Chapter Six: Messages before Battle [Scenes 2 & 3 of 3]

Mirana hears the knock on the door hopefully for the very last time! Dawn has just begun its entrance over the horizon and all is ready. She presses herself against the wall behind the door and watches as the other White Queen yawns and swings it open with a sleepy smile.

"My dear Jaspien!" Mirana hears her doppelganger sigh.

"Good morning, Mirana. How did you sleep? You look exhausted." The man actually sounds concerned for her. Mirana once again receives a visit from Guilt.

How can you feel sorry for the man who's been holding you prisoner?

But he'd also protected her from Valereth's ambition and Alice from Oshtyer's aggression...

How can you defend the man who has turned your Alice into a weapon?

Ah... of course. There is no excuse for that. The guilt evaporates as quickly as it had arrived.

"I'm fine, fine! I was just so worried about today... Did you sleep well, sir?"

"I enjoyed the rest of the soon-to-be-victorious," he replies with happy confidence. Mirana imagines his face must be the most animated it's ever been and almost misses seeing that, but she stays pressed against the wall, hidden by the open door.

"Yes, victory..." the queen breathes. "And we'll be together to see it?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Then let us be off! I'd like to wish Alice all my best before we depart!"

And then the door closes behind them.

Mirana relaxes against the wall and marvels that the lock hadn't been turned automatically, as it always had been before! But then, there's no reason for anyone to think Mirana is not gliding toward the courtyard on the prince's arm...

If there had been a clock in the room, Mirana would have listened to it, counted the ticks and compared the tocks. But as there is none, the queen counts at whatever pace she likes, pausing to contemplate the drapes – which she'll never have to pretend interest in again! – and consider the pillow which has seen the last of her tears!

And then – finally! – Mirana hears the scratching of a hatpin against the door. She opens it and Mallymkun saunters in. "Well, good morning, Your Majesty!"

Mirana chuckles. "It is a very good morning," she agrees.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take you down to Alfred now that the yard is clear and you'll be back at Mamoreal in no time at all!"

"Lead the way, Mally!"

They encounter no one as they exit the castle. Even the maids appear to be enjoying the morning off gossiping in the kitchens (if the echoes of laughter in the first floor halls are to be believed).

"... and then Lassling says, 'G'on an'touch me ye filthy slithin' scut-grobbin', tove egg-suckin' scrum, but I won'be givin' tha'hand back teh ye!'"

"No!"

"She didn't!"

"Aye, she did! Heard it me-self!"

Mally pauses beside the castle door and they share a look. "Alice was a different Alice here, wasn't she?" the dormouse whispers. "Chessur said so."

The queen only nods.

"Well, at least she finally learned how to swear!"

And then – when more peals of laughter erupt from the kitchens at the back of the fortress – Mirana pulls open the door and steps outside. They hurry, keeping to the walls and keeping their eyes on the battlements, but the few guards up top are deeply engrossed in what appears to be a card game. There's a determined nod from Mally and then, in a moment of heart-racing daring, they've raced across through the main gates, over the drawbridge, and into the murky swamp where Mirana is suddenly being nuzzled by her very good companion, Alfred d'Mimserlet.

"I missed you terribly, Your Majesty," the horse wickers. "Had a stomach ailment the entire time!"

"Oh, dear... How is your tummy now, Alfie?" she croons, marveling at how easy her escape had been, in the end.

"Right as rain, Your Majesty," he insists, gently bussing her cheek.

"Well, well, all right! Let's not dawdle! And you, Dormouse, have got things to be doing!" Fenruffle reminds them all.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Mally salutes and then scrambles aboard Bayard and grabs his collar. "To battle, hounds of war!" she cries, swishing her sword.

The blood hound rolls his eyes. "There's only the one of me, Mally."

"Well, yes, I had noticed that! Figure of speech."

"And put that thing away before it ends up through my ear."

"Oh... right. Sorry." Mally tucks away her hatpin, wraps her arms around the ring in the dog's collar. "Fairfarren, Your Majesty!"

