Chapter Two: The North Caves
Season followed season. Riala stayed on the trail of the Longclaws' horde the entire time, helping goodbeasts and fighting vermin. As she gained more experience, her skill with her roce and dagger grew. The squirrel had followed Nightdeath west through the cold, thinly forested northern sector of Mossflower, and was gaining quite the reputation in that area.
The warrioress was traveling at a brisk pace through the treetops, hearing but not really noticing the noise of forest life. She suddenly halted, motionless, ears straining for a noise as the heavy silence fell upon her awareness. There was no sound save the wind rustling dry autumn leaves. Something was wrong. Something had frightened the birds and the insects into rare silence… Riala realized what it was when a harsh, whining voice grated against her ears.
"Gimme that food blinkeye!"
Her gold-brown eyes darkened, and she crept silently through the trees, dropping lightly to the ground in order to walk more quietly. She eased her stick out of her belt and grasped the coil of rope in her free paw. A mole's rustic accent drifted to her tufted ears, and she followed the sounds of the argument to a mound of earth with a door at one end. Nearby, a brook gurgled on its merry way to larger bodies of water, silvery forms flashing within its depths.
"Good decision, mole," a weasel's nasal voice sneered. "Now stand right quiet so's we c'n put these chains on you four."
Slavers! Riala's eyes narrowed dangerously as she ran a short circuit around the clearing's edge to check for hidden guards. She found none, and she turned her attention back to the mole home. It was not large- no more than two or three vermin could fit in with a mole family. Slavers were rarely expert fighters. She could take them without too much trouble if she had the element of surprise…
The squirrel paused, thinking on her options, and then took up a position outside the door. When they came out, she'd be waiting. There was the clink of chains, and the swish-thwack of a whip. A mole grunted in pain, and Riala's paw tightened on her roce, jaw set. Vermin, she growled mentally, all her hatred packed into that one word.
"Move on, let's go, outside!" the weasel ordered. Another whiplash, and this time it was the scream of a dibbun that reached the waiting squirrel's ears. Her muscles tensed, quivering with fury at the cruelty of the slavers. The door opened, and a weasel calmly strode out, his whip twitching like a live snake from his paw.
Riala's paw shot out, and she grabbed his muzzle, pulling him back. Her dagger slit his throat, and he died without a sound. A chained adult mole came through the door, and he stifled a cry of shock and fright when he saw the squirrel. Her teeth were bared, her eyes misted in red, and blood dripped from her dagger. The dead weasel was slumped on the ground, shoved out of the way.
"Move," the squirrel hissed. "Stay quiet!" He nodded shakily, walking forward.
Swish-thwack! A whip snaked out, striking a struggling molebabe across the shoulders. She shrieked, back arced in pain. The lash struck the father mole across the face as he turned to help his daughter.
It was too much for Riala, who was already teetering on the verge of bloodwrath. "Rilaaaar!" The battle-cry ripped from her throat, and she raced into the hut, leaping over the heads of the mole family and striking the slaver in the chest with her footpaws. His breath left him with an audible whoosh of air as he fell, and the enraged squirrel raised her roce to strike.
"Mercy! Don't kill me!" the weasel yelped, fear widening his eyes and strangling his voice to a squeak.
"Not in fron' of th' dibbuns, please, miz!" the molewife pleaded.
Slowly the warrior's muscles relaxed and the red mist of near-berserk fury faded from her eyes. "Ye're right," Riala hissed to the weasel, her normally imperceptible northern accent growing stronger with her fury. "Death's tae good for ye. I should chain ye oop an' use yon lash on ye until ye've noo a scrap o' fur on your back. Then-"
"No, please! I won't never go near a whip agin!" he squealed.
"Like I believe that!"Riala growled scornfully, her rage and accent beginning to abate. "Where's your keys?"
A little later, the weasel was in chains and the mole family was freed. The molewife, whose name was Soilfree, worked at bandaging the wounds of her husband and dibbuns. Riala set to work cleaning and honing her dagger, sending occasionally dark looks at the quivering weasel.
