Chapter Three
The weasel ran through the trees of Mossflower wood, not really knowing in which direction he was going. If only Deathpaw were alive! He would have known how to find the horde! Just as soon as he thought this, Greenfang resented the thought. He didn't need Deathpaw to find Fangarl and her horde. He didn't need anybeast. He was Greenfang the Bold now, his irritated eye completely forgotten.
He was all on his own, with no idiotic Deathpaw to tell him what to do. Deathpaw was always bossing him around and bullying him, insulting him and kicking him about. But not anymore! Greenfang snickered. Well, who's the best weasel now? That squirrel had hit Deathpaw while he was about to kill the otter, but only the best survived in Mossflower.
He was one of the best now, and he would have to think up an impressive story to tell Fangarl. There were no live witnesses to what had happened, he reasoned, and he could make himself out to be a hero. Earlier, when he had tried this, Deathpaw had stopped him and told the truth. Well, there was no Deathpaw now!
There was no Deathpaw to tell him what to do, no Deathpaw to spit at him when he made a mistake in his comments, no Deathpaw to show off in front of everybeast and make him look like a fool, no Deathpaw to bother him constantly and insult him. Well, Greenfang didn't need Deathpaw. All that his supposed friend had done was hurt him, and he was going to be fine- no, not just fine, better than before- on his own.
Deathpaw was dead, and it was Greenfang's time to shine. Deathpaw's shadow had been removed. Besides, the weasel expected to be promoted to a Captain upon his return. Deathpaw had been eyeing the position with some interest for a while now, and the officers had seemed to consider him worthy. He would have probably been initiated upon his return if Rhyna hadn't interrupted his life, but now Greenfang saw new possibilities for the rank of Captain.
After he told Fangarl his version of discovering the great red sandstone building, he would be sure to gain a promotion! Once they realized that he showed promise, he would work his way up in the ranks. The weasel's imagination ran onwards as he pictured himself in a flowing captains cloak, ordering otherbeasts around.
The fantasy appealed to him greatly and not a single picture of Deathpaw in the cloak invaded his imaginings. Greenfang smiled cruelly, running through possible heroic stories in his mind that would make him a suitable candidate for promotion. What if he told Fangarl that the creatures of Redwall had attacked him, and he had fended them off?
No, that wouldn't work. Then, Fangarl would think that great warriors lived at the red sandstone Abbey, which would change her battle plans. It would be too confusing.
What if he told Fangarl that the other vermin were plotting a mutiny? That might work. A mutiny lead by Deathpaw. What if he suggested that the slimy weasel had been plotting against Fangarl the entire time? Then, he could take credit for his death and for the death of the other mutineers.
He could say that, in defense of her honor and good- er, bad- name, he had killed them all in a matter of seconds so that she could rest in peace without fear of an assassination attempt. No, Fangarl would see through that. He needed a really clever plan.
What if he told Fangarl that they had been attacked by a score of archer squirrels, and that they had slain his comrades. Yes, that would work. He could make himself out to be a hero, saying that he had slain them single- pawed in her name, and had captured their leader for her to question. Unfortunately, the leader had killed himself at the mere mention of her name.
He would do it, and he would soon feel that captain's cloak wrapping itself around his shoulders! He could picture it now. He, Greenfang, would be calling the shots. Glaring imperiously down his nose at them, Greenfang the weasel would work his way up in Fangarl's favor. One day, she would be killed- if not by him, than by some otherbeast- and he would take over! He would lead the horde!
And then, he thought of Deathpaw. The stupid weasel! He hadn't been nearly as clever as he had made himself out to be. The idiot had gotten himself killed by that squirrel, and it was his own fault too! Now, Greenfang was still alive, and Greenfang was the best.
The great fool had gotten what he had deserved. If only Deathy had lived to see him now! Soon, he would be a captain in Fangarl's horde, and then, he would take over. He would not think of Deathpaw again, except in moments of fierce pride. That weasel had had the nerve to think he was better than Greenfang the Bold!
"Well, Deathy," he muttered to himself, "I don't see you showin' off wid yer fancy directions now!" He sneered maliciously, thinking of all the times Deathpaw had bullied him and stolen the glory that was rightfully his. Well, not anymore!
