Vengeance Quest Chapter 4: Mossflower

Darkness, and cold… the perpetual frigid night of the Northlands in winter.

Father…

A young squirrelmaid's questioning call as the pale moon hides its face behind a cloud, blanketing the drey in darkness.

It's cold… dark…

Faint fear in a child's voice.

I'll light the fire, Ria.

Reassuring, comforting, a strong and beloved voice, and then flames flare up, driving back the shadows… but what meets the child's eyes is not her father's smiling gaze, loving and familiar, but a death's-head snarl, an empty skull burning in a deadly pyre.

Father!

Embers flare and then fade to blackness, fur of night around red eyes, white fangs exposed in a sneer at the squirrelmaid's grief and fear, a cold triumphant smile baring white fangs…

Game over, Battlecry.

A smug and hated voice, the whistle of arrows…

No! Fatheeeeeeeer!

Gold-brown eyes snapped open to daylight, the agonized cry of loss dying on frost-chafed lips. The only sound was the faint song of early winter's sole remaining birds, feathers fluffed against the bitter cold and the early snows. The only sight was that of naked trees, leaves stripped by the autumn, mingled with dark pine, their ever-green boughs weighted down with snow. Softly falling flakes hissed gently on the dying embers of the previous night's campfire, a sordid reminder of her nightmare.

Riala Goldentail wrinkled her nose as a large flake landed on it, sending a chill across her face. She shook herself thoroughly, rust-gold tail puffing out with the vigorous motion, snow cascading off red-brown fur. A shiver ran through the wiry squirrel as a gust of frigid winter wind tossed powdery snow into the air.

"Should've taken that mouse's offer of a winter coat," she muttered past chattering teeth, tufted ears laying flat against her head in a vain attempt to warm them. "Never thought it could be this cold this far south…"

Another flurry of snowflakes hissed against the embers that still clung vainly to a semblance of life, and Riala kicked snow over the dying fire. Stamping scarred footpaws on the cold ground, she brushed off the dune-brown tunic from Salamandastron and picked up her dagger and roce from their places by the remains of the fire. A frown played across her face as she tucked them into her fraying belt. She still hadn't gotten a new forest-shaded tunic, not that it would do much good for camouflage in the wintertime, and she had no other clothing besides her sleeveless tunic. If she got into a fight, she'd have some trouble winning… Her rust-gold tail flicked from side to side in another attempt to keep warm as she began to walk further down the north path, footpaws dragging slightly in the snow.

"No food in the woods… foolish counting on that, it's winter after all…" The squirrel's rough voice matched the wind in its hoarseness, grating on the winter air falteringly, her stomach riding with an answering rumble. "Snow covering the Longclaws' trail…" The rasp thickened to a growl as she spoke the name, a spark of renewed life flaring red in gold-brown eyes, then fading in disgust. "And now I'm talking to myself."

"'Ey, go on an' keep talking, bushyfool," a nasal voice said, a sneer obvious in the tone. Riala whirled to see a scrawny rat fem, a curved saber at her side and a thin and much-patched cloak over her grimy fur. She smirked at the squirrel's skeptical appraisal, taking it for apprehension. "Th' name's Bluddfang, an' I'm th' greatest swordsrat this side o' th' Broadstream."

"An' I'm Muddclaw, 'er mate an' th' best beast wi' a whip an' chain in Mossflower!" A nondescript rat with mud-brown fur and a mess of scars about his face stepped out of the scant brush with a toothy grin, a length of chain rattling from one paw and a whip cracking and whirling like a live thing from the other.

The squirrel watched both filthy rats warily, noting with a sinking feeling that both seemed well fed and well-rested despite their seedy appearances, and that they moved with a graceful ease that supported their boasts. She could probably match either one of them, and perhaps even defeat both without too much pain on her part… if she were as rested and well fed as they. As it was, though…

She shook her head minutely, pushing aside the doubts. There were only three options open to her: bluff her way out, flee, or fight. Riala smiled wryly at the thought. She'd never been able to bluff convincingly, and she hadn't run from a battle in her life. It was really no choice at all… "What do you want?" she asked, one paw straying to her roce as she slowly backed away to place her back against a massive oak.

"Wot d'you think? Yore vittles an' yore weapons o'course!" the female said.

"And what makes you think I have food, wormtail?" She smirked slightly, insolently, her other paw creeping for her dagger, only her lashing tail betraying her tension.