And with that, they're off. Mirana watches Bayard dash down the road and disappear around the bend before enjoying a contented sigh.

Turning, Mirana smiles at Fenruffle. He clears his throat and jangles Alfred's reins meaningfully. She mounts her steed. "Thank you, my friend, for arranging all of this."

"Me? I'm only following orders," the gryphon replies stiffly, signaling the guard to move out.

"Oh?"

"Yes, he might be the maddest son of a Witzend woolgatherer, but that Hatter knows a thing or two after all..."

Mirana's happiness and relief and pride cannot be contained in a mere smile. "Yes," she agrees. "He certainly does!"

And with a gentle nudge to her steed, they begin the journey home.


The battlefield stretches out before him just on the other side of the line of trees and brambles. The sky is overcast and seems to hang so low that it tempts the scraggly weeds into reaching for it from between the ill-fitting and crumbling cracks of the stone squares. Tarrant fights back his memories of this place – too many to deal with all at once! – and turns toward the young blood hound galumphing out of the depths of the forest.

"How close?" he asks Bayne.

"Another... hour," he manages before slumping off in search of a water bowl.

Tarrant scans the southern edge of the field where King Aven's forces have already gathered.

"I still think we should go introduce ourselves," Nivens asserts.

Tarrant shakes his head. "Nae, 'tis a proud people, there. Th'willnae accept help from us."

The rabbit glowers and crosses his arms over his vest. "We ought to tell them the plan. They may be willing to assist us." Grumbling, Nivens adds, "Fate knows we could use a bit."

"An'jus'who woul'ye suggest we ask, hm?"

Contemplating his feet, Thackery belches something that sounds suspiciously like "Champion!"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Tarrant politely inquires.

"Avendale's Champion!" Thackery manages, staring at his feet. "... toes!"

"Oh, yes! Excellent suggestion, Thackery!" Nivens praises. "Why, that fellow had looked rather friendly in the sketch Alice sent. I'm sure he'll hear us out."

Tarrant opens his mouth to object but hears himself say only, "I d'nae know what he looks like."

Nivens gapes. "You never bothered to take note of his face?"

Tarrant clears his throat and calms himself. "Well, actually, you see..."

"Too friendly!" Thackery explains.

"Ah, yes, I wasn't exactly... encouraged to pay much attention to his image, as, well, the others felt he was a bit..."

"Standing too close to our Alice! Booly-geber!"

Tarrant startles and turns on the hare. "I beg your pardon!"

Thackery twitches guiltily.

"Booly-geber?" Tarrant parrots. "Ye di'nae tell me th'fellow'as behavin' inappropr'tly with me WIFE!"

Thackery twitches once more, blinks, and inquires, "Feet?"

"Now, now, calm down, Hatter! I'm sure it was just... artistic license or some such arbitrariness and... Wait! Where do you think you're going?"

Tarrant pushes aside a tangle of branches and strides toward the army already camped on the edge of the battlefield. "I'm goin'teh hav'a few words wi'th'lion who'ad his paws on MY ALICE!"

"Oh, thwimble fumpt!" Nivens swears. "Come along, Earwicket. This was your idea!"

"String?" the hare confirms.

"No."

"Feet?"

"No."

"Toes?"

"No!" Nivens growls, "For the love of all Underland, Earwicket, can't you remember your own suggestions?"

"We're all late f'r TEA!"

Tarrant can hear the rabbit and the hare struggling through the dense brush of wood after him. But he doesn't slow down as he charges toward the lines of armed soldiers in the Shuchland livery.

"Hatter! You don't even know what the beast looks like!"

"I'll ask f'r directions," he snarls.

"Madness, madness! All around us!" Thackery insists.

Nivens bounces ahead and manages to block Tarrant's path. "Don't you dare walk over me, Hatter! Now, as Thackery has had the best look at the sketch, he and I will go and locate this fellow and have a few words with him. You will stay here and stay out of it!" With a decisive nod which is no doubt meant to signal the end of the issue, Nivens hooks his paw under Thackery's quivering elbow and hops away.