"I was always th' one wid brains anyways," the weasel continued, "an' now I proved it. I was the only one who survived!" The slightly mad weasel looked around, rubbing his hands together, "an' that means that I get yore share of th' booty when Fangarl rewards me fer finding that buildin'."
Hours passed, with the tattooed weasel chatting animatedly to himself, wandering around and hoping to find his horde. The sun had now set, and soft moonlight now covered the trees, and ground, drenching the entire woodlands in silver.
The weasel continued staggering through the trees, the moon guiding him onwards. Nighttime birds sang softly whilst the insects buzzed peacefully, but Greenfang didn't notice them. He kept on trudging through Mossflower. His wearied paws did not tread in vain, however, at least in his mind. Greenfang's time was spent celebrating and crowing over Deathpaw's demise.
Soon, even the satisfaction of being alone did not comfort his paws and his cramped muscles. And so he turned his thoughts to the beautiful captains cloak that awaited him once he reached his destination. This worked for a while, and he spent another good hour debating what color he should choose for his uniform after his promotion.
But even the thought of being a captain did not act as balm for his weary body for too long. He found no more solace in his mind, and his thoughts began to linger towards a nice and warm bed. Whenever he thought to take a rest, however, he became scared. He didn't dare sleep, not when there were warriors about like the ones that had killed Deathpaw and the others that night.
Mossflower was a dangerous place to travel though, especially at night. One had to keep their guard up constantly lest they be slain. Whenever his weary muscles were tempted to stop their wanderings, a nagging voice in the back of Greenfang's mind thought the same thing: "That Otter an' Squirrel might still be around somewheres, waitin' t'kill me!"
And so in this fashion Greenfang wandered about in the moonlit forest. It was not visions of grandeur and riches that drove him on. The thought of promotion and Deathpaw burning in Hellgates did not comfort him. It was raw terror that drove him onwards, and it was raw terror that kept his paws moving, even after he was gasping for breath from weariness.
His eyes started to cloud over, and his heart started to slow down. Greenfang forced his way onwards anyway, trying to stumble a few more steps, but he couldn't manage it. The weasel's paw tripped on an outstretched tree root, and Greenfang stumbled to the ground, his fur connecting with the hard ground. He did not get up. . .
When he again woke, a full day had passed. The sun was still hanging in the sky, but it was about to sink behind the horizon. Greenfang blinked, rubbing his eyes and yawning slightly as he tried to stumble to his feet. He felt marvelously refreshed.
The hours of rest that he had gotten had helped him a great deal, and obviously the warriors that had killed his comrades were not tracking him! Greenfang got to his feet, letting a cool night time breeze run over his still slightly-cramped body. His paws felt able to travel again, and so Greenfang started to make his way onwards yet again.
Unfortunately, even his long rest did not give him back his endurance. Soon again the weasel grew tired, and the visions of his glorious future did not sustain him for long. But, as it were, luck was with the weasel that night. Just as he had finally decided to take another rest no matter the risk, he heard voices.
Though he hadn't noticed, the trees he had been walking through had started to spread out as he reached the edge of Mossflower. The weasel walked forwards slowly and cautiously, hoping that what he heard wasn't his imagination. As he pushed aside a tree with a paw, he saw the sight that he had been hoping to see for two days illuminated in soft moonlight. Fangarl's Horde! He could have danced a jig on the spot!
The weasel strode forwards coolly into the camp, a smug look upon his face and his head held high. Ignoring the stares from the other vermin as he entered, he walked forwards, pushing his way through the camp. Once he told Fangarl what he had found out, she'd reward him well! What did it matter if she was doing something important? He had news for her!
All of the others stared at him, and Greenfang didn't even consider that it might be his grubby and starved appearance that they were looking at. The pictures he held in his mind of himself were too grand for his actual state. Feeling extremely pleased with himself, even though he didn't exactly have very much reason to be, the weasel approached his leader's tent, a grin on his face and his heart leaping.
Soon, he would be wearing a captains cloak instead of an old and dirty tunic. He just had to tell Fangarl what she wanted to hear and make himself look good in the bargain. He stepped forwards, looking the two rat guards that stood in front of the tent flap straight in the eye. "'Ello me buckoes. Got important news fer the chief, mates. C'n I get through?"
