Chapter 2: Plagued by Dreams

Martin raced along the wall top, shrew sword in paw. The young mouse ignored the fighting, snarling creatures around him. He was only focused on one thing: slaying Badrang. He paused, looking below him at the carnage, peering through the smoke and the dust, seeking his enemy. Immediately, he saw his target, slinking along in the shadows, unnoticed. Martin growled and set off after him. "Badraaang! I am here!" He shouted above the battle noise.

The stoat heard him. He saw the vengeful warrior and fled, breaking cover and heading for the tunnel that had been dug by the slaves, unsheathing his sword as he ran. Brandishing a ladle, a mole leaped out in front of him, growling. Badrang swung his sword and caught the side of the ladle, sweeping Grumm away; the ladle hit the side of his head at the impact, sending him reeling. A mousemaid threw herself on him, battering at his face with a loaded sling.

Martin saw this and picked up his pace. "Rose! Stop!" He cried out desperately.

Snarling with pain and fury, Badrang grabbed her by the neck and flung her savagely away from him. Her head hit the wall with a sickening crack and she slid down like a broken doll.

"No!" Roaring and screaming with rage, Martin threw himself from the wall top, landing in the burnt ruins of the slave compound that luckily broke his fall. Badrang leaped into the tunnel only to find Pallum in a tight ball, bravely blocking the exit with his spines. He had time to hack at the hedgehog once before Martin grabbed a hold of his black cape and pulled him away. Badrang screamed in agony as the flat of Martin's small sword whipped him on the backside.

"Get up, you scum!" Martin growled fiercely; his normally grey eyes were red with bloodwrath. "Up on your paws and face me!"

The stoat scrambled to his feet. He swung the sword defensively and sliced Martin across the chest but the young mouse didn't feel it. He struck back with the shrew sword; steel against steel as he battered the stoat around the remains of the compound. They locked blades, their noses nearly touching. In one swift movement, Badrang bent his neck and bit into Martin's shoulder viciously, slamming him up against the charred wall. The savage bite snapped Martin out of the red haze. Badrang ripped his teeth out of the mouse's shoulder and gripped his helpless victim's neck with one paw while lifting his weapon in the other. In his agony, Martin had dropped the shrew sword and was now at the stoat's mercy, claws at his throat. He could feel hot blood seeping from his wounded shoulder. Badrang leveled the sword until its sharp point was mere inches from Martin's left eye.

"Any last words, Warriormouse?"

To Martin's shock, Badrang's face morphed into another stoat. This one was similar in looks: the strong chin and charming smile, but his eyes were different. They were yellow and full of malice and hatred. Before Martin could do or say anything, his father's blade plunged into his face.

Martin sat up with a yelp, reaching for his face. He turned his head rapidly in all directions, looking for the sword wielding stoat, sweating and gulping for breath. He was in a room with a single window, not in the burnt-out palisade of Marshank.

Alone.

He looked down at himself, expecting to see blood dripping from the savage wound that was inflicted. His shoulder was unharmed but strangely, it still hurt as if he really had been bitten. Looking up once more, he finally realized where he was and fell back onto the bed, exhausted and trembling with relief. It wasn't the first time he had this nightmare though.

The vivid dream had returned to his fatigued mind for the fourth night in a row. He had woken up yelling before, the first time having scared his friends out of their wits. Because of this, he decided to sleep in the small bedroom in the Gatehouse to avoid disturbing his fellow Redwallers. He figured it was a better accommodation until he could figure out why the dream kept recurring.

Still sweating from his ordeal, he kicked off the twisted blankets and lay there until he stopped shaking, watching the moonlight filter through the window and across the faded bedspread. His chest felt tight and his shoulder throbbed painfully. After a while, he couldn't stand lying there in the ear-ringing silence. Ignoring his aching body, the warriormouse got up and dressed. As he buttoned up his tunic with still trembling fingers, he looked at his reflection in the small mirror that hung on the wall and shook his head at the older mouse staring back at him. Dark circles were under his pale gray eyes and his hair was grayer than it had already been. Leaving the first button open, he shook his head. "You're not getting any younger." He whispered to himself scornfully before turning away from it.

