it. There's no hope for me!"
Before Mathilda could act, Tamor ran out the door, a line of teardrops in the dusty floor following his tracks.
He wasn't sure how far he ran, or how long, but somehow found himself on top of one of the corner towers, which used to be a watch for enemy forces. Now it was an open-topped tower, used for stargazing.
Tamor stared angrily at the night sky, raising his fist. "Why do I deserve this? Why? Why! Tell me, show me!"
He collapsed onto the hard wooden floor, crying until a fitful sleep took him.
A harsh, biting wind blew clouds of snow into the marching convoy. Most could only see to the end of their paw, if that. Somehow, they managed to dig their dirt and grime-stained paws into the thick snow enough to keep walking. Those who had no boots or wrappings on their paws soon fell, either to be crushed by the carts or left to die.
This was no worry to Bloodfang. His whiskers twitched in the facade of a smile as his army marched. He had more warriors than he needed, and the slaves taken from the last village would be enough to keep them going through the march.
He cast a glance behind his broad leopard shoulder. The smoke was still visible from the remains of the village, which he had passed through just ten hours ago. His tail swished anxiously at the thought of another chance to taste blood.
Hares, wonderful feeding. A little thick, but wonderful. So much for those creatures being skilled fighters; we slaughtered them in a matter of minutes.
He growled and snapped his rat-tail whip at one of the slaves pulling his cart. "Scum! Get moving or I just might look to see what color your insides are!" His voice was like gravel being crunched by a serpent. Rough enough to peel the flesh off your bones, and enough venom to paralyze you while he did it.
The hare tried to get a better foothold, but slipped and fell face-first into the snow. He was young, no older than twelve, and started crying when he got up. "Please, sir, may I rest for a bit? I just need to get me strength up, just a little…"
Bloodfang was on him in the blink of an eye. Pinning him up against the cart, he sank his teeth into the hare's neck. The beast cried out, but then went limp. The leopard pulled away from the hare and tossed the carcass to the side of the road. "You, slave!" He yelled, pointing at a skinny-looking maidhare, a drop of blood falling from his lips. "If you don't start pushing this cart in two seconds, I'm going to skin you alive and boil you into soup!"
The young hare squeaked and dashed to the previous slave's spot. Soon they were moving again, with little conversation passing between them.
Bloodfang growled lowly and snapped his teeth. "Shardclaw, get up here!"
A mangy-looking ferret with yellowed teeth and squinty eyes scurried up to the cart and stood next to the leopard. "Yes, lord Bloodfang?
His leader produced a map and shoved it into Shardclaw's chest. "Take this. Find the closest village and show me where it is. Make sure it's a good one, otherwise I'll drag your lousy carcass behind the carts until we find one!"
Shardclaw gulped and nodded feverishly. "Y-Yes, Lord Bloodfang, I will find you a village, one with many tasty vermin to…"
Bloodfang had to stop speaking, as a boulder-sized paw was wrapped around his throat. "Shut up, you worthless blaggard!" he yelled, throwing him into the rear of the cart. "Just find me a village. And remember, make it good."
Five minutes later, the ferret appeared and timidly stood next to Bloodfang. "Um, sire, I do believe I've found one."
He recoiled as his leader swatted at him. "Well, fool, spit it out then!"
The ferret clumsily unrolled the map. "This here, sire. I'm not a readin' ferret me-self, but it looks plenty big, yer lordship."
Bloodfang squinted at the point on the map. "Redwall Abbey, hmmm? Excellent. Plenty of fat monks and no soldiers. Positively…" he licked his dagger-like teeth. "Excellent."
He cracked the whip over the slaves' heads and screamed. "Change direction! Over that ridgeline, and then southward! Come on, you worthless piles of slop! Get moving!" He snapped it again, and again, striking all of the slaves.
Bloodfang pulled in the whip and licked the end, which was covered in the red, sticky substance he so desperately craved. "Excellent."
Morning came too soon for Tamor. He opened his red and tired eyes as the sun began to creep over the horizon. His body was sore and tight from lying on the hard wooden floor, and his mind was a swimming sea of shame and anger. He forced himself to stop the tears, swallowing hard and blinking.
Tamor stood, staring bleakly to the west. The forest gleamed, an emerald in a pond of blue sky. He stared longingly at the oak trees, whose saplings would make perfect longbows.
He abruptly shook his head. "No," he said to himself. "I'll never be an archer. I'll never be anything."
As he stumbled along the wall towards the dormitories, he saw a mouse on the opposite wall, some hundred yards away. Even at this distance, Tamor knew who it was.