One of the guards, a burly rat with dark fur, stepped forwards, a spear in his paw. Greenfang's confidence quavered for a moment, but even the cowardly weasel was boosted by the supposed importance of his mission. Greenfang ignored the rat and tried to push past him, only to be sent sprawling by the spear of the second rat.
"Then it'll 'ave to wait," the second rat said. "She's takin' dinner in 'er tent and doesn't want to be disturbed. She gave us strict orders not to let anybeast get a paw near this tent. She said that if anybeast disturbed 'er, we was to kill 'em." The weasel ignored him and glared.
"Oh, she'll want to be interrupted fer this news, me 'Earties!" The weasel put on a cheery face and a confident air, hoping that it would convince the rats of his goodwill. It didn't. The two rats glared at Greenfang as solemnly as ever, but the weasel was not to be disheartened. "I'd tell yer all about it, but this news is fer Fangarl's ears alone."
Both rats were about to protest, but the weasel lifted a paw to silence them- though it didn't work in the slightest- and pushed past them before they could react. The inside of the tent was dim, lit only by two candles on a table placed in the center. In one corner was a sleeping cot, with a water basin in the other to wash in. Vermin though she was, Fangarl was a very neat and clean creature.
At first, the weasel couldn't see anything but the shadow of the cot, table, and basin. But, as his eyes adjusted to the light of the candles, he made out the shadowy face of Fangarl the Cruel. He tried to suppress a shudder at the sight of her, but failed miserably. Fangarl smiled slightly as he cowered before her.
Greenfang, only just remembering what protocol demanded, gave her a wobbly and poorly executed bow. Fangarl tried to suppress laughter, and she had a better time at concealing her amusement than Greenfang had at concealing his terror. She read him like an open book. Fangarl delicately lifted a piece of fish meat on a slender silver fork to her mouth, eating it neatly.
At any other time, Greenfang would have been staring at the food, transfixed. It was, indeed, cooked to perfection, but he was too terrified to think of his stomach at the moment. The weasel, his lips trembling and his paws unsteady on the ground, stood at attention, his eyes cast downwards in respect as well as terror.
Fangarl was a ferretmaid in her middle years, though she was still fit, and quite deadly. She was known as a fierce and ruthless killer, even if her appearance didn't fit that description. Unlike most of the creatures in her large horde, she wore little jewelry and wore a neat black tunic with a cape of soft mole fur about her shoulders. She wore a slender golden tiara on her head.
At her hips, the ferretmaid carried two poison tipped throwing daggers, as well as her own sword. Her bright black eyes shone through the darkness, and the weasel couldn't help shuddering. His confidence evaporated as fast as it had appeared. Fangarl licked her teeth, grinning at her scout menacingly.
The ferret's body was lithe and wiry, and she was rather pretty as vermin went. Her face was a mature one, not wrinkled and yet obviously not very young. It was a strong face, well featured. Her full lips were often as not curved into a menacing and foreboding smile that would make even the bravest fall to their knees. Fangarl the Cruel was truly a strong hordeleader.
"So," she said, her grin widening, "My rat guards jus' up an' decided t'let you come in 'ere after I gave them orders t'make sure nobeast entered me tent." Greenfang gulped, his throat dry and his paws wringing one another in turn. Fangarl was not in a good mood, then. He had pictured himself striding brilliantly into her presence, a buccaneer smile on his face and a dashing sword in his paw.
He had thought she would welcome him, asking him to sit down as her equal so that they would discuss his good fortune. Fangarl continued while Greenfang brooded. "This is surprisin', ain't it? Now, you'd better open that trap o' yours an' tell me why yore 'ere so I can go outside and. . . deal with them"
The weasel's former confidence evaporated as fast as it had come. His eyes whirled about, resting anywhere but on his leader. Fangarl stared determinedly back at him, her gaze never wavering. All too aware of her gaze upon him, Greenfang shuddered, his eyes widening slightly and his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. Beads of sweat ran down his neck as Fangarl looked on.
She soon grew impatient and Greenfang, sensing this, began to tell his stories in many stutters and faults. "Well, er. . . um, its like this. Y'see, you sent me 'n me mate Deathpaw out a few moons ago inter that wood place, Mossflower, t'go scoutin', an'. . ." He paused, licking dry lips and gulping. Fangarl waved a paw at the seat across from her at the small table.
