This chapter is a bit longer than the others. Yay, I finally got to write a riddle! The action in the story starts to pick up from here. Please R&R!

Thanks to everyone for all your wonderful reviews!

Disclaimer: For crying out loud, I don't own Redwall!

January 8, 2005

Chapter 6

It was four hours past dawn. Azalea checked the sun's position, and the hot ball of fire glared back at her from its eastern arrangement. She had stopped to take a drink of water from her canteen and nibble a bit on an acorn from her cheek pouches. She had been traveling at a steady pace for two hours now and decided that her present pit stop was well earned. She hadn't been exploring in about a season and it showed. "I'm not as physically fit as I used to be," Azalea complained with a sigh.

"And you're not as pretty as you used to be, I dare say," came a voice from behind a bush.

Azalea turned towards the foliage. She knew that voice anywhere, and she would bet her life on it too. "And you're not much of a gentleman anymore, no you're not," the chipmunk jested back. They played this game often. "How come ya won't show yourself? Afraid I'd rip your neck open?"

A rather large, male squirrel appeared from behind his hideout. He was a handsome creature, with coal grey, almost black, fur and a bright smile. His amber eyes glinted in the sunlight. He carried a shining steel dagger with a diamond-studded hilt through his leather belt and donned a snake skin headband with a baby blue feather sticking out of it. The baggy trousers he was wearing matched the color of the feather perfectly. "Was I ever a gentleman?" the squirrel asked chuckling.

"No, you idjit," Azalea replied, "and by the sound of it you never will be. So, what brings you here, Donovan, eh?"

The brawny squirrel shrugged his soldiers. "Just passing through the forest."

Azalea lifted an eyebrow. She didn't believe him for a second. Donovan was never one to wander if there wasn't a purpose. The chipmunk knew him very well, and he had been the closest friend she ever had since Noah. She remembered the day she had first met Donovan, it was on her journey to Salamandastron. The two had bumped into each other, literally, after being captured by those dreadful toads and almost thrown down the pit. But slimy amphibians were no match for two seasoned warriors, and they escaped in no time. They discovered they had an identical destination, and became fast friends. This was the first time Azalea had seen her squirrel pal in a while, he had a wife and child and lived a good four day's journey away. Donovan and his bride, Luella, were continually trying to convince Azalea to move closer to them, but Azalea wouldn't budge. There were too many memories in her tree home, and she couldn't bear to leave the site of her long-gone friends. Besides, she enjoyed living alone, at least most of the time.

"Oh really?" Azalea replied, "and mice have sprouted wings and learned to fly?"

The squirrel laughed lightly. "You know me too well, Azalea, too well." He didn't answer her question, however. He just stayed silent, smiling a forced smile. Azalea noticed this, and quickly became concerned for her friend.

"Donno, what's wrong?" she asked quietly, compassion etched in her tone of voice. She was rapidly becoming worried now.

The dark squirrel sat down on the log next to Azalea and sighed, letting his shoulders slump and his head hang. It must be something serious, the chipmunk thought, he usually never lets anyone see he's upset. "Blauveer, he…he was playing in the forest with one of the other squirrel babes and…and he tripped and fell down a hole," Donovan fiddled with a blade of grass and refused to make eye contact with Azalea. "I guess he landed the wrong way, because he broke his neck, and…we didn't get there fast enough."

Azalea was beyond speechless. She was flabbergasted. Blauveer was Donovan's first and only child. Azalea could remember when she met the young squirrel; he was merely a few weeks old. He was tiny, but not frail. He grabbed her finger and held on tight. "This liddle tyke is gonna grow up a warrior, just like his mum and dad, yes he is," Azalea remembered saying. It felt like it was just yesterday, not two seasons ago. "Donovan, I'm…I'm so sorry."