Outside the gatehouse, the dark green grass was cool on his footpaws. The evening air was warm. He looked up at the still-dark sky, disappointed. The half-moon and glittering stars were still visible; showing that it was only the middle of the night. He lowered his head and rubbed his tired, burning eyes. The warm breeze and the scents of Spring caused a heart wrenching memory to stir from the hidden vaults of his mind, unbidden.

Rose was staring up at the star-studded evening sky, sitting close to him as they admired its beauty.

"Strange, isn't it Martin, the same stars that shine on this terrible place with all its death and war, those same stars are shining over Noonvale, where all is at peace and war has never been." She turned her beautiful face to him, her hazel eyes gleaming like the stars above their heads. "What are you thinking of, Warrior?"

Martin bit back the tears that threatened to spill as he pushed the bittersweet memory away. Why did this dream torture him by repeating her violent death? And who was that other stoat who tried to kill him? Was it all connected? His mind reeled with questions as he opened the small wall door leading out into the quiet forest. He closed it quietly behind him before the sentries up on the walls noticed him leaving.

Vurg had always been an early riser. Having been that way since his voyaging days with Martin's father, Luke. Most of the Abbey's occupants were still slumbering when he opened the main doors sometime after dawn and stepped outside to enjoy the cool morning air before the busy Redwallers woke up for the day. He liked quiet moments like this. It gave him some time to quietly reflect on things. The ancient mouse looked up at the main gates, colored a deep purple as the sun slowly rose from behind the trees. Looking up at the ramparts over the gatehouse, he was surprised to see Martin up there, staring out at the treetops. Vurg smiled to himself and walked stiffly across the lawns and over to the stairs.

Reaching the top step, he gripped the wall and used it to slowly pull himself up. He let out a breath, grateful that he had made it without falling over backwards. The stairs were becoming more of a challenge lately. He walked over to the younger mouse leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Martin turned his head when he heard approaching pawsteps. Vurg raised a paw in greeting. "You're up early, Warrior." He leaned against the stones and wiped his brow. "Whew! I tell you. The older I get, the more difficult it is to climb those fool steps!"

Martin smiled half-heartedly and turned back to the woodlands below. "When I helped Abbess Germaine design Redwall, I forgot that stairs could pose a problem for the elders."

Vurg snorted, slightly offended. "A problem? Who says it's a problem?" He patted Martin's sore shoulder and the younger mouse flinched. Vurg pulled his paw away, startled.

"What's wrong with you?"

Martin grit his teeth against the pain and straightened himself. He turned to his older friend and forced another smile. "Nothing. Just an old injury acting up."

Vurg narrowed his eyes. "A simple tap like that?"

Martin knew he couldn't hide anything from Vurg. Even though he was old, he was smart as a whip. The younger mouse kept a straight face. "I must have slept on it wrong."

Vurg looked Martin over suspiciously. Something wasn't right. He looked run down and much older than he was.

"You know... you could always tell me what's on your mind, young'un. I'm not a gossip like that knucklehead Beau."

Something flashed in Martin's grey eyes but it was gone before Vurg could discern what it had been. Martin shrugged. "I'm alright, Vurg. I just… haven't been sleeping very well lately."

"Is that why you're out in the Gatehouse?" Vurg questioned him.

"…Yes." Martin replied with a shrug. He went to step around him but Vurg blocked his way.

"If you're having trouble with that shoulder, why haven't you seen Sister Fern in the Infirmary? I'm sure she has remedies to ease the soreness as well as something to help you sleep."

Vurg was right, but Martin didn't want to sleep and have to endure another night of painful memories. Vurg could sense that he was troubled. He gripped the younger mouse's calloused paws in his wrinkled ones.