"Thankee koindly, miz," Durtfloyer, the father, said to the squirrel.
"Riala Goldentail," the warrior told him, not looking up from her blade.
"Then… thankee, miz Ri'la," the mole corrected himself.
Their whip wounds bandaged, the two molebabes, Soilfloyer and Durtfree, came up to the squirrel and gazed at her with curiosity.
"Yurr, 'ow'd you'm get so gudd at foightin', miz?" Durtfree inquired.
"Hurr! You'm taked yon vurmint oot wunnerfully!" Soilfloyer added, wonder on her face.
Riala sheathed her dagger and dropped her whetstone in the pouch at her side that had long replaced the cumbersome backpack. She leaned forward, looking at the two seriously. "I became a fighter through practice and necessity. It's not a bad idea to learn how to fight, but take my advice- don't be a warrior for a living. Grow up, raise a family, live a life of peace… but fight only when you have to. A warrior's life is not as glamorous as some say."
"Then whoi do you be a wurryer, miz Ri'la?" Durtfree asked, confusion plain on his young features.
The squirrel looked away. "You wouldn't understand." Her voice was flat, her expression hard as stone as she spoke her reply.
"Mebbe we would," the molebabes' mother objected quietly. "Whoi do you be a wurrior?
"Because I have to!" The four words exploded from her mouth, almost a cry against the question and the memories it brought to the surface. She stood and walked swiftly away, gold-brown eyes holding grief though her face was stone.
Soilfree was a perceptive mole, and she saw the shadows in Riala's eyes. She gathered her children to her. "Burr, toime for bed, dibbuns," she said, hustling them away. "Cumm yurr!"
She returned minutes later to find Riala savagely sharpening her dagger. "Miz Ri'la?" The squirrel did not answer, did not seem to hear anything besides the fey voices of her past. The molewife placed a comforting digging claw on the warrior's shoulder. Wiry muscles tensed, then relaxed as Riala sheathed her dagger.
"Yes, Soilfree?" the squirrel asked.
"Somethin' bothers ye," the mole said. "Whoi are you'm a wurrior?"
The squirrel rose with a sigh, walking over to the wall where the weasel huddled, footpaws making no sound on the earthen floor. "A wolverine, Nightdeath Longclaws by name, killed my father," she said finally, flatly. "Four seasons back. They were dueling, and my father was winning… until the Longclaws signaled with three short growls. His ferret, fox… and weasel archers shot from the bushes. Nobeast can dodge that many arrows."
She glared down at the quivering slaver coldly. "I vowed revenge."
"I didn't kill y'r pater!" the weasel whimpered in protest.
"No," Riala growled. "You just flog dibbuns." She touched the weasel's whip that was coiled in her belt, lowering her voice so that her hissed words reached only his ears. "When we're beyond earshot of this place, I'm going to use this!"
The squirrel turned to Soilfree as the slaver fainted dead away. "It's time for me to leave."
The molewife nodded. "Would you'm loike summ vittlers?"
The warrior shook her head. "I can get all the food I need from the woods." She turned to the weasel again and dragged at his chains, pulling him upright and forcing him to consciousness. "Let's go," she growled. The slaver whimpered, but had no choice other than to obey.
They were soon out of earshot of the mole home. Riala slowly uncoiled the whip, face expressionless. "You'll tell me what I need to know," she told him. "And if I think you're lying, I'll give you a few lashings to get the truth out of you. If I find you've played me false, you'll feel my dagger in your gut."
He gulped, eyes wide with fear. "I – I thought woodlanders 'ave honor!" the slaver protested.
She smiled, but the expression was a cold one, with hatred blazing behind it. "What honor I had was killed with my father seasons ago," the squirrel replied harshly. "Now get moving towards your slaver camp."
Uncertainty flickered in the weasel's eyes, but he soon replied. "Don't 'ave one."
Swish! Thwack! The whip fell across his back with all of Riala's force behind it. He arched his back and screamed in pain, but the squirrel's face might have been stone for all the expression it showed. "I wasn't bluffing, slaver," she hissed. "Where's your camp?"