The soldier was visibly sobbing now. "I just keep thinking it was my fault," he said miserably. "He wanted to go in the forest that day, and Luella didn't think he was old enough to go without parental supervision. I argued with her; I thought it was safe. So, he went," Donovan started to shake violently. "Little Veer was only three seasons old! How could I be so stupid and careless? How could I have let him go? I'm supposed to be a good parent."

Azalea patted her best friend's back. "It's not your fault, Donno. My parents would have let me do the same thing, yup yup. How're you supposed to know there was a pit in the forest, eh?" Donovan shrugged. There was an awkward period of silence, and Azalea just let her words linger for awhile. She looked to the sky, hoping that it would give her words of reassurance. She held back her tears, for she couldn't let Donovan see her cry when he was in such a state of misery. After a bit, she said, "Why didn't you send a message to me with the dipper? I would have come to you and Luella."

"I needed to get away for awhile," Donovan replied. "I couldn't bear the thought of staying there; too many things remind me of Veer. Even though, everything I see over here still reminds me of him." The squirrel finally looked up at Azalea. "I hope you don't mind me barging in on you like this."

"Of course not, you silly goose! You're welcome anytime at my home, yes you are," Azalea replied. Suddenly, she remembered Martin lying in her bed, shaking and sweating. "First off, Donno, I have to pay Polleekin a visit, yup yup. Care to tag along?"

"Sure," Donovan replied, the tone of his voice perking up the slightest. "May I ask what for?"

Azalea was already packing up her provisions and throwing the canteen over her shoulder. "I met a mouse fella yesterday, and he's staying at my tree house also, yes he is. He's in a bit of trouble, however."

"What kind of trouble?" Donovan asked. "Corsairs, slave masters, rat tribes? The two of us could take 'em on, Azalea," the smile returned to his face again. The thought of battle disturbingly seemed to cheer him up.

"Not that kind of trouble I'm afraid," replied the chipmunk, smiling as well. "He's having frequent attacks of the Bloodwrath, even when he's not in battle. Last night, he was having this horrible dream. He couldn't stop shaking, and I kept trying to wake him. Nothing worked, and this morning he was drenched in a cold sweat, yes he was. I have a hunch that the two are connected, so I'm paying Polleekin a visit. I bet all my acorns she'll have an answer to his problem, yes I do."

"Hmmm…" Donovan thought for a moment. "I bet the feather on my head she will too. But, I have a question for you, Azalea: Since when have you started using the word 'hunch'?"

The chipmunk took a playful swipe at her friend's ear. "The same time you became a buck-toothed, thick-headed nuisance."

Donovan laughed. "Who are you calling 'buck-toothed'? Your teeth are big enough to stop the flow of a river!"

"You little…" Azalea muttered, attempting to kick him in the shin. She had to admit, she was happy he was smiling and not dwelling on the loss of his son. She still felt horrible about it, however, and was sure Donovan would feel badly about it forever.

After a good-humored round of insulting, the two friends were traveling at a good pace northward. Breathing heavily after the tussle, Donovan asked, "So, what's this feller's name that you're helping out?"

Azalea turned to him with a smile brighter than the sun in the middle of summer. "Martin the Warrior, yup yup."

Word about Martin and his army defeating Badrang the Tyrant must have traveled fast around that area of the country, for Donovan's eyes were so wide you could see white all the way around. "The Martin the Warrior?"

"Why have you heard of any other mice with a title like that?"

The autumn sunlight bounced off a sharp metal object and caused the scarred soul to squint. He watched his reflection in the glimmering blade. His eyes should be widened with terror, but they weren't. He should be lying sprawled on the ground, screaming in pain, but he wasn't. Blood should have been dripping down his chest, splattering into a crimson pool at his feet, but it wasn't. There was no blood at all, except for the trickle down his wrist from the small cut on his palm. Martin felt absolutely no pain. He glanced downwards to the sword in his paws. It was barely touching his chest, in the same spot it was in before. His arms seemed frozen at his side. They would not budge; they would not thrust the weapon forward and bring the warrior to his death. And that's when he noticed the ghostly white paws holding his wrists in place. There was a figure standing behind him, keeping him from moving his sword. And it had paws that were white as the snow, freezing cold to the touch, and almost completely transparent.