"Are you dreaming about something that's bothering you?" He pressed.

Martin's eyes widened. He pulled his paws away from Vurg's and shook his head. "I'm fine. Really." He walked around him and hurried down the steps to the lawns below as if to avoid more questions. Vurg sighed and scratched the back of his head, slightly confused. He leaned over the side, watching as Martin crossed the space between the wall and the Abbey. "I'll see you at breakfast then?" He called after him.

Martin paused and turned back. After a few moments, he waved to let Vurg know he'd heard him and instead of going inside, he disappeared behind the Abbey.

Breakfast in Redwall was lively as usual. The kitchen beasts had outdone themselves. Different types of spring berry fritters with generous helpings of sweet honey. Pitchers of iced fruit cordial were served as well. The tables were decorated with beautiful bouquets, mainly bright yellow daffodils accented with the tiny white petals of baby's breath.

Vurg had sat down, taking his place between Beau and Folgrim, watching for Martin to appear. He wasn't really surprised when Martin didn't come. As Vurg ate, he related what he had seen and heard talking with Martin earlier that morning.

"I think he's having nightmares. It would explain the ruckus he made when he woke us all up the other night." He sighed, gripping his beaker. "I can see it in his eyes that this dream is troubling him." Vurg sipped the refreshing fruit cordial.

Trimp pushed her half-eaten fritter away. "Where is he? Maybe we can convince him to tell us what it's about?"

"I don't have the slightest idea." Vurg took a bite of a blackberry fritter.

Gonff was sitting across from Trimp with his wife, Columbine. Knowing Martin better than anyone, he shrugged. "The Gatehouse was empty when I went to go get him for breakfast and he's not anywhere in the Abbey. I imagine he's out in Mossflower."

"I wish he wouldn't go out there by himself without his sword." Trimp commented.

Folgrim looked down at her, his single ochre eye puzzled. "Didn't he retire and hide it somewhere?"

"Oh, he did." Gonff answered for Trimp. "Knowing Martin, he's hidden it very well." He gave them a wry smile. "I don't even know where it is." Trimp crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. The Mousethief chuckled. "Don't worry about our 'self retired' warrior, Trimp. He can protect himself just fine. Mossflower is safe enough." He replied as he poured more honey over his blueberry fritter.

Trimp sighed, knowing he was right but she still voiced her concerns. "Maybe this dream is trying to tell him something and that's why it's bothering him." She wondered, taking a sip of her cordial.

"Martin's too stubborn, matey. You won't get nothin' out of him, even if you got down on your knees and begged." Gonff passed the honey bowl to her. "Finish yer breakfast Trimp before 'you know who' gets it first."

From the steps of Cavern Hole, came a bout of shouting and hollering. Columbine looked up from her plate and shook her head. "You spoke too soon, Gonff. Look out. It's the terrible two!"

"Aye." Beau sniffed. "So much fer a quiet scoff."

Chugger and Gonff II, carrying fishing lines, ran between the two long tables full of breakfasting Redwallers and slid to a halt next to Trimp and Folgrim. Chugger squeezed himself between them and helped himself to a blackberry fritter from the otter's plate. Folgrim looked down at him fondly. "Fishing again, Chugg?"

"Nah." The young red squirrel replied with his mouthful of blackberries. The purple juice ran down the side of his mouth. "The fish aren't biting today."

Gonff II sat on Trimp's other side. Columbine gave her son a stern look. "What did I say about fishing lines at the table?"

The young mouse and squirrel kicked their fishing poles underneath their seats. Beau couldn't help but laugh at the irrepressible duo.

"I say, you two fish wranglers didn't see Martin while you were out causing a ruckus down at the pond, did you?"

Chugger shook his head. "No. Didn't see him." He replied with his cheeks still stuffed with food.

Trimp got up from her seat, leaving her plate to Chugger. "I'm gonna go look for him."

"I'll come with you." Gonff offered.