He gulped air with the beginnings of a sob in his throat. "I said – I don't 'ave one!"
The whip fell twice; the weasel shrieked twice. "Don't lie to me!" the squirrel snarled. "You were taking the moles as slaves. Slave bands have more than two slavers, and more than a few slaves!" He hesitated, balking, and then arched his back again with the lash of the whip. Riala held his neck chain taught to keep him from collapsing.
"I'll tell!" the vermin choked out past the confining iron. "I'll tell!"
The warrior dropped the chain and he fell to the ground, sobbing for breath, gagging on his own phlegm. "You'd better, vermin," she growled, hatred thick in her tone. "By Dark Forest's gates – you'd better!"
With the threat of the lash behind him, the weasel- whose name was Darkeye- wasted no time in showing Riala the location of his band. They were on a small ridge overlooking a cliff riddled with caves. The squirrel remembered tales of the caves, once the Caves of Luke, as that was the mouse leader at one time… but that was long ago. Now they were simply named the North Caves.
She looked at the weasel and deliberately slid her knife out of its sheath, steel scraping on scabbard with an ominous hiss. "Tell them to drop their weapons," she said, referring to the four vermin lounging about a campfire. "And try to sound natural."
Darkeye swallowed hard as the newly sharpened dagger pricked his jugular. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a call that easily reached the slavers' ears. "Hallo the camp! What're you doin' loungin' about?"
The slavers leapt up hastily, guilt clear on their grimy faces. "Erm, er, nothin' sir!" one weasel stammered.
Another elbowed him sharply. "Wot Ragfur means, sir, is that we was guardin' th' camp!"
A third nodded eagerly. "Wot Thintail said!"
Darkeye grimaced. "Drop yore weapons," he ordered. "Throw 'em my way, but don't hit me."
Several assorted weapons landed in the dust before the squirrel and her prisoner with a metallic clatter. Darkeye stared at the equipment in mingled disbelief and disgust. "Surely yore smarter'n t'throw yore weapons away!" the weasel muttered, momentarily forgetting his predicament in his disgust.
"Enough banter," Riala hissed, her dagger still touching his neck. "Step into view. Slowly."
The slavers gaped in shock when their leader walked forwards, chained and bleeding from several whip-marks. Their eyes went from the weasel to the golden-tailed squirrel that held him captive, widening in surprise and shocked recognition. They'd heard the tales of the merciless squirrel and her hunger for vermin lives…
"Goldentail!" Thintail gasped. "Here?"
"Quit your whining and free the slaves, or your leader dies," Riala growled, ignoring their shock. They nodded as one and hurriedly unchained the ten wretched slaves, some with broken spirits, others with hearts filled with hatred for the slavers, and some just glad to be free. Slowly the slaves walked towards the squirrel, their freedom still not quite sinking in.
"Pick up a weapon, each of you, and check the slavers for hidden weapons and keys," Riala told them. "Chain them up so they can't escape."
Faces grim, the ex-slaves followed her orders eagerly, being none too gentle in their handling of those who were once their masters. A young hedgehog, barely older than the molebabes Riala had recently aided, looked at Darkeye's bleeding back with cold brown eyes.
"You did that to him?" he asked. She nodded silently. The hedgehog's face was stone as his gaze went from the squirrel to the weasel. "Good," he said flatly.
And I thought warriors grew up quickly, the squirrel thought, watching the ex-slave. Slaves grow up faster, and turn out harder…
Soon the slavers were chained securely. Riala tossed her borrowed whip to the ground. "Are all of you staying here?" she asked.
They looked from the whip to the slavers. One ex-slave, a half-grown badger, stepped forwards and picked up the lash. "We've unfinished business," he rumbled. "The slavers would capture more if we let them live."
The squirrel nodded, no expression on her scarred features. "I understand." She turned and walked down towards the North Caves, the screams of slavers getting their due echoing in her ears.
