Chapter Eight
A day passed by quickly. Then another one. Both came and went with little disturbance. The south wall at Redwall Abbey was almost completed, and a feast was taking place since it was Abbess Song's eleventh season as Abbess. Jubilant Redwallers feasted, sang, danced, and laughed as they knew they were guarded by not only the walls but by warriors as well.
Nik, Runn, Painttail, Ralar, Kippit, Filian, Pinidap, and Verleaf, along with Iceblade, left the underground domain, following Rukkachun south by west. Tigerlily, Frostpaw, and Thornrose stayed behind to help travellers, and the group of nine voyagers set out to find Stormpaw.
Meanwhile, Stormpaw and her newfound hare friends had slain seven more crewbeasts, bringing the number down to one ferret. In fact, the hares were the same ones that Lord Russano had ordered to go to Redwall. Lieutenant Tammo and the six others had decided against going to Redwall, got the idea of helping Stormpaw, and got it approved by the Badger Lord.
Creekstar, Lurrana, and Portred, along with their thirty warriors combined into one large group, sped onwards, taking the route Rukka had directed them in. The three holt leaders, determined to help their brother and save Mossflower, didn't give a second thought to stopping, and neither did their warriors.
Kaleena, soaked to the skin with blood and heavily marked with wounds, had been healed by the Clawfist's seer and medicine fox, Rappan. Kaleena then reported Redwall to the Queen, explaining with great detail everything she could remember. The Queen grinned with delight upon hearing everything the vixen scout had to say.
The little disturbance of the two days were shattered as the third day began. Weregang, Sarrico, the rat (Spineflaw), and the non-tribal fox (Ridgesnout) were still trekking through Mossflower. Weregang, son of Nerygia, had shown the stoat corsair all that southern Mossflower had to offer. Rugval was content, knowing that if he took over Mossflower, everybeast living in it would be under his command. Spineflaw and Ridgesnout, on the other hand, desperately wanted to return to the beach.
"Quit yer whinin'," Sarrico snapped at the rat, who was whimpering pitifully. "An' yew call yerself a searat! Hah, searat, me ear!"
Snarling, Sarrico continued following Weregang. Spineflaw and Ridgesnout exchanged nervous looks, then timidly followed their leader.
Since they had not journeyed too far from the beach, Stormpaw, who had followed the foursome since they had left, could get an easy shot without venturing far from the hares, who had food, water, and extra arrows.
The otter grasped onto the high bough of an elm tree with her tail, bow and arrow in paw, as she watched the four pass by without noticing her. Quickly and quietly, Stormpaw drew back her bowstring as far as it could go and released it, letting the arrow fly through the air with a soft hissing noise. The arrow shaft buried itself deep within the back of Spineflaw's neck and exited out the other side, finally embedding itself in the dirt. Ridgesnout howled in surprise as the rat fell next to the arrow, a bloody hole in both the front and back of his throat.
"Wot 'appened?!" Rugval demanded of Ridgesnout as he and Weregang whirled around to see what the commotion was about.
Looking about nervously, Ridgesnout ignored his leader's question.
"I said, wot 'appened?!" the stoat roared, pinning the defenseless fox against the nearest tree. But before Ridgesnout could reply, he was hit squarely between the eyes by a smooth, round stone. The stone struck the creature's skull with an ominous crack, and before anybeast could blink, the fox was dead.
Weregang quickly turned to look at the tall elm tree where he had though the stone and the arrow had come from. Instead, all he was was nothingness. Just a tree.
Sarrico had let go of the dead fox and was now searching frantically for whomever shot the arrow and stone. Turning his back to a large, inconspicuous pile of bracts, little did he know he was being watched.
An otter javelin flew through the air from the bract pile. Sarrico turned around just in time and jumped away from the javelin. A second too late and the javelin would have pierced him, not the tree trunk Rugval had been standing in front of.
"We're gettin' outta 'ere," Sarrico told Weregang. He ran for the beach as Weregang blended in perfectly with the foliage, escaping back to his mother at the beach as well.