Just as they walked outside the Abbey, Martin had come through the main gate, looking as if he was deep in thought. As they watched him shut it, Gonff and Trimp exchanged a glance. "You first." Trimp jerked her head in Martin's direction. Gonff put his paws on his hips indignantly. "This was yer idea, missie." He gave the hogmaid a wink to let her know he was teasing before turning to Martin. The warrior looked up when he saw his friends walking towards him and raised a paw in greeting.

"You missed breakfast again, matey." Gonff crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

"I just went out to clear my head. I wasn't that hungry." Martin replied. Trimp was shocked to see his worn-out appearance as he came closer. His hair was slightly disheveled and there were dark circles under his pale gray eyes. He looked awful.

"Mind telling us why?" Trimp asked him, tapping her foot.

"I'm fine." Martin insisted.

Gonff looked him up and down, unconvinced. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

Trimp rolled her eyes at the Mousethief's abruptness. "What Gonff means is, do you want to tell us about your dream and why it's bothering you?"

Martin gave them a confused look and Trimp softened. "Vurg is worried about you. We all are."

"I'm fine." He repeated, slightly annoyed. "I just haven't been sleeping." The warrior walked around them and headed into the Abbey.

Trimp threw her paws up, exasperated. "You were right Gonff. He is stubborn." She kicked a stone away with her footpaw. "You know how he is. He doesn't want anyone to know anything or help him out."

"Aye. That's what makes him such a good warrior, but it's very annoying when you're trying to figure him out."

Trimp sighed, paws outstretched. "What do we do?"

Gonff pointed at the Abbey. "Let's see what the wise Abbott has to say."

All those concerned gathered in Abbott Cyril's study later that afternoon. Upon Abbess Germaine's death, she had passed the mantle of leadership to him. Cyril had been one of her oldest friends and traveling companions from Loamhedge and she went peacefully, knowing she was leaving her beloved creatures in good paws. The old mouse was a good judge of character. It was hard to hide anything from him. After Vurg told him what had occurred on the wall top, Gonff and Trimp added their own encounter with Martin as well. The Abbott was thoughtful. He sat back in his large chair and stroked his gray beard. There was a moment of unbearable silence as the old mouse thought it over.

"If Martin isn't willing to explain, we can't keep pressing him. Until he does, there's nothing we can do." The Abbott said at last.

Vurg didn't like that answer. "But Father Abbot, he's not sleeping. One of these days, he'll fall over dead with exhaustion. You should see him! He looks much older and worn down than he's supposed to be!"

Beau snorted. "He's not that worn down, you old mouse relic! Not like you, anyway."

Vurg glared at him and was about to give him a snarky reply when Gonff pulled on his sleeve to silence him.

"From what little I have learned about our warrior," Abbott Cyril began, "Martin has had a hard life. I feel that there is more to his past then any of us know and he must have a good reason for not telling anyone."

It suddenly dawned on Gonff and he snapped his fingers. "I'll bet something from his past is returning to haunt him. That's why he's having nightmares like this."

"Aye." Folgrim agreed. "That first night 'e dreamed, he nearly woke up the entire Abbey. I've never seen 'im so terrified afore."

Trimp twisted the sleeve of her greenish brown habit, as she did when she was anxious about something. "We have to do something. We can't sit by and watch him…" she trailed off. "Be miserable." She finished with a defeated tone.

Gonff stood up from his chair, causing it to scrape loudly against the stone floor. "I'll see if I can convince him. I'll make him walk down to the river on the pretense that we're fishing. We won't be overheard there. Maybe Martin will be more willing to talk if it's just the two of us."

Abbott Cyril nodded. "Good idea, my friend. In the meantime," He looked about at the others. "The rest of you stay out of the way." There were mumbles of agreement, some with reluctance but they obeyed their Abbot. They filed out the study door, chatting as they headed for the stairs.

Gonff was the last to leave the comfortable room. He paused in the hallway, watching the others round the corner before rushing back inside and shutting the door. He turned back to the surprised Abbot.