The caves seemed empty, but on closer scrutiny it was obvious that somebeasts had left in a hurry. Sand had been tossed over still-warm embers, and scraps of cloth could be found on the rocks. Riala's paw tightened on her roce as she looked at the signs of a hasty exit, and then glanced about the rocks.
Ssss-thunk!
A gray-fletched arrow landed at her footpaws, and the squirrel jumped, twisting backwards and landing behind a large rock. "I thought goodbeasts inhabited these caves!" she shouted angrily.
"They do," a voice said mildly behind her. The warrior whirled, releasing her short throwing club from instinct and reflex, but jerking on the cord as she saw that the speaker was a dark brown mouse. The stick halted in mid-air and fell back towards Riala from the yank on its cord that had jerked it short.
"Don't do that!" the squirrel gasped, picking up the weapon and coiling the rope. "I could have killed you!"
He was slightly shaken, but concealed his shock quickly. "You're right, treejumper. I shouldn't sneak up on warriors. I ought to know that, being one myself." The stocky, muscular mouse stuck out a callused paw. "Welcome to the North Caves. I'm Mark the Warrior. I apologize for the hostility, but vermin were sighted nearby earlier today, and we can't be too careful."
She nodded and shook the proffered paw, noting the strong grip of a swordsbeast. "I'm Riala Goldentail – not 'treejumper,'" the squirrel said mildly.
The mouse arched one eyebrow. "My apologies, Goldentail."
Gold-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you try to annoy otherbeasts? I dislike formalities, Mark – can I call you Mark? Or would you prefer Warrior?"
"All right, all right, you've made your point!" Mark raised his paws in mock surrender. "Riala, then? Is that better?"
She glared at him a moment longer, but had to laugh at the good-natured mouse's actions. "Much."
Dinner was a leisurely affair. The group of North Cave warriors laughed and chatted as they ate the seafood that made up most of their diet. When the meal dwindled to crumbs and the clatter of wood utensils on shell bowls subsided, they began to tell stories. One told of the time he'd infiltrated a ship disguised as a searat. Another told of how he'd tricked two rats into fighting one another. Riala noted that all the tales were humorous ones of trickery and wit, none of war and death and losing friends or family. All the warriors skirted that subject carefully, none wanting to spoil the good mood.
Finally one warriormaid, a wiry black mouse, turned to the golden-tailed squirrel. "And what of you, Riala Goldentail?" she called. "Does the traveler have a tale to tell?"
The squirrel's face hardened, and when she again spoke, her voice carried the frost of the harsh northern winters in its chilling tone. "I'm afraid you'd find none of my stories very humorous."
The collected warriorbeasts- all scarred, fit, competent creatures- wore grim faces of understanding. "No need to worry," a burly otter rumbled. "We've used up all our light stories by now. Might as well learn a bit about a newcomer."
Riala nodded and slowly stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor. Her voice rose and fell as she told her story; her eyes filled with pain and then hardened with cold hatred as the tale progressed. She told of her father, the Longclaws' treachery, her first kill. She spoke of following Nightdeath, helping the mole family, and freeing the slaves.
"…and now my journey leads here," she ended. Suddenly very tired from the emotional draining of her tale and the physical stress she'd been through in the past day, the squirrel sank wearily into her seat. The warriors were silent for a few moments as they digested the story- silent until Mark stood and nodded grimly to Riala.
"A tale that mirrors the ones many of us have," he said, jaw tight with a still-painful memory. "Yet it's better not to dwell on such things … It's getting late. We'd best turn in."
A murmur of "ayes" swept through the room, and there was a noisy clatter as the group pushed back their chairs and rose from their seats. Chatter gradually filled the air, replacing the stifling, uncomfortable silence. Mark turned to Riala, studying her for a moment as if deciding whether or not she should hear what he had to say. Finally he gave an almost imperceptible nod. "The wolverine you seek has passed by here, but as he did not interfere with us, we did not bother him. He went south and west."
The squirrel's grim features remained immobile, but the gratitude in gold-brown eyes was enough for the northern warrior. He nodded to her again and turned, starting for the door, only to be intercepted by an out-of-breath scout bursting through the entrance.