Stormpaw peered out from the hallow trunk of the elm tree. She had witnessed everything, including the javelin incident. Crawling out of the hole and brushing splinters of bark from her fur, she watched the pile of bracts moving. Out popped the head of a hare.
"Oh, nice throw, wot," the hare told somebeast next to him. "That un stoat's went fleein' fer 'is flippin' life, the coward. Oy! Ralar! Y'can come out now!"
A hobbling old mouse ambled out, grumbling. "Vermin, they don't know what's good for them. At least two fell. Don't know by whom, but at least it's two vermin less than a few minutes before!" The mouse turned to look behind him. "Verleaf, Pinidap, Filian, come on. Look—Salamandastron's not too far away."
As three babes scrambled out of the pile, another one—a squirrel—appeared and seemed to be tugging on something. "Nik! C'mon brother, Ralar's leaving us!"
The hare jumped out of the bracts. "Well, let's jolly well continue, wot! On t' Salamandastron!"
"Wait a tick, Painttail," a voice interrupted. The voice belonged to an older squirrel who stepped out of the bracts, being pulled by his little brother.
"Nik, Painttail…Kippit," Stormpaw whispered. She suddenly grinned. "They're 'ere!"
"Wot is it?" Painttail asked as two otters appeared from the pile.
"That arrow. Look." The squirrel pointed to the arrow in the ground.
Gingerly, the hare picked it up by the end and peered closer at it. "Blood. So wot?" As the squirrel shook his head, Painttail peered even closer. "Wait a tick—yer right! 'Tis black-fletched!"
"What's that mean?" one of the babes, a mouse, asked.
One of the otters, the younger one, nodded his head. "I 'member a black-fletched arrer. Y'said y'found un in Martin's tapestry, right Paint? Aye, 'twas Stormpaw's!"
Stormpaw decided that was her signal. She shot another arrow exactly where the first one had hit, making everybeast look up at the elm tree. She grinned at them and put her bow away.
"Hiya, mateys," Stormpaw greeted. "It's been a while, no?"
"Stormpaw!" Nik, Painttail, and Kippit chorused.
The female otter jumped from her perch and was swarmed by her three friends. Nik and Painttail slapped her on the back while Kippit climbed onto her shoulders.
"Yay!" the squirrelbabe exclaimed jovially. "You're back! Yay! Wait'll Mum sees you! All growning up and escaping the Abbey. Hah! No more chestnuts and strawberries for you and get a bath and no supper."
Stormpaw laughed at the little squirrel's playful scold.
"Hey, 'ave y'met Runn yet, wot?" Painttail asked the female otter. He gestured to the male, who was exactly a season older than Stormpaw. "That's the jolly good Runn. Fine creature, ain't he, wot?"
Stormpaw nodded and shook Runn's paw, for they had never officially met. The two stared at each other for a moment befor Nik butted in, interrupting the silence.
"Well, old riverdog, it seems you can take care of yourself, eh?" he observed. He then became serious. "How many have you slain?"
Both otters jerked back to reality and Stormpaw answered, "Lemme see…two…five…twenny…twenny-seven…I'd say twenny-seven. The 'ares o'er yonder are 'elping deplete their numbers, but they still 'ave un 'undred ninety-four foxes, lest Sarrico's slain s'more."
"Sarrico slays th'foxes?" the scarred, tattooed, half-blind otter asked incredulously.
"Aye," Stormpaw retorted. "Out o' anger. Rugval 'ates Queen Nerygia o' the fox tribes. She's plottin' t'kill Sarrico, then take Mossflow'r fer 'erself."
"Typical vermin behavior," the old mouse commented.
Stormpaw looked at him. "Who're you?"
"I am Ralar Creekhawn. This is Verleaf, my grandson, Pinidap, and Filian, Painttail's neice. I'm a traveler, not a warrior, so don't say anything."
"Wasn't plannin' to."
"Oh…Never mind, then."