"Uh…" This question seemed to confuse the male, and his red-brown eyes swung to his mate.

"Don't matter," she replied with a sneer. "Ya've got weapons. Hand 'em over or else we eats squirrel f'r dinner!"

Riala's mouth creased into a thin line, a parody of a smile. "Afraid I can't do that, mangyfur."

The rat fem snarled, drawing her sword in a single fluid movement and leaping at the squirrel. "Then die, fool!"

Riala had been expecting the attack, twisting away at the last moment and drawing her dagger, slicing across the rat's leg. Chain clinked behind her and she whirled, jerking her roce free from her belt in time to catch the chain around the stick and the whip across her face. It just missed her eye, slashing fire over her muzzle and drawing a hiss of pain from her throat. The male weasel grinned, freeing his chain from her weapon with a yank and lashing out, and above the whirling iron his eyes flicked beyond her head to something behind her. She didn't think, didn't have time to think – she just reacted and turned and leapt, racing partway up the oak's trunk. The male's chain thudded into the thick wood, followed by the thunk of a steel blade.

The squirrel hung onto the trunk with three paws, her dagger held in the fourth, her roce dangling by its cord. Her starving muscles quivered with exertion, a miserable sensation she'd rarely felt, and her frosted lungs burned with the constant contact of the cold winter air. She stared down at the two rats below her, their weapons ready as they grinned up at the warrioress.

I could run… they can't catch me in the trees…

The thought was a traitorous thread of weakness in her cold-dulled mind, and she dismissed it immediately. Have to take one out quickly, before they can team up on me again. Without warning, she leapt from the tree onto the rat fem, dagger glinting in the fading sunlight… but the rat's boasts hadn't been idle. The swordsrat reacted with barely a second of hesitation, her blade flashing upwards as Riala's dagger sliced down.

Pain slashed through her, engulfing her senses in fire spreading outward from her chest, barely hearing the agonized scream of a soul being torn asunder. "Bluddfaaaaaang!" The name ended in a strangled sob, and the male rat shoved the squirrel carelessly off of his fallen mate, sending waves of flame through her bleeding body. Darkness crept about her vision, but she fought unconsciousness, knowing it meant her death. The pain-ravaged face of the rat spoke her fate clearly, and he turned that face her way, tear-wet eyes smoldering with grieving fury. "Y'killed me Bluddfang!" he sobbed, paws closing about his two weapons. The rattle of chain and the hiss of the whip wove a song of death in Riala's ears.

Father… I'm sorry.

She could do nothing but curl into a fast-weakening ball, rust-gold tail wrapped over her bleeding muzzle in a vain attempt at protection from the biting whip and bone-shattering chain.

I failed…

The chain crashed down, and the snapping of bone hurtled her into darkness.

Darkness... emptiness...

Spinning, circling in a void, nothingness stretching on forever, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.

Is this death?

A dim light ahead, like the palest glimmer of sunlight through the thick canopy of a dense forest...

Dark Forest.

Heavy gates, dark and deadly, holding back the souls of all time, closed on life... now swinging open on silent hinges to welcome the weary soul.

Death... peace?

Obsidian, shadowed, cold, inviting. Opened gates giving a glimpse of a forest, ancient and silent, unchanging.

So easy to just accept it...

A tired spirit, hardened and aged by battle and hate, driven forward by sheer will and a fierce desire for vengeance. To this worn-out soul, the temptation to accept the final rest offered by the gates of Dark Forest was an almost physical pull, nigh on irresistable.

Too easy.

Balking, not trusting the ease of death, long experience speaking against taking the easiest road. Ease led to false security, which led to death...

But I'm already dying. Why not give in?

Teetering on the edge of a blade, blindfolded, unable to see on which side lay disaster, where to step next, guided by the inexhorable pull of the open gates of death. Almost giving in, and then...

I can't die yet.

Remembering a face that haunted every night, hate flaring up at the memory of flat dark eyes and a taunting voice, a bloodied scimitar in a long-clawed paw. Remembering the thud of so many arrows, a child's scream, a wolverine's command. Remembering an oath made before a funeral pyre.

I have not yet taken revenge.

Seeing a long-lost, much-loved face, waiting between twin gates, and almost succumbing despite having made a decision. Saluting, respect and farewell and promise in the military gesture, turning away as it is returned.