Joeb had been at Redwall for as long as anyone could remember. Even Abbot Mengrid couldn't remember a time without Joeb. He was a solitary old mouse, who rarely spoke to anyone; let alone retreat out of his quarters. He had politely declined Mengrid's invitation to join them as a brother, and instead returned to his secretive ways.
He always wore a cloaked robe, even on hot bright summer days such as this. He had a lump on his back, which everybody assumed was due to some accident or illness. But he seemed to move along fine, even in his ripe old age.
Joeb seemed especially wary today. He glanced around him furtively, stopping every once in a while to adjust his robe while simultaneously looking behind him. Tamor squinted as Joeb stopped in a dark corner, reaching behind his back.
Tamor's eyes widened as the old mouse shrugged off the lump on his back, which was actually some sort of satchel. He began rummaging around in it, pulling out objects that the young watchover couldn't make out.
While Joeb was focused on the pack's contents, Tamor began to carefully sneak around the edge of the wall, trying to get as close as possible. After he got onto the same side as Joeb, he hid behind a stack of crates and watched intently.
He was assembling something; that was all Tamor could make out. It glinted in the sunlight, and Tamor realized that the object was made of metal or brass. The old mouse continued his task, finally bringing the thing up to his eye.
It was a telescope! Tamor could hardly believe his eyes. He had never seen one, only heard of them being used by sea captains and great adventurers. Now Joeb was aiming it over the wall, towards the mountains to the north. His face was skewed in concentration and focus.
What could he be up to? Tamor thought, shifting his weight to get a better view. In doing so, he knocked a small vase off the top of the crates, sending it crashing to the courtyard below.
In a flash, Joeb had stuffed the telescope in his pack and turned towards the crates, his eyes squinty and dancing in their sockets. "Whoever you are," he said, in a dry yet powerful voice, "Come out now or face my wrath!"
He withdrew a dagger from his belt, the bright steel glinting in the morning light.
Tamor shook with fear, sweating so much that the salty liquid dripped into his eyes. Finally, he took a breath and stood. "Please, Mister Joeb, it's only me! Tamor, the blind…I mean, the apprentice!"
Joeb's shoulders sank. Hastily, he shoved the dagger back into his belt and motioned for the frightened mouse to come forward. On shaking legs, Tamor advanced forward.
He stood mere feet from Joeb, cowering under his calculating gaze. The mouse stroked the gray and black fur on his chin, seeming to size up the beast in front of him.
"Tamor. I know you. You're the Abbot's steward, aren't you?"
Tamor nodded shakily. "Y-yes, sir. I'm his apprentice. I'm sorry for intruding, sir. I was just nearby and saw you…"
Joeb curtly held up his paw. "Where were you? It's early for anyone to be up."
He pointed towards the tower. "There, sir. I spent the night in the observatory."
A shimmer flashed across Joeb's eye. "Why did you do that? Own bed not good enough for you?"
Embarrassed, Tamor continued. "No, sir. I…I ran up there last night after…after something happened."
"And what would that 'something' be?"
Tamor coughed. "I…well, it's…"
"Out with it, lad!"
He broke down. "I ran up there because I'm weak! They called me names and I ran away! Grace and Mathilda tried to help, but I'm just worthless! I can't do anything, let alone be what I want to!"
The tears came once again. Tamor hung his head in shame, starting to turn. But he felt Joeb's heavy paw on his shoulder and looked back. Joeb lifted up Tamor's head and wiped away a solitary tear from the sandy cheek. He spoke gently, consolingly, just loud enough for both to hear.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of, young one. Tell me, why did the others call you names? You haven't done anything to harm them, have you?"
Tamor shook his head slowly. "No, sir. It's because…I'm half-blind sir. I'm clumsy and can't help with things and can't…" He had to stop again, trying to force the sobs back down his throat.
"Can't what, Tamor?"
He looked back up into Joeb's face. "I can't be an archer, sir. I'm just…I'm nobody. I'm not good for anything, let alone fighting. And Abbot Mengrid says I can't, with my condition. He says we don't need warriors anymore."
Joeb sighed and placed his s on Tamor's shoulders. "Young one, listen to me. Nobody was placed on this earth without purpose. The reasons may be clouded to us now, but I promise, someday they will become clear. All we can do is hope."
Tamor's eyes hardened. "I've been hoping my entire life, and look where it's gotten me." He stormed off, leaving Joeb on the walkway, shaking his head solemnly.
The cellar was cool and dry, the scent of fermented strawberries and grapes thick in the air. The ashwood barrels sat silently in their cradles, seeming to study each other from across the room.
