Troyte flew low over the foothills, weaving and bobbing maladroitly. He'd proven earlier that he was more than capable of agility, but he'd apparently used up his quota of it for the day. The hawk was able to avoid further impacts, but an aware rider surely would have reconsidered air travel after such transport.
Troyte's current passengers, however, were not very aware. Both Mattachin and Nyctllr sustained exhaustion from smoke inhalation and from their fall. Vengeance and distraught filled mouse and bat respectively, effectively detaching them from an already surreal reality.
It was the hawk who noticed the fox's red fur against the sandy rocks. Taking care with his aim, Troyte descended. The rush of air drew Mattachin's attention to the fore, and at the sight of a vermin species, he drew his sword to swing. This in turn caught Nyctllr's eye, and she once again deflected the warrior's intention. No more, not today, she chastised wearily.
Thadius Roth did not even shuffle to the side as Troyte landed beside him, his two passengers sliding onto the ground. Roth stated simply, face too worn to exhibit proper emotion, I believe you will want to see what I have to show.
Mattachin again moved to strike a blow, but this time Troyte deflected it with the effortless flick of a talon. Wordlessly, the trio followed the fox.
They clambered over rocks and outcroppings, periodically passing fissures and faults. It was remarkable that Thadius knew the way so assuredly in a landscape without landmark. They finally reached a cave that appeared like all the others, which Roth entered and motioned for the trio to follow. The narrow entrance quickly widened into a sizable room, already somewhat furnished for the purpose of hiding.
Nadal ob Insame was in the corner. Immediately recognizing the dictator via description, Mattachin lunged forth yet again, only to stop in his tracks with the sword held above his head. The weasel's form was rigid, tightly curled up, claws extended but puncturing the palms of his clenched forepaws. The dark eyes were screwed shut, the incisive fangs bared in a grimace of physical anguish. Spittle covered Nadal's lower lip and dribbled onto his beard. It remained still, however—there was no indication of breathing.
Roth held up a small vial. It was only a matter of a small amount of unmedicated time. His voice remained unemotional and scientific.
With a titanic scream, Mattachin plunged Martin's sword into the ground, shattering a chunk of sandstone next to the dead weasel's head.
So, I guess it's over then, Troyte ventured.
Still seething, Mattachin retrieved the weapon and admitted, At least we won.
Nobody won, Nyctllr said softly. It's over, but nobody won. Everything is gone, everyone is dead. Nothing is the same. That's not winning anything. What do we tell Redwall? What do we tell history? We tell the truth, that it's all dead because we all made inexcusable mistakes. And we don't let it happen again. We don't let it happen that things are ever in need of winning or losing again. Nobody won. I only hope we can make it mean something.
Thadius looked at Nyc, his expression altering to indicate agreement. Troyte bowed his head, and Mattachin refrained from comment.
When they left the cave, Nadal ob Insame remained unburied.