I cannot die yet!

Hate and regret clashing, giving way to unreasoning fury and a fierce desire to live, if only to complete a self-assigned task, born of the vengeance-lust that dictated the soul's path. Shee force of an adominable will surging against the allure of death, away from the obsidian gates, falling into the black nothingness of dreamless sleep.

She opened her eyes to firelight and pain. For a single panicky moment she thought the forest had caught aflame, that she was burning alive - but the light was cast by a single source, and there were blankets covering her. She was indoors... beyond that, she knew nothing.

Dark Forest would have made a more comfortable bed. It was a wry thought that held not a trace of sincerity. She had amade her decision and there was no looking back on what might have been. She had to look to the now, and that meant finding out where she was and what she was to do about it.

The squirrel's gaze moved to the side, but it was all that could move. An attempt to turn her head to follow sent stars bursting across her vision, sucking air from battered lungs with a gasp of pain. She held still for several long moments, eyes closed tight, waiting for the waves of pain to retreat far enough for reasonable thought. Finally her lids cracked open again and she took in the stark surroundings.

She was in a bed, the mattress firm, the blankets heavy. The walls were red sandstone, but those could scarcely be seen for all the shelves of jars and hanging herbs. The sharp tang of medicine permeated the air, tickling Riala's nose. An infirmary then, part of a large sandstone building. Her nose twitched again, but the room was devoid of the musky scent that accompanied most vermin. A goodbeast's place? Perhaps...

Across her mind's eye, without warning, flashed the vision of a whirling chain and a cracking whip. Her scarred and bruised hide shuddered with painful memory. The weasel had the look of death in his gaze when he fell upon her; he would not have stopped until he knew she was dead. Somebeast had stopped him then, likely permanently. That same somebeast had probably brought her to this place... wherever it was.

The faint creak of a door swinging open on its hinges caused Riala's muscles to tense, one paw twitching towards her waist, but even that slight motion set fire to her nerves, immobilizing her. A soft swear escaped her chapped lips. She would have to face whatever came unarmed and helpless; she had to trust her captors or hosts or whichever they were. Trust... not something she was used to.

"So, our wintertime visitor is awake, hm?"

The speaker was a mouse, her tone crisp and her manner plain, her light brown gaze sharp and carrying a constant hint of disapproval. The squirrel watched warily as the mouse stood over her, a skeptical light in her eyes. "Hmph. Well I told that Brook you were a lost cause, more'n half dead, an' I wouldn't be able to save you without help of a miracle. You're stronger'n I thought, bushtail."

"What..." The attempt at a question scraped through Riala's parched throat and came out as a nearly inaudable squeak, like the protesting of cartwheels forced to turn on rusted axles.

The mouse raised a thin eyebrow and picked up a glass of water, holding it carefully to her patient's lips as Riala swallowed, the cool liquid washing away the cottony taste in her mouth. "Thanks," she whispered, finding it somewhat easier to speak. "What... happened?" Her ribs protested with the breath required to vocalize, but she forced the pain to the back of her mind as she waited for the mouse to answer.

She smoothed her forest-green habit and watched the squirrel closely, then nodded. "I don't rightly know what happened; Brook and Tamlin didn't waste time telling me, but they came in with blood on their clothes and that says 'battle' to my mind. You were covered in blood an' it was a pretty mess cuttin' that tunic off, I'll tell you know. Big wound in your chest, just missed the lung. Near all your ribs broken. Broken arm, broken wrist, broken legs, just about everything broken. Whipmarks everywhere. Half dead from cold an' hunger an' the blood loss should've finished the job." The healer tilted her head, fixing the squirrel with a curious gaze. "Should've died despite all the work I did on you - piecin' bones back together, bandaging wounds, forcin' water'n food'n medicine down your throat. Never expected t'see you open your eyes."

The calm, matter-of-fact listing of injuries wrapped about Riala's tired mind like a blanket, dragging her back into unconsciousness. She fought it, forcing out another question. "Will I... fight again?"

"Huh." The mouse rolled her eyes to the herb-hung ceiling in mingled exasperation and disbelief. "Half dead an' the crazy beast wants to know if she'll fight again! I tell you, warriors..." She shook her head. "If I were you, I'd just be happy to be alive, I would."