Martin turned his head to the right as far as his joints would allow it. He was shocked speechless. He wanted terribly to scream bloody murder, to scream so loud it would alert all the creatures in Mossflower country. But he couldn't, he was scared so much no sound would come from his throat. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, but this creature's paws were still grasping his wrists fiercely. There was a ghost standing behind him. And that ghost looked eerily like Rose.

She was...beautiful. As always. Everything about her, skin, fur, whiskers, clothes, was white. Martin could see through her to the other side of the tree dwelling. A bright yellow aura was illuminating her. Was she an angel? Her face was expressionless; she was not smiling, yet not frowning either. Her long, thick eyelashes were covered in another white substance. The warrior realized they were tears, for they were also dripping down her face. Her dress was not tattered; there was not one rip, tear or stain to be seen. She was perfect. Just like when she was alive.

The grip on Martin's wrists never faltered. She lifted one paw to reach out and grasp the hilt on his sword and pull it away from him. Martin, in total silence, let her take it. Rose cradled the sword in her arms, careful not to cut herself. She ran one finger along the surface of the blade, as if checking for smoothness. Her eyes lifted, and connected with Martin's stare. Looking into her gorgeous eyes, the desire to end his life left Martin. He was with Rose now, and that was all that mattered to him.

Suddenly, the angel, or ghost, (Martin never really figured out what she was) opened her mouth and spoke. Her voice was sweet and soft, like that of the tone a mother uses to lull her child to sleep.

"You no longer wish to visit the red,

You will find the right cure here.

The answer's locked safely in your heart,

You alone must venture there.

Start at the hidden dwelling of

She who befriended the fallen one.

Move eastward from your reflection,

For four rises and sets of the sun.

Reach the tribe of the dark warrior,

Continue along the rocks set high.

Defeat the cruel at the entrance of

A group of plants that touch the sky.

So dear friend, keep moving south,

And soon your sight will clear,

This scene is for the troubled only

Please be careful here.

A field of bloody bushes,

Tardy to bloom and decease.

Accept what you see, the answer is here,

And your anger and fear will soon cease."

Rose's voice rang clear, echoing in Martin's ears. He couldn't take his eyes of her. Nothing of what she just said processed through his mind. All he cared about in the world was her. He didn't care if she was a ghost, an angel, or a devil from Hell, she was here. Rose stared back into Martin's eyes, never saying a thing except for her poem. The bright light around her made her look like a heavenly messenger, sent to give Martin advice or a warning. In a way, she was exactly that, yet Martin had no idea. Finally, Rose let go of Martin's wrist and brought her paw up to his face. She stroked the fur along his muzzle, and traced a heart on his forehead. Her touch was icy, and it chilled the warrior mouse to the bone. Rose then laid the sword in her hands, her palms out flat, and held it out to Martin. He took it.

That gesture must have been a single for Rose to leave. She bowed her head as a tear trickled down her cheek. Within seconds, she was gone. She just vanished completely.

"Wait! Don't go," Martin cried, but it was too late. Rose was gone again. Only the light of the sun was left. Not even the aura about her was left. Martin looked into the blade of his sword and stared back at his reflection once more. His eyes were tired and had a glint of disappointment in them. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he asked himself aloud. "You were hallucinating, you idiot."

With that, Martin laid the sword on the nightstand and shook his head. "I seriously need some sleep." He crawled under the covers of Azalea's bed and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was fast asleep. It was a peaceful slumber, with no dreams of red mist or dead creatures haunting him. No sweating or shaking. In fact, Martin didn't dream at all that afternoon. He would have no memory of the ghostly encounter when he awoke the next day.