* * *
Wedge Bristle slept soundly the night before, and, as the sun shone brightly through his window, the end of a somewhat long dream came to a close. In his dream, Martin the Warrior, clad in full armor and surrounded by all the Abbots and Abbesses of the past, spoke to him with a deep voice that reverberated through the ethereal void of the dream world. The warrior, accompanied by the varying voices of the heads of Redwall Abbey in the past, proclaimed the future to the hedgehog.
"Of the seventeen that fight the war,
Only twelve will come back home,
With the mourning and the grief,
Towards the red walls of sandstone.
Champion squirrel, small as he may be,
Will join the mouse as leader of Redwall,
And avenge the deaths of their cherished ones,
And come back home from duty's call.
Iceblade, Swiftwater, Reguba too,
Will go down in Mossflower's history,
As warriors who knew no fear,
And who let the woodlanders free.
Mourning comes on a jubilant day,
So do not grieve lest she permits,
The pining of our lost loved ones,
Who gave their lives so you could exist."
Wedge could scarcely remember the rhyme, other than the first two lines. He murmured it in his sleep and he continued murmuring it as he started on his daily chores.
"Of the seventeen that fight the war, only twelve will come back home…"
* * *
Nerygia smiled sneeringly at Rugval, who, with his last ferret crewbeast, sat around a diminishing fire, eating what was left of their food supply. The black fox Queen turned to her family.
"What a pity, them," she said, her tone of voice dripping with mock sympathy. "If only we could allow them to join us."
Weregang bit into an apple, made a disgusted face, and spit it out at the fire. "Lousy apple," he grumbled, throwing the apple over his shoulder. It unexpectedly hit a rusty-colored fox on the back of the head.
"Yowch! 'Oo did that?!"
The large mottled fox grinned and called to the rusty one, who was now rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. "Sorry, Flint, didn't mean it! Hey, I think you're growing apples, Flint! Lookit!" Weregang pointed, grinning, at the rising lump on the other fox's head.
Flint growled as the other foxes jeered at him.
Before Weregang could laugh along with the other foxes, he was hit in the side of the face with a wet rag. Vulpes, his white-furred sister, glared ominously at him from the opposite side of the fire, the firelight reflecting dangerously off her brown-black eyes.
"What?" Weregang demanded of his younger sister. "What did I do this time?"
"You picked on him, gave him a wound, and added insult to injury! You wretched brother, if I wasn't like I am now, I would have taken my dagger and would've skinned you in several places, starting with between your ears!" the vixen snarled angrily.
"He's only another fox, for crying out loud, Vulpes!" Weregang countered. "It's not like he's of royal blood."
"So what if he's not?" Vulpes nearly screeched. "He's…he's…not only another fox, you know!"
Before Weregang could move another muscle, Nerygia butted in. "All right, you two, stop bickering. I've had enough of your arguing since the day Vulpes was born. If I hear any more arguing from you two, you're both confronting Sarrico yourselves, and poisoning him yourselves, too!"
Weregang stuck his tongue out at his sister, then sauntered off to be with his friends. Vulpes sat down heavily on the sand, poking at the fire with her bladetip. "I'm not afraid of that bumbling idiot of a stoat, Mother," she muttered, her head in one paw. "I'll poison him if you want, but…how come I'm not much of a mercenary or a killer like you guys? Am I not cut out to being one?"
"Vulpes, you are born a killer, whether you like it or not," Xeroedge told his daughter sternly. "How many times have you been told that? You are from the Xerogia tribes' royal line. If Weregang is not fit to be king then you will take the throne, yet you aren't into killing. Now, I ask you, what is the color of the night?"
"Black."
"What is the color of the shadows?"
"Black."
"And what is the color of the blood of a Xerogia fox?"
"Black."
"We are shadows; we are the night. You are black, inside and out. Like I am, like your grandsire was, and so forth. Nobeast living who's a Xerogia fox is anything but black."
Vulpes hesitated, then looked up at her father. "Then why am I white?"