"Searats! It's the Blacktooth, sir! They're comin' to attack!" he gasped, a paw pressed to his heaving side as he tried to regain his wind.
Dismay mingled with a harsh anger in Mark's face. It was an ever-present hatred that Riala recognized all too well – one she saw every time she looked into a mirror. "The Blacktooth! Are you certain? Captain Deathclaw's ship?" When he spoke the name Deathclaw, Mark's fury seemed to intensify, causing the messenger to flinch away from the naked hatred in the mouse leader's dark brown eyes.
"Yessir! I recognized the black sails at once," the scout replied, no hint of uncertainty in his clear voice.
Mark slammed his fist down on the heavy table's wood, causing dishes to rattle startlingly. "I knew this would happen!" His words might lead one to believe the warrior to be afraid or reluctant to fight the wavevermin, but his harsh tone and the battlelight in his eyes spoke differently. "Which direction is it coming from?"
"West, sir."
The mouse's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, and suddenly he seemed far older than his seasons. "West… by the fur… Most likely he came from Tefkar' palace. He'll have double the army…" At that moment, Riala saw with a sudden strange insight how hard it must be to command warriors. How hard it would be to have to deal with the guilt and the grief whenever a soldier died. A leader was responsible for the creatures that followed him. The squirrel felt sympathy for the mouse warrior, but knew with a certainty that cut clear through her that she would never want to lead creatures into war, however glamorous the tales made it seem.
Mark straightened then, face set in stony determination, though grief flickered as dark shadows in his brown eyes. "Catapult! Reysa! Quickblade! Fildo! Callot!" His voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the background noise of the room like a finely honed sword, all his earlier hesitation gone. Riala realized, though, that his unswerving decision was only an act, put on for the benefit of the North Cave warriors and their morale.
The five named goodbeasts hurried over to Mark. One was a burly gray squirrel; one was a wiry mouse; one a dark-colored badger; the fourth an otter; and the last was a lanky hare. "Yessir?" they asked in near-unison.
"Fildo, take the non-combatants and children to the clifftop," Mark commanded, snapping out orders with rapid-fire speed. "Cellot, take a fourth of the army, half missilebeasts and half paw-to-paw fighters, to Deathclaw's left flank. Nifo, take another fourth to his right. Reysa, take a fourth around to his back and wait in the rocks. When I blow the trumpet, fire as many times as you can. On the second blast, send in the paw-to-paw fighters. Go!" The four warriors saluted, faces grim, and jogged off as they called out orders. "Catapult, take one of your rock-throwers and three fighters to the ridge. Wait until the oarslaves are out, then destroy the Blacktooth." The squirrel nodded and bounded away. "Isran!"
A burly mouse ran up. "Sir?"
"Take a score of warriors in the longboats around the rocks as the Blacktooth comes in. Stay out of sight and board the ship after the main vermin force leaves. Free the oarslaves and get out fast. Catapult is on the ridge, so you'll have to hurry," Mark warned. Isran nodded his understanding and dashed away, calling out the names of his chosen fighters.
"I'll fight, too," Riala offered.
Mark shook his head. "No, Riala. This is the problem of my warriors and myself. You go on your way."
The squirrel laughed, a sound filled with false mirth that sounded hollow to her ears. "Your fight? You mean you're not going to share?" Her expression turned grim, uncompromising, and all the lightness was gone from her tone with her next words. "I must repay you, Mark."
He glared at her, the tension in the air between them almost palpable. "I can see you will fight no matter what I say," he growled, paw clenched on his sword's hilt. "Very well, but Deathclaw is mine!" He spun on his heel and stalked outside to gather his section of warriors. Riala watched him go, wondering what had provoked his display of hostility. Nerves, stretched tight by the upcoming battle? Fear, that the squirrel would rob him of revenge? The warrior wasn't sure- but it didn't matter. Roce in paw, she followed the Warrior.
To battle.