"C'mere an' sit down, mate," she said with a smile. Greenfang stared at her, not at all sure how to react. Was this another one of his fantasies? Was he still walking about in Mossflower somewhere, or was he perhaps asleep, dreaming. He pinched himself, and felt the pain in course through his flesh. He wasn't dreaming. "There's food too, if you want it. Since ye've already interrupted me, you might as well enjoy yourself while you tell me what I hope will be good news."
The weasel felt slightly more at ease, sitting down as his leader instructed him and taking tiny bites of the food on the table. As he grew more confident, Greenfang continued with his story.
"Well, like I was sayin, me 'n Deathy was walkin' through Mossflower. An' so Deathy turns t'me an' says, 'I think we're lost, Greeny.' An' so I say to 'im, 'No we ain't! We're goin' th' right way. I c'n tell from th' sun. An' I 'eard tell of a place full of mice 'n squirrels an' 'edgepigs where we c'd take over'. An' so Deathy follers me, 'cause I'm th'leader, right? An' so we keep walkin' for a while, an' what do we see?"
"Well?" Fangarl asked, using all her willpower to keep a smile on her face. Even with all her efforts, it still looked like a grimace. "What did you see? You've done well so far, but I'd appreciate if you'd explain what this has to do with interruptin' m'dinner."
The weasel nodded and continued his tale, not at all conscious of Fangarl's annoyance. Though she tried hard to hide it, the ferretmaid was livid. She needn't have worried about the weasel suspecting her anger, Greenfang was far too stupid to notice. The weasel drank something from a nearby flagon, smiling contentedly before continuing.
"Well, so we see this great red buildin'!" Fangarl raised her eyebrows, but gave no other reaction. "It must 'ave been twice as big as any o' th' castles we ever took over," Greenfang said with excitement. "It was 'igher 'n all of th' trees around it an' th' walls was as thick as- " he searched for a word, "thick as two treetrucks put t'gether! An' so, we watched th' place for a day or so, an' it turns out that they're only full of mice an' a few other woodland creatures. Nothin' serious guardin' th' place."
Fangarl was shocked. A huge building without any proper fighters? She was in luck! The ferret's voice took on an urgent tone as she questioned the weasel further.
"Well? What direction was it in? An' I want more details about the place!" The weasel grew a bit more agitated as his commander started to lose the flattery and kindness she had pretended earlier. But, not knowing what else to do, he gulped and licked dry lips before answering.
"Aye, there ain't any serious fighters, mostly mice in funny green robes. An' all you 'ave t'do is walk, um, Sou'eat of 'ere t'get there. Just walk straight through Mossflower an' you'll find it within two days if you don't get lost. Like I said, t'was just a huge red building with high walls an' funny mice in it. But I did see two warriors earlier. Tattooed otter female an' a squirrelmaid too. Killed Deathy an' th' foragin' party you sent out, they did! Wouldn't want t'run inter more of them, eh?"
Fangarl nodded, her lips curving into a smile. "You're sure of your information, Greenfang?" The weasel nodded, and the ferret's smile broadened. "Good. Now, let us discuss your reward, shall we?" The weasel's eyes lit up with greed, his heart pounding with anticipation as he wondered what riches his queen might bestow upon him.
"Now, you did find this Abbey, and for that I thank you, but your reward will be something far different than you expect." Her voice trailed off as the ferretmaid grasped at one of the poison-tipped daggers at her hip. She drew it slowly under the table, not wanting to attract the unfortunate weasels attention.
"But, you also unwisely chose to interrupt my dinner. If you hadn't, and had acted with more sense, then I would have made your death painless. I don't like sharing rewards!" And with that, the ferret leapt up onto the table, thrusting the poisoned dagger into the weasel's throat. The ferret smiled as the body, now with some of the fur stained red, fell to the floor in a shuddering heap.
She put the dagger away and calmly finished her dinner, letting the excitement of this new discovery fill her with new hope and anticipation. Then, she put the dagger back in her paw as she went out to deal with the guards. They had been foolish enough to let the weasel in during Fangarl's dinner.