"Father Abbot, pardon my impulsiveness but I need to ask you something."

Cyril waved a paw. "Anything, my friend." He replied skeptically.

Gonff sat back down in one of the chairs that had been pulled up to the Abbot's desk. "Do you know if Martin ever told Abbess Germaine about his past?"

Abbot Cyril was quiet for a few moments. He lifted his spectacles off the end of his nose and wiped them on his habit sleeve. He breathed on them and wiped them again before perching them back on the bridge of his nose.

"Abbess Germaine wasn't one to gossip. She told me all that I needed to know. But whatever was said personally between her and Martin, I have no knowledge. You know our warrior better than I do."

Gonff didn't hide his disappointment. He outstretched his paws in a shrug. "How am I supposed to help my best friend if he won't tell me?"

"Some things are better left unspoken, Gonff."

The mousethief sighed and stood up from his chair. But the Abbot's next words made him stop in his tracks.

"You're the Prince of Mousethieves. Use your honest trickery."

Gonff couldn't help but grin, though he was shocked that a high figure such as the Abbot would say something like that. The old mouse shook his head, trying not to smile back. "But keep in mind that Martin will only tell you if he knows he can trust you to hold your tongue."

Gonff laughed heartily as he went out the door.

Later that afternoon, Gonff, carrying two fishing poles, led Martin outside of Redwall into the forest. The late afternoon sun filtered through the thick boughs, turning the green leaves to a soft gold. The two friends walked down the shady dirt path in silence, listening to the birds fluttering and chirping above them in the overhanging branches. It had taken all of Gonff's cunning and 'honest trickery' to convince the Warrior to come with him.

"If we walk down to the river and back, maybe you'll be so tired you won't dream at all."

Martin glanced at him suspiciously.

Gonff saw this out of the corner of his eye but he ignored it. He chuckled. "Just think of what a good night's sleep will do for you, mate. Then you won't be so irritable." He handed Martin the second fishing pole and the warrior took it silently.

Martin had to admit, a good night's rest without dreams sounded wonderful but he was on to Gonff's 'game' to get him talking.

The woods were darkening to dusk by the time they could hear the river rushing in the distance. To Gonff's satisfaction, Martin was struggling to stay awake. The mousethief sat down on the grassy bank to bait his hook. Martin looked around him as the sun disappeared and the woods grew dimmer. He sighed inwardly and sat down next to Gonff on the soft grass, trying not to wince in front of Gonff when he put pressure on his aching shoulder.

"Night fishing? That's what you dragged me down here for?"

"Aye, matey." Gonff winked. "Just watch me! I'm the best night fisher, besides being a Prince of Mousethieves." He cast his line. It was almost too dark to see where it landed but they heard the small plop it made as it hit the water. "Sometimes it helps to get away from the hustle and bustle, y'know."

Martin opened his mouth and was about to accuse his friend of trying to get into his head but stopped. Begrudgingly, he knew Gonff was right. He readied his own fishing pole and tossed the line out but he didn't let his guard down.

The fish were taking a long time to bite. So long that Martin gave up, reeled his line in and cast the pole aside.

The warriormouse lay on his back in the cool grass, looking up at the twinkling stars overhead. He would never admit it to Gonff, but he was almost terrified of falling asleep. He didn't want to see the yellow-eyed stoat again, using his father's sword to kill him or watch helplessly, unable to move as Rose lost her life.

Gonff was still patiently holding his line in the water. He turned his head slightly in Martin's direction and smirked. The warrior was trying hard not to doze off. Gonff turned back to the river and sighed contentedly. "It's nice and peaceful tonight. If you fall asleep, we can camp here and then walk back home in the morning."

Martin opened his eyes and sat up quickly. "No. We don't need to do that."

"You don't have to prove that you're strong and invincible all the time. No one's around to see you, Martin." Gonff raised an eyebrow. Martin narrowed his eyes. The mousethief reeled his line in slightly. "I certainly wouldn't mind sleeping under the stars. You know-

"Gonff." Martin cut him off.