For a moment, Tarrant just stands there on the overgrown path, with the fluttering purple banners of the Shuchish Army just barely visible through the brush and branches.

Are you actually going to listen to that twitchy twit, lad?

What? Oh, well... when it's put that way...

Setting his jaw, Tarrant resumes his mission: find Avendale's Champion, meet him, and then make him regret ever meeting Alice. Yes, a very nice, clear, non-arbitrary set of objectives. His mind has no trouble whatsoever staying focused on his task.

Tarrant pushes through the brush, heedless of the way the thorns and branches try to grab onto his jacket and pull him back. He doesn't have to go far before he hears Niven's squeaky voice and Thackery's abrupt mumbles.

Not bothering to draw his sword (he'll only recall putting it on after the fact, actually, much to his regret) Tarrant crashes through the last Thrambleberry bush – not in season, he muses sadly – and then he finally has that despicable booly-geber in his sights.

"... and so, if you could please not kill our Alice for a bit, well, no, that is, we'd rather you didn't at all! You see, we have –"

"Toes on strings!" Thackery interrupts.

"I... excuse me?" Avendale's Champion rumbles.

"Be quiet, Earwicket! You did the finding, now I'll do the explaining so allow me to finish before Tarrant gets tired of waiting and –"

"Follows you maybe?" he can't resist interjecting.

Nevins squeaks and folds in on himself, ears drooping down his back. Thackery spasms and falls to the ground behind the White Rabbit in a classic duck-and-cover maneuver. Tarrant doesn't care. He has his eyes – a rather arresting shade of orange, if he'd had to guess – on the warrior in front of him.

Despite the Shuchish armor (which makes him looks quite impressive, indeed), Tarrant doesn't even consider not giving this creature every ounce of hostility he has in his stores. (And he's been storing up, too!) Looking the lion down and then back up, noting the powerful build and considerable height, the thick mane and golden eyes, Tarrant realizes that he's never loathed anyone or anything quite this bitterly before. Oh, he'd hated the Bloody Big Head. He'd despised Ilosovich Stayne. But when he'd thought of those two, Tarrant had tasted acidic ash on his tongue, not this bitter, sour, fiery... thing.

"And just who are you?" the Champion demands, his great, furry paw on his scimitar.

Tarrant smiles. "I'm the man in charge of returning Alice to her rightful place in Mamoreal –" And away from you! "– so I'd suggest you hear us out because if you come between us and Alice we will hunt you down and REMOVE YOUR SCARLESS PELT ONE—!"

"HATTER!"

With a great effort, Tarrant bites back the storm of threats. "I'm fine," he manages with a brief glare at the White Rabbit.

"Relax," the Champion tells him shortly. "It's all under control. No one will harm Alice. I'll take care of her."

Oh... RAGE!

Why, hello! Tarrant thinks in the instant that precedes the wave of burning fury that scorches through him.

There's a sudden motion, a collision, an abrupt and inexplicable numbness in his hand, the sound of a scuffle, and a muffled exclamation.

When Tarrant blinks next, he sees Avendale's Champion leaning against a tree, massaging his nose, and glaring at Tarrant. Belatedly, the inexplicable numbness in his right hand becomes explained when an attempt at uncurling his fist heralds a stomach-rolling bout of nauseating pain.

Broken, then, he muses then dismisses the fact as irrelevant.

"Just who do you think you are, you mad bastard?" the Champion growls, straightening and once more gripping the pommel of his Shuchish sword.

Eyes narrowed, Tarrant tears the glove from his left hand with his teeth and mutely presents the back of it to the he-lion.

Those golden eyes focus on the dark red heart line, then flicker to Tarrant's still-burning gaze, and finally back to the heart line again.

"I don't believe this..." he mumbles.

Tarrant removes the glove from between his teeth and clenches his fist so tight around it he feels his entire arm ache. "Believe it'r no'ye'll nae ge'in th'way o'our bringin' Alice home." And while Tarrant has the beast's undivided attention, he tells him the plan, resists the urge to spit in his mane, and then turns around to head back to the Queen's Army, waiting silently in the woods.


[End of Chapter 6]