The sapphire glittered brilliantly in the low, smoky light of the flames, casting a faint blue glow on the amber pommel and blood-splashed steel blade. The knife had been buried to the hilt in the chest of the rabbit before he pulled it out, and Ciánan had not been staring long at the deep wound in the mangy tawny-white fur, and at the blood dripping slowly from the keen, bright edge of the dagger, before his insides began to roil and he turned away, retching violently.
He collapsed to the ground, flinging the knife against the rock slab that formed the back wall of the shelter, his head spinning, his senses choked with horror and the sour smell of bile, the latter of which only further nauseated him.
Familiar faces swam, half-real, before his reeling vision, blurred by the hot tears that stung his eyes. Deyna, Filorn, Wurfen the molebabe, all the creatures who had been kind and loving to him at Redwall. What he had just done scarcely seemed real. He had killed, murdered in cold blood an innocent, starving creature, and for what, why, why, why... He did not know that he sobbed the last word aloud in a strangled voice, but as he fell into sudden convulsions the feeble cry died away.
Then it was as though fire had roared up through his churning stomach and spread through his blood, through every nerve in his body, and with its calming heat his writhing body soon stilled. The stench of his sickness faded, as did the visions of his friends, and he smelled the brine of the ocean, saw a darkened chamber deep within a mountain and the glitter of silver, gold, precious stones, with a massive, armoured skeleton presiding over all. Wild laughter, almost obscene in its throes of manic ecstasy, rang in Ciánan's ears.
He opened his eyes to find that his queasiness had ceased, and as he sat up and stretched hesitantly, the young weasel found that he felt perfectly calm- proud, even. He went over to where the knife lay on the earth and wiped it clean across his habit, unperturbed by the dark, dust-flecked smear it left across the coarse green fabric, before moving over to the corpse of the rabbit.
In the adequate light of the flames and the first hint of the oncoming dawn, Ciánan carefully skinned his victim, as surely and methodically as if he had been practising for years. Over the next week or so, he worked at drying and tanning the pelt, his mind perfectly blank and calm. Likewise, he felt not the least aversion to butchering the carcass; food was food, and, after all, the Abbey supplies would not sustain him forever. Some of the meat he cured, dried, and saved for a later date; the rest he ate while he worked. On the whole, it was tough and rather stringy, but the weasel felt it was one of the best things he had ever tasted.
When finished at last, Ciánan was pleased at how his pelt had turned out, though he had hoped it would make enough for a garment; more fur would have to be procured from somewhere. Until then, he saved the dried sinew for thread, and spent the better part of an afternoon painstakingly crafting a bone needle. The young weasel smiled as he recalled the day Filorn, for lack of Dibbun pupils, had insisted he learn how to sew, and how he had complained throughout that it would never be of any use. When this crossed his mind, however, he cringed, waiting for the nausea to surge in his stomach and throat. In the past few days, whenever he had thought of Redwall he still felt sick with guilt.
This time, though, no such thing came; the memory merely made him chuckle with its irony. In any case, the needle was finished and he was tired of remaining under the overhang; rising, he packed the rabbit skin and his needle into his knapsack and extinguished the smoldering remnants of last night's fire. Taking a last look at his shelter, Ciánan turned away and walked off into the sunlit forest, and though it was still miles away, the scent of the ocean once more filled his nostrils.
The young weasel had barely gone a few paces when he heard shouting, mingled with snarls and clashing blades, among the trees.
Snowstripe took deep breaths of the heated air, this time panting more from sheer relief than the stifling temperatures. Never had he thought that he would ever prefer the desert surface to being underground, where the sun was less intense; and, having ceaselessly explored Salamandastron almost top to bottom, he was not afraid of the darkness, nor of the sheer weight of earth above. It was being underground there, in that deep hole, surrounded by impassive, dull-eyed slaves, the smoky light and faintly rancid stench of the animal-fat torches pervading over it all, that had nearly driven him to panic.
The hiss and thud of arrows filled his ears; blinking against the harsh sunlight, he squinted to make out the pale forms of the desert foxes as they loosed bolt after bolt at their wooden targets. Lyulf stood close by, issuing commands and watching every move, praising or snarling at his subjects as the situation warranted.
The young badger had almost given up trying to talk or make friends among his fellow captives; though he was desperate for companionship, almost crushed by guilt, sorrow, and homesickness, they gave him only apathetic silence or the occasional bitter jibe at his softness. But now he tried once more, this time hoping to rouse a response from the closest creature to him, a ragged-looking squirrel with dull brown fur. "Why are we out here, watching the foxes play at archery?" he whispered.
The skinny creature turned his head, giving Snowstripe a baleful stare. "Why d'you think I'd know? I came here on the same march you did. But they sure aren't playing, badger, or the big red hellhound wouldn't be watching 'em so closely. Look out!"