The Mousethief paused and turned his head to look at him. He gulped as he realized Martin figured out what he was trying to do.

The warrior's grey eyes had intensified as would a winter storm over the sea. "I'm not telling you about my dream. I told you and Trimp this morning that I would be fine. And don't think that I didn't see you and everyone else go to see the Abbot earlier today."

Gonff shrugged apologetically. "We were worried about you, mate."

"I'm fine." Martin glared at him but Gonff wasn't convinced.

"Are you really, Martin? Because, by the looks of you, I would say it's more of a nightmare than a dream." The mousethief replied bluntly.

Martin grit his teeth, biting back a sharp retort and scrambled to his feet. He paced up and down the bank, clenching his fists.

Gonff turned back to his fishing line, but he had a lot to say to the troubled Warrior.

"I won't ask you again Martin but, I want you to hear me out before you go stomping off like an angry shrew. I know there's more to your past that you haven't told me and I'm guessing it's connected to your nightmares. You can either let it eat you alive and lose more sleep or you can get it off your chest and get the rest that you desperately need. If there is something wrong that you're trying to deny…" He trailed off and shook his head. "I have a feeling you chose the wrong time to give up your sword, matey."

He looked up to see that Martin had his back to him but he wasn't pacing anymore. Gonff suddenly felt guilty for getting after him.

"We can go back to the Abbey now, if you're ready." Gonff said softly.

Martin turned around; shuffling his footpaws uneasily. Gonff was surprised. Martin had never looked like this before.

"I haven't... told anyone because," he stopped and rubbed the side of his face tiredly. He dropped his paw to his side and took a breath. "I made a promise seasons ago to hold my tongue, Gonff." He said at last. The thief raised an eyebrow, confused.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself, as if he felt a chill. "I need you to promise me that you won't say a word to any beast. Words have a way of changing lives for better or for worse."

Gonff frowned. "I'm a Prince of Secrets, mate. Spit it out! I've been waiting all evening for you to open up to me." He replied, impatiently.

At first, Martin didn't move. He stared off into the dark trees, with a faraway look. After a while, the warrior sat down again and it was some time before Martin found the right words to begin.

"I didn't… travel immediately from the Northern Shores. I was on the Eastern Coast before I came here."

Gonff's light brown eyes lit up with surprise but he didn't interrupt. Martin's voice trembled as he spoke.

"After my father and Vurg left to avenge our tribe, I became a little rebellious. He had left Timballisto in charge and…" Martin paused as the memories flooded back. He closed his eyes. "Just to spite him, I headed up the shoreline with my father's sword to gather firewood. My grandmother followed me. As she was scolding me for leaving the caves, we were surrounded by armed vermin."

Gonff nearly dropped his fishing pole in the river. He reeled the line in and set the pole aside so Martin had his full attention.

"They captured us and forced us on a long, brutal march. My grandmother didn't survive the journey." His voice quavered and he bit his lip. After a few moments, he continued. "I spent the rest of my childhood as a slave, Gonff." Martin paused. He looked down at his trembling paws. "We were forced to build a fortress for Lord Badrang. He was a stoat; a powerful corsair. As I grew older and stronger, I promised myself that someday, I was going to escape and take back my father's sword from him. I wanted to avenge my grandmother and others he had killed or enslaved."

There they sat, on the bank of the River Moss as Martin told Gonff his story. It was after midnight by the time Martin finished, his eyes filled with tears as he recounted his promise all those seasons ago in Polleekin's treehouse.

"I couldn't tell anyone Gonff." Martin continued quietly. "I owed it to Rose to keep Noonvale a secret. It's a place untouched by evil. If I sent trouble there, I would never forgive myself." He looked up at his friend apologetically. "That's why I never told you, even though you're my best friend."