The only members of the North Cave warriors visible to the sea were those of the small section that Mark commanded. The beach was as quiet as the forest after first frost while the ship lowered anchor, and Riala felt that a pass with her dagger through the air would snap the tension with one touch when more than two hundred searats boated ashore, unaware of the hidden warriors.
From their hiding spot in the wave-worn beachside rocks, Isran and his crew rowed out silently to the ship, their oars making almost no sound as they entered and exited the seawater. The lookouts died silently, slumping onto the wooden deck with only a harsh death rattle from a punctured long or slashed throat. A few tense minutes passed, and then Isran's team reappeared with several bedraggled slaves. No sooner were their boats away from the ship than Catapult's crew had cut loose a stone with a wild yell.
In shock and surprise, the searats just then reaching the beach twisted around in their longboats and stared at the huge boulder. The stone seemed to hang in the air as it lazily reached its apex, and then began to fall. It struck the Blacktooth amidships, ripping into the hull with a sickening thud. The torn ship was taking on water fast, but still rested on the surface. A second stone remedied that, the sound of splintering wood drowning out the outraged yells of the on looking vermin and the dying shrieks of beams shifting beyond their ability to bend.
The wavevermin reached the shore and poured out, yelling their wild rage. "Maaaaaaark!" one rat shouted, a yell that was almost a scream. "You'll pay for what you did to my ship, you coward!" The rat towered a full head over the rest of the searats, his scimitar glinting in the pale light of the full moon.
Mark raised his trumpet, a ram's discarded horn, and the blast cut across the searats' yells. Arrows sliced into the tight pack of vermin, easy targets on the open beach. Screams rent the air as they fell, but Deathclaw pressed his vermin on, rage contorting his already twisted features. The enraged crew of the sunken Blacktooth obeyed, charging the rocks where the North Cave warriors were hidden. Mark hastily blew a second blast on the ram's horn, signaling the charge. The North Cave warriors, along with Riala, raced forwards with a combined shout of mingled war cries and fell upon the wavescum.
The fighting was a maelstrom of yells and screams and blood and death. Riala was used to a more guerilla style of warfare- not this all-out bloodfest. Even so, she was accustomed to killing, and a tight-packed horde only made it easier to take vermin life. Her roce whirled, cracking skulls, breaking arms, splitting faces. Its dark brown surface was soon soaked with blood. Her dagger thrust where her short club would not work, and the brown and forest green tunic was soon darkened with red-black liquid, both vermin blood and the squirrel's own.
Caught up in the vicious, unthinking, unfeeling, whirling intensity of the battle, Riala's eyes became veiled with the red of bloodwrath. The adrenaline pumping through her veins, the pain of her wounds, the sight of dying goodbeasts- it all combined to driver past thinking and past feeling into the berserker rage that drove away all reason. Several of the North Cave warriors were the same way as they hacked through the seavermin, heedless of wounds.
A sudden lack of targets gave the squirrel pause, and the red began to fade from her gold-brown eyes. She was on the fringe of the battle, outside the tight-packed fight where her deadly roce had carried her. Yet it wasn't only she who stood on the outside- two vermin had also broken free of the turmoil of battle. The two rats saw her at the same moment that she noticed them. The three fighters abruptly crouched, each bleeding heavily from various wounds, their weapons ready.
Riala smiled, more of a baring of teeth than an actual grin. Her eyes were beginning to redden again. "Come to fight or run, wavescum?" she rasped in a voice raw from yelling.
They looked at each other, and then at the red-brown squirrel. Two of them and one of her. They advanced, grinning, and she waited, roce in one paw, bloodied dagger on the other. They were a paws-length away from her and slashing with blood-stained cutlasses and…
…she wasn't there. Riala had dodged away and raced behind them with the speed and agility that is the trademark of a squirrel. Her dagger flashed in the moonlight and buried itself in one rat's back. He gasped, the last breath he'd ever take, and fell heavily to the ground. The second searat stared from Riala to his comrade and back again.