"But... I'm alive... so I can fight..." Somehow it was important, even vital for her to get out that truth. "The only reason... I didn't enter... Dark Forest..."

Surprise faded into pity in the mouse healer's gaze. Pity for her condition or for that which ruled her life... it was impossible to tell. "I'd not be the one to be askin', warrior," she said quietly. "After all, I was wrong about you livin'. If you've a strong enough will to come back from Dark Forest, mayhap you've a strong enough will t'get better again. But ... t'will be quite a time before you do."

Again the "thank you" formed on silent lips, and Riala let darkness engulf her.

It was sunlight, rather than firelight, that illuminated the room when next she awoke. A slight, wiry figure was silhouetted against the window, facing away from Riala's cot. At the slight rustle of bed sheets, the creature turned and looked her over silently before moving away from the window.

She was another mouse, but this one was a breed apart from the healer. A lean body and muscular build showed she was trained in battle, and the relaxed posture with the readiness for action of a coiled spring made it clear that this was no peaceful healer.

"Who are you?" The words came much easier this time; it didn't take nearly as much energy to speak.

"Brook, leader of the Wanderers of Mossflower." The mouse's reply was delivered in a quiet, neutral voice that carried the hint of hidden steel. "And you are?"

Gold-brown eyes studied light brown for one long moment before the reply. "Riala Goldentail."

"So… Goldentail. Squirrel, warrior's build and weapons, minimal supplies, laced with battle scars. I'd say you were an expert warrior and woodsbeast if not for your situation," Brook said evenly.

The squirrel grimaced, scars twisting the expression into something grotesque. "What was my… situation when I was found?"

"You were unconscious in the snow next to a female rat's body. A male rat, presumably the female's mate, was beating you with a whip and a heavy chain. The otter Kaylen killed the rat and brought you to the Infirmary here at Redwall."

"Redwall!" The outburst left her lips before she had time to stop it. "Redwall Abbey?"

"So you've heard of it." The mouse warrior's voice was dry, almost sarcastic.

"Who hasn't?" Riala said, looking at the sandstone walls with new understanding.

"How did you come here?" Brook asked, deliberately pulling her attention from the pale red bricks.

The abrupt change in subject gave the squirrel pause, and she gazed up at and past the ceiling as she spoke. "I'm from the Northlands. I came here through Salamandastron following an enemy of mine, a black wolverine named Nightdeath Longclaws." Her gaze sharpened, focusing on Brook. "Has he passed this way?"

Brook shook her head. "I've heard nothing of a wolverine. You could check Redwall's records…" Her voice trailed off and she looked uncertainly at Riala's scarred and bandaged body.

Gold-brown eyes narrowed at the silent implication. "I will fight again."

The mouse shrugged. "Perhaps you're right, but… What were you doing in winter Mossflower without supplies and wearing only a tunic?"

"I told you I'm from the Northlands," she said wryly. "It doesn't snow nearly this much there… it's too cold and there's not enough moisture. After Salamandastron, I never expected it could get this cold this far south, this fast. And I expected to be able to find food…"

"I see." Brook's voice was carefully neutral. "And the rats?"

"Thieves." A scowl flickered across her face. "If I hadn't been half starved, I could have killed them both. As it was, I was only able to kill the female, and she stabbed me as I did so. The male—her mate—pushed me off of her and tore her sword from my chest and…" She shuddered involuntarily at the memory of that bone-crushing chain. "Then he took revenge."

"There was a long silence from the mouse, broken at last by the rustle of cloth as she walked towards the door, stopped halfway there. "Redwall's records are stored in the gatehouse if you heal enough to walk—"

"When."

Brook turned, faint amusement in light brown eyes at the squirrel's adamant interruption. "Optimistic, aren't you?"

Riala's wry grin twisted her scarred features into something closer to a hideous grimace. "Not usually, but in this I have to be. If I can't fight, then I can't live." She spoke this last in the same matter-of-fact tone she might have said, "Dinner is ready," casual and completely serious.

Brook's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the squirrel's words and then the shock on her face subsided to something close to understanding. "When you are healed enough, then. I hope to see you around Mossflower, Riala Goldentail."

With a nod of respect and farewell, the warrior mouse strode out of the infirmary. Riala watched her leave with narrowed eyes, turning the conversation over in her mind. Dibbun steps, one at a time, more each day. I will stand up tomorrow…

I will fight again.