Light came from just three torches, arrayed in the corners of the room. They cast an orange pallor over the floor and walls, barely enough to make out any sort of detail. That was all Tamor needed for his task. He hurriedly stuffed dry fruits, biscuits, and water pouches into a fabric-woven pack. When it was full to the brim, bursting with food and provisions, Tamor tied the cover on and hefted the satchel. It was heavy, but not unbearably so.
He set it back onto the cobble-stone ground, glancing around for anything he might have forgotten. As his eyes surveyed the room, he felt a small pang of sadness.
How many summers did I spend here, helping the friar and Grace make cordial? Will they even miss me?
The sadness felt like a lump in his chest now as Grace's name slipped across his mind. Grace. I wish I didn't have to leave, but it's for the best. For everyone.
Tamor hefted the pack with a grunt and picked up his walking stick, a gnarled piece of hickory he had found and carved himself almost six years before with the help of Abbot Mengrid.
He sighed and ran his paw fondly over the knotted wood, full of memories from wanderings in the woods and down to the river, where the water was so cool and fresh it had made Tamor want to stay there all day.
With a final, longing glance, he turned around and walked up the stairs and out the cellar door.
The great hall was empty, dimly lit by just a few sputtering torches. Each of Tamor's footsteps seemed ten times louder than it should have, echoing dully down the great room.
Finally, he managed to make his way to the entrance hall. Moonlight shone through the windows above the great door, glistening with its silver sheen. The door was made from solid oak logs, sturdy as the stone they were built around. Scores of travelers and plainsbeasts had made their way through the great threshold, grateful for a place of hope and comfort.
Tamor squinted at the thought. "There is no hope for me, not anywhere," he whispered, striding purposefully towards the doors.
Thankfully, the maintenance moles kept the hinges well oiled, and they opened with nothing more than a small creak. The chilling night air met Tamor as he stepped onto the stairway, closing the great doors. He rubbed his arms, shivering slightly before taking a glance around him.
There were no guards or watches, for obvious reasons. The only beast that Tamor must worry about was a half-senile hare that slept in the gatehouse. Still, the young mouse stayed to the shadows, wary of anyone taking a late-night stroll or visiting the kitchen for a snack. Like a snake through the grass he moved, the only noise coming from his slightly-oversized habit rubbing against bushes and trees as he stopped.
After each silent rush, he stopped and listened. There were no shouts or ringing of bells, or trotting of feet looking for him. Occasionally a nightingale would chirp or the wind would rustle the trees, but otherwise, the world was silent. A wry smile played on the edges of Tamor's lips. They probably won't even notice I'm gone.
After reaching the eastern wall, Tamor quickly found what he was looking for. A large tunnel, built by the moles for practicing construction and reinforcing their burrows. The entrance was clearly marked; MOLES ONLY, PLEASE.
Tamor shrugged off the pack and threw it down the hole, following it closely behind. The darkness immediately swallowed him, enveloping every bit of him in a cover of black. For a moment, he almost panicked, breathing rapidly and sweating, almost leaping out of the tunnel. The dirt seemed to be pressing on him, ready to snatch the air out his very lungs.
He forced himself to calm down, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Take it slow, he told himself. Take it slow and everything will be alright.
Slowly, he started to make headway. On paws and knees, groping the dry soil with sweaty paws. He would push the satchel in front of him a few feet, and then move. Tamor repeated the process for what felt like hours until a dim ray of moonlight was visible at the end of the tunnel.
A surge of relief filled his chest. Taking a deep breath, he started to move faster, clawing the dirt around him to propel himself faster and faster.
Suddenly, his head popped up out of the tunnel exit. Tamor took a gulp of fresh air, laughing with jubilation. He was near the edge of the Hazelwood forest, a mere stone's throw away. The moles had dug the tunnel well.
As he threw the pack up out of the hole and climbed out, he stopped and looked at the Abbey behind him. It almost beckoned, begging him to return. The walls seemed comforting and safe, like they could keep him from any harm.
Tamor shook his head and shouldered the pack. Looking to the east, the Hazelwood forest was thick and dark, with the Remora Mountains behind it white and gray against the night sky. A sudden gust made the trees shiver while the wind howled against the great snow and rock-covered mountains.
A small bolt of fear leaped into Tamor's chest, but he shook his head angrily and looked back up. "Anywhere," he said aloud. "Anywhere but here, anywhere I won't be a burden."
With a deep breath, he started to make his way into the great, dark woods. The trees were thin and far between at first, but slowly grew denser and harder to navigate. Branches scraped and tore at his face, catching on his large robe and pack. Tamor would rip away from them, snapping and breaking the claw-like branches into pieces.
After nearly an hour of stumbling blindly through the thick forest, he had to stop. Setting his pack down next to him, the world seemed extraordinarily quiet, like the trees were waiting for something, or even scared.
