By the way ol' lads, I couldn't think of any other word for 'armpit', which you will see later. So don't review me and say "otter's don't have armpits!"
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Chapter 4: Late-Night Experiances
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"Arm yourselves with swords and shields!" Urthord cried out to the ranks of hares standing at attention, "We will win this war! But not at my mountain, at Redwall and other places, there will be the battle. I do not know when, but I know soon."
The badger and five score hares stood on the beach. At his signal, they all returned to the mountain of fire. There they prepared for war. They armed themselves with what suited him or her best; lances, bows and arrows, swords, or pikes. The war had been written in the secret chamber. The Lord of Salamandastron knew the day had come.
As they prepared to leave, "Sire," a young leveret poked his paw into the badger lord's side, "when will ya be a commin' home? My ma is goin' wid you and I wan'er back!"
"There there ol' lad," one old harewife took the young one by the hand and led him off. "They'll be back soon, doncha know, and when they do come, you can bet yer hide this ol' pile of bricks will run out of tucker. Grandma will take care of you now."
"But I want my mammy!"
Trying to distract the young hares attention, the grandmother headed off in the direction of the kitchen (not just for the benefit of the leveret).
Urthord left a score of fighting hares to guard the mountain. The rest filed off after their badger lord.
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Later, Redwall stood in the quiet of night. Arathorn and Triebane retired to their now shared chamber after the feast. They had become great friends in the two days Arathorn and company had arrived. What a feast it had been too! Every dish he could think of and more had been there; carrot and mushroom flans, fresh spring salads, woodland trifles, deeper 'n' ever pie, oatbread with soft white cheese, fruitcakes, and mushroom and leek pasties. The fish caught in the pond made an excellent topping for the fresh shrewbread with hazelnut cheese. Skipper had his favorite shrimp 'n' hootroot soup which he presented to Arathorn (they both shared it there was so much). Foremole's turnip 'n' tater 'n' beetroot pie was a great success amongst the many moles and other creatures. The "selection of drinks is capital, wot?" as Bobtail said to Basil, the Cellerhog. There was pennycloud cordial, the finest October ale, rich damson wine, and elderberry and rosehip cordial. The "All Time Favorite of the Season" drink was also served; pear cordial.
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After the meal, Zanzibar and Nightwing decided to sleep outside, while Arathorn was persuaded to sleep in an extra bed in Triebane's room.
"There's the bed, Arathorn. You may put your stuff here by the nightstand for now. In the morning, I'll have someone make you a dresser." Triebane glanced around the room as if looking for something else he needed to point out but failed to find it.
"Thanks, matey. I's prefer sleepin' wid me friends, but you'll jus' 'ave to do, eh? O by the way, what are those silver hooks in the wall fer?"
"That's to hang my sword on, but I don't use them, why?" he looked quizzically at the otter.
"O nothin' much. Just askin'. So you do wot I do I guess, sleep with yer sword close to paw. I don't blame you."
"Well, time for bed. We have a big day tomorrow, to prepare for the bad guys coming."
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Dreams come and dreams go, but one must remember that dreams aren't always good; as in Arathorn's case. His nightmare consisted of only one action: rolling. Rolling, rolling, rolling; forever rolling with a slight pain in his side. A red trail of blood was the only path he left behind on his endless flight down.
THUMP!
Arathorn woke to the moon glancing down at him from the heavens outside a window. It seemed to ask "are you are troubled?" Arathorn tried to get up but only found himself twisted in his sheets, and on the floor. He remembered his dream and wondered what it meant. A sharp stab of pain in his side caused him to gasp. He looked down and saw a red patch of blood steadily growing larger just below his armpit. Quickly he glanced around and noted the object of his wound. His own sword lay beside him with a smear of blood at its point.
I must have rolled on it when I fell off my bed, stupid me, he thought to himself. Quietly as not to disturb the sleeping mouse, Arathorn unraveled himself from the sheets and tiptoed out of the room. As he walked down the steps with a paw on his side, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.
Some unseen thing was in the very room he was in!
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Ho ho me buckos! Are you all frightened yet? Well, sorry bout the short chapter but I have places to go, people to see, and you know the rest! Eh? Wahts that? Oh yea, I know me accent sucks; I am definatly not the one who created this language. So shape up.