Gonff's heart nearly broke to see his friend so miserable. But all the questions he had secretly wondered to himself about Martin had now been answered.

"For four nights, I've had to watch Rose die. Over and over. And each time, Badrang changes into... this other stoat. I wake up just before he kills me." There were tears streaming from his eyes. Martin quickly brushed them away, cleared his throat and stared off into the black trees across the river.

"Why didn't…" Gonff shook his head, stunned. "Why would you keep this to yourself all these seasons, Martin? That's a huge burden on your shoulders. You've already done so much for everyone else. Why won't you let us help you?"

"A warrior doesn't break his promises, Gonff." Martin replied gently, his gray eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Gonff huffed. He stood up, gathering up his fishing line and Martin's. Nothing had tugged on the lines the entire time they had sat there.

"You warriors and your stubbornness!" He reached down and helped Martin to his feet. "It's too late now to go back home. We can camp out here and walk back in the morning." Martin was about to protest but Gonff became firm. "Don't argue with me, Martin. You're too exhausted now to even make it half way to Redwall."

Martin stared at him incredulously but he didn't have the energy to protest. He sighed and nodded. "You're right, Gonff." He rubbed his face tiredly. Gonff nodded. "I'm always right."

As they walked up the slope, Gonff cleared his throat and grinned. "Now I know why you're not so keen on getting to know all the eligible mousemaids I've thrown at you."

Martin gave him a look but Gonff smiled knowingly. The warrior sighed and wrapped his arm around Gonff's shoulders.

"You don't give up, do you?"

Gonff chuckled. "What makes you say that, matey?"

That was one of the first nights that Martin was finally able to sleep, uninterrupted by dreams.

At that same moment, far out on the Eastern Sea, Verang the Vile had pulled out every map he could find on his ship and laid them on his desk in the stateroom. By candlelight, he moved his claws over the places he had been and others he had yet to discover. Some of these maps had his father's handwritten notes on them. He was amazed to see all the places his father had passed through.

If his plans involving Stoneclaw fell through, he figured he would have to find Noonvale on his own. Which would be a daunting task, seeing as very few had heard of it but had no clues as to its location. He silently cursed the creatures that kept it a secret when his fingers stopped over the Kamwian Islands. The large archipelago was his domain, his home by brutal conquest. That's when it hit him. His eyes widened with the realization and he stood up from his chair, knocking it to the floor.

"MARSHFOOT!" He bellowed. With amazing speed for a disfigured ferret, the ugly creature slammed the doors open and rushed into the room in his nightshirt, falling over his own feet in his haste and slid across the floor on his belly. Verang rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Yes, Sire?" Marshfoot asked wearily, burning with embarrassment.

Verang picked up his chair and sat in it. "Marshfoot. Do you remember the day those mercenaries brought those young otters to me?"

Marshfoot blinked. "Otters?"

"Yes. Where were they from?"

The ferret picked himself up off the floor and came to stand in front of the desk. "I can't seem to recall, my Lord. Forgive me," He replied tentatively. "But why?"

He flinched as the stoat patted his head. "Come now, you remember them? The ones that escaped me, thanks to that nuisance of a mousemaid!" He said the last words with a snarl.

Marshfoot's eyes lit up with recognition. "Yes, now that you say that, I do remember her! But Sire, I don't know where they came from. All I know was that Stoneclaw was among the mercenaries that brought them back."

Verang raised an eyebrow. He didn't know this at all. Slowly, a malicious grin crossed his handsome, but menacing face and Marshfoot gulped, stepping back a pace.

"Marshfoot, has anyone told you how delightfully clever you are?"

The ferret trembled, unable to speak. His master's moods were unpredictable and he didn't want to say the wrong thing to set him off.

The Vile One reached for his leather belt that held his daggers. It hung on the wall behind him on a peg. He pulled one out of its sheath and slammed the point onto the map, marking Kamwe's largest island.

"When I find them, those fugitives will regret they ever double-crossed me." He growled as a plan began to form in his head.