This last was a sharp hiss, as the squirrel snapped his head around to stare blankly ahead; Lyulf had given a sharp, short howl. As one, the desert foxes laid down their weapons, retrieved the arrows from the targets, and replaced them near each bow in neat piles. Moving forward, they took the manacles from the slaves' paws, leaving them bound together at the leg by the running chain, and led them over to the archery range. They were silent throughout, completing the tasks with the swift ease of long practice.
To Snowstripe's bemusement, Lyulf then gestured to the entrance of another den nearby, with a brief command in the desert language. Four of the foxes bowed and trotted off immediately, disappearing one after another into the tunnel.
The big red fox turned back to the line of slaves, who stood motionless, heads bowed; a few were coughing hoarsely at the grit the scorching wind swept into their faces. "Now, you lot," he said cheerily, reverting to the speech common to the Mossflower regions, "listen up. Ye may think yer here to labor fer me, or that I want some grand fortress built in these wastes. Well, me pretties, fear not, for that don't be the case. I'll suffice it to say that I'm off on a crusade, and yer t' be my soldiers."
He was grinning broadly again, cunning eyes flickering over their thin, confused faces. The captives were staring blankly at the fox, or casting bewildered looks at one another; none had ever heard of being captured for such a reason, and certainly not woodlanders and vermin together. Yet Snowstripe had his gaze elsewhere; he had heard a sudden tramp of footpaws and clanking of chains, and soon enough, the desert foxes led another line of creatures, manacled together at the ankle, up to join the first.
The young badger could not hold back a gasp; he had seen how ill-treated his fellows on the march had been, how muted and starved they had swiftly become. Yet these beasts were different. Though by no means sleek or bursting with good health, they were nowhere near as emaciated, and seemed muscular and alert enough. They stood perfectly to attention, silent, as the desert foxes prowled up and down the line. A few, mostly the woodlanders, looked upon the new captives with something like amusment or perhaps pity, but by and large their eyes were expressionless.
Lyulf made a grand, sweeping gesture with one paw, his bracelets clinking faintly. "These are but a few of my soldiers," he called proudly, and as he declaimed, the rough accent had almost vanished from his voice. "I believe, together with the foxes, that our ranks now number almost four- or fivescore. But fear not our small numbers, for they have been well-trained. And our enemies, though they are three hundred strong," he growled suddenly, a note of savage fury entering his voice, "have shown themselves to be cowardly and weak, and I know now that they are swiftly decaying."
But the new recruits, and even some of the soldiers, looked unsettled; a few gulped nervously. They were to fight against an army with three times their numbers? The red fox saw this, and though he still smiled, his eyes narrowed coldly. "Of course," he added, "I know that some of you may not want to fight fer my cause." His paw swept over the barren landscape as he spoke. "And that," he added, "is what the desert's for. Yer may walk off t'begin a new life whensoever ye choose. I reckon ye can make the best of... oh, I'll say about five minutes."
As if on cue, a buzzard shrieked overhead. Snowstripe squinted upwards nervously, but could see nothing in the blinding sunlight.
"Right," Lyulf continued, nodding with a satisfied air. "In that case, will each of yer pick up a bow an' one arrow, which as y'can see has been placed by yer side fer th' utmost convenience. I ain't gonna instruct yer this minute, mind, I want t' see wot ye know already." As he spoke, he stepped off to the side, out of range of the arrows. "On my word... ready... aim... fire!" he barked.
There were thirteen creatures in Snowstripe's line. Only two arrows hit the targets; that of the brown squirrel, who had gotten his almost dead center, and the stoat who had given Snowstripe water on the journey. All but one of the rest landed at various points in the sand; Snowstripe was still struggling to load and draw his bow, and when he finally pulled back and released the string, the arrow merely flopped to the ground a few inches away.
Lyulf slapped a paw to his face in defeat. "I see this is goin' ter take a while. But lessee here..." He walked slowly along the line, looking from captives to targets, a desert fox hurrying along in his wake. "All righty, yer there, stoat, an' ye, the squirrel..." As he pointed, the fox unchained the ones he indicated from the line, motioning them away from the rest.
In a short time he reached the end, and the young badger felt himself cringe as the ornamented paw pointed squarely at him. "Oh, an' Snowy 'ere. Yer know," Lyulf said conversationally to the smaller fox, who nodded fervently despite not understanding a word, "I'm really quite amazed at 'is talent."
A/N: Great Cthulhu, this took a while to finish. I just encountered some minor difficulties with how Lyulf was going to present the mission, and how much he was really going to tell them. This fic shall be up and running properly again quite soon, I hope. (is totally not neglecting her term paper)