"Naow it be ye an' me," the warrioress said with a grin, a macabre expression of death's advance. Her normally imperceptible northern accent was much more marked- the signal that she was at her most dangerous.
The rat snarled and charged, slashing wildly. Riala blocked with her roce, and the hard wood was barely nicked from the cutlass' bite. She swung the stick while the wavescum was still confused, cracking his head with intense force and sending him crumpling in a heap.
The battle was dying down, the North Cave warriors emerging triumphant- but at a terrible cost. Almost as many goodbeasts lay dead as vermin. Riala looked about for an enemy, and finding none, her wounds began to make themselves felt with a vengeance. She swayed on her feet, and then crumpled with a groan of pain, the ground meeting her along with painless unconsciousness.
"Good, thou art awakening at last."
Riala groaned as the voice pounded through her tufted ears to her head, sending pain shooting through her skull and then her entire body. A cold beaker was placed to her lips. "Drink!" somebeast ordered. Riala didn't have the strength to resist, but she gagged on the vile medicine as it went down. It certainly brought her around quickly enough, feeling like fire in her empty stomach.
"Yaaagh! What're you trying to do, kill me? I'd rather death by a vermin blade than by drinking that stuff!" she spluttered as soon as she'd finished coughing. The squirrel opened her eyes at last, glaring at the mouse that had fed her the potion – poison, Riala corrected herself, grimacing at the vile aftertaste.
"It gives ye strength," the dark brown mouse told her, "and ye need strength to heal thyself."
The golden-tailed squirrel blinked, clearing the last clouds of sleep from her eyes. "But does it have to taste so horrible?"
"Aye," the healer replied calmly, "for 'tis sore harmful to the body when taken overmuch, and if it held a sweet taste, thou would want much of it, would ye not?"
Riala grimaced and inspected her wounds, which were healing fairly well. "I suppose you know what you're doing," she said dubiously, rewrapping the bandages she'd removed. The squirrel huddled in her sheets and looked about the infirmary cave for her tunic. The white shift she'd been placed in wasn't exactly warm, nor fit for travel use. "Where's my tunic, healer?"
"My name be Sablepaw," the mouse told her, "not 'healer.' And ye are not yet healed enough to be wandering again."
"It's good enough," Riala groused, swinging her footpaws carefully over the side of the bed and standing up gingerly. She ached all over, and the wound in her throwing arm throbbed painfully. With Sablepaw looking on disapprovingly, Riala hobbled over to a mirror and peered into it.
The squirrel in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. Her ear had been sliced nearly in half, but stitched back together. A white bandage was wrapped around her head to cover a nastily deep cut on her cheek. Her left eye was discolored from a blow in the battle. A long gash, slowly healing, ran from her shoulder to her elbow, and a second gash was across her right thigh. Riala grimaced and prodded her nose with one scarred paw. "What a sight," she commented wryly. "Any vermin who sees this face won't wait to fight- he'll probably just take off screaming."
"An' it please thee, squirrel," the healer said, sarcasm heavy in her archaic formality, "thou shalt surely see now why ye cannot leave yet. Thou art far too weak still."
"Ah, give the squirrel a break, Sable," an otter on another bed called. "T'aint goin' ter kill 'er t'start travelin' agin."
Sablepaw shot the heavily bandaged otter a frosty glare. "T'will not, ye say, Swiftrudd?" she snapped. "Wilt thou stake this squirrel's life on it? And if she encounters vermin as she wanders, as she surely shalt? What then? Wilt she not be defeated in her weakened condition?"
"That's fightin', matey, not travelin'," the otter objected.
"And shall she be any less dead, any farther from the gates of Dark Forest? Nay, Swiftrudd," the healer said coldly, answering her own question, "nay, she shall not. I firmly advise her not to travel unhealed!"
Riala groaned inwardly. "Enough, Sablepaw! I'll stay, don't worry!" The mouse was right- she couldn't travel until she was better. But as the squirrel warrioress laid back down on her bed, she bit her bottom lip in frustration. Every day in bed was another day that the Longclaws traveled, another day farther away from her. Another day for the trail to get cold…