Tamor looked up at the great pine, ash, and elm boughs above his head. They almost completely blocked out the night sky, save for a few slivers of moonlight filtering through their boughs.
With a sigh, he began to gather the makings for a fire. Without the stars, he had no way to navigate through the forest. One wrong turn, and he could be lost forever.
"Not that it would make much difference," he muttered to himself. "I don't even know where I'm going, just as long as I'm away from the Abbey."
An hour or so later, Tamor had a small campfire made and was roasting a few chestnuts over the flames. While they cooked, he took a small stick and began to absentmindedly whittle the bark away, throwing the shavings into the fire.
He ate while continuing the task. Each stroke of the small knife felt natural and precise, like it was part of him. His paws turned and twisted slowly, carving with the experience one can only gain from months of practice.
When the stick was done, Tamor set the knife down and looked at it. It was slightly shorter than his walking stick, just under two arms' lengths. One point was sharpened, but not delicately so. It would harden over the fire, becoming almost as strong as stone, so long as he didn't burn it.
After a short draught of elderberry juice, he began to get tired. Hanging an old blanket between two trees with twine, Tamor constructed a tent near the fire. Close enough for warmth, but not close enough to accidently catch the wool fabric ablaze.
As his eyes closed, an image flashed behind them. Grace; laughing joyfully, sand-brown hair glistening in the morning's light. She was sitting with Tamor, listening to his impersonation of one of the Abbots, a grizzled old mouse with a gut the size of a wagon wheel.
A single tear dropped from his cheek onto the ground. "I'm sorry, Grace." He said, whispering as sleep took him.
Bloodfang sneered, licking his teeth hungrily. Beyond the ridgeline he stood upon lay Hazelwood, with the plains beyond. And sitting only a few leagues away lay Redwall, like a pearl ready to be snatched from a pool.
He growled and wrapped his paw around the nearest unsuspecting mountain lions neck, who gagged and tried to loosen the vice-like grip around his throat, to no avail. Bloodfang snapped his teeth. "Leathernose, tell the rest of the troops to begin preparations for a march. We're leaving the carts, and the slaves. The forest is too difficult to manage with both."
He let go of Leathernose's throat, who fell onto the grass coughing and wheezing. "Yes-ack…my lord. What…gasp should we do with the…slaves?"
Bloodfang smiled grotesquely. "Relieve them of their positions, permanently. I want no trace of us being here. Burn the carts, take only what you need. Tell the rest of your scum to move their lazy hides before I gut them with a rusty spoon! Move!"
Leathernose yelped as his leader swiped at him with razor-sharp claws. He wasn't a very quick creature; being horrendously malnourished and gangly, but the famed claws of Bloodfang were enough to get the slowest creature moving with the utmost haste.
As the spindly mountain lion got to rallying the troops, Bloodfang yelled out over the encampment. "Slagg, Terrok, Halftail, get over here! Now!"
The three minions scrambled to their feet and over to their leader, who looked as if he was ready to twist their heads off with his bare paws. Of course, he always looked like that.
"Yes, master, what may we do for your Excellency?" Slagg asked, bowing deeply. He was a fat, brown-nosing weasel known for exploiting anyone he needed for anything he wanted. Terrok and Halftail were both Rats, only distinguishable through Halftail's missing limb, which twitched uncontrollably at all times. They had dark gray fur, and red-ringed eyes that seemed to never stop moving.
"How may we serve our lordship, sire?" Terrok rasped. After being hit in the throat during a camp scuffle, it sounded as if he had gargled rocks for breakfast.
Bloodfang snarled. "Shut your mouths, worms, and listen closely. Do you see that forest over the ridgeline?" They all nodded hurriedly. "You will be my scouts. Beyond those woods is a monastery, an Abbey, to be precise. That will be our next stop. Your job will be to go ahead of the group, following the main trail," he said, pointing to a thin, windy path leading through the trees. "…and to clear out any resistance you find. Any who don't surrender, kill them on the spot. If you succeed, your rewards will be greater than you can imagine."
The three servants nodded excitedly, tongues hanging out of their toothy mouths. But Bloodfang quickly extinguished those. "However, if you fail me, you will wish that you had joined the slaves. Am I clear?"
More nodding. "Yes, chief!"
"Absolutely, sire!"
"Clear as water, lord."
Bloodfang smiled again, a sight few could bare without grimacing themselves. "Good. Now get out of my sight, you worthless pieces of trash! Before I have to make you!"
Bloodfang watched them scurry away before turning back to Leathernose, who had returned. "Make sure to feed the slaves. And make it good. It'll be the last for them."
