((Well, one chapter left after this one. I actually have the last one about a quarter of the way done. I wrote this one and most of the next one in one day after a brief surge of interest in writing on a story that involved swords, battles, and deep emotional scars. Hmm…s'ppose it all comes from finally watching that last Lord of the Rings. Must say it's quite an interesting movie. Lots of violence, and humor, and that whole sense of 'there's no hope left at all…' that's always fun. Of course, the heroes were nice too. Lovely people. They can save my world any day. Long as I don't have to, right?
Anyway, first battle scene I've done all year. I'm afraid I've gotten a bit out of the habit. And, apparently, it's not one of those things you never forget how to do, like riding a bike. But, I tried. Remember, that's the important thing. Right? Well…I'll hope so. Oh, and I included a nice list of future characters for, you know, kicks. See if you can find it.))
…
Fallen stared at the sunrise, once again wondering how he'd managed to stumble upon this purpose in life. Was he born to sacrifice what life he'd had for the lives of others? Was he always supposed to be this? Was it destiny or just an almost-honest mistake? How could such a young sniveling coward turn into this thing he'd become? If it were possible for him to change so much, could anyone else? If such a strong trait as intense cowardice could turn into indifferent courage, could evil turn into good?
Was murdering Brighteye the right thing to do?
No. Never.
Not her.
But Redsplash? Did Redsplash deserve to die?
Despite the fact that they were essentially the same otter, they were so different in nature. Perhaps this creature that called herself 'Redsplash' had already gone through her change in life. She'd gone from good to evil. Was it possible to change back, or, once you changed, were you that forever, and nothing else?
And why was it his job both to kill and to ponder the morality of killing? Surely, there was someone else who could criticize all his kills without him doing the same…
But other beasts seemed to lose their own wills and consciences when he was there to lead them along. As if they took it for granted that he knew exactly what was right, how to do it, and what needed to be sacrificed. They were followers, sheep, all of them. Waiting around stupidly as the wolves nipped at their heels. Waiting for him, and he had so many other things to do…
Maybe once this was all over he would just go and become a hermit fisherman. It seemed like a nice enough life to him.
Unfortunately, the world had its claws dug firmly into him. His responsibility was its upkeep. His death would be bloody and slow, and he would die trying to save another of those damned lost causes he always managed to get involved in. After all, that was all he'd ever really done.
Faces flashed past in his memory, upturned, pleading. They needed him. They needed him…
No.
They needed his strength. Needed his intelligence. Needed his stubborn refusal to die. Needed his cunning, his skill, his belief in justice.
But him, they did not need. Like a machine, he saved them, protected them, bleed for them, and then abandoned them. Next crisis, next battle, next victory.
Next celebration where he drank just a bit too much and sulked just a bit too obviously. What kind of a hero was he?
A lonely hero. A bitter hero. There were supposed to be others…the funny one, the sarcastic one, the sincere one, the caustic one and the thoughtful one, the optimistic fatalist... They were supposed to be with him, lounging around, calling out jokes and insults, snarling and drawing weapons…
But they were gone. Some, he didn't know where. One of them he knew was dead, one of them wishing to be, and one of them…well…he was never quite reliable. Who knew where he was, these days? Off drinking and killing and pretending he didn't care that the world was ending around him. He'd be by someday…both of them, maybe. Probably even the other four or five he'd traveled with. If they were alive…
After all, there were so few safe places left in the world for heroes to hide from what they were. Luke hid his bloody paws in an abbey of pacifists. Nyris was undoubtedly sleeping comfortably in her tree home, dagger under her pillow and door locked. None of them wanted to confront what they knew was coming.
They'd left it to him.
And he supposed it was his fault. After all, he was the only idiot searching for redemption. Except for, perhaps, Luke, and Luke had his own ways of seeking to be redeemed, and they didn't involve violence and blood.
Fallen sighed and shifted, rubbing at his tired eyes. It wasn't typically a good idea to go into battle tired, but Fallen had little choice. With the way things were going, he might not make it back to the mountain in time for the battle at all. He would need to hurry.
"So…when're we leavin'?" A voice chirped from beside him. A young hare, the one who'd climbed the tree yesterday, stared up at him, serious and sleepy-eyed. She was the only one awake…except, obviously, for himself.
"What?" Fallen asked, a bit confused by her sudden appearance.
"When're we leaving? For Redwall."
"Oh. That." He looked down at her. "I'm not going."
"What?"
"I've got to go back to Salamandastron." He shrugged. "I only brought you hares far enough out so no one would find you. It's a long way back so I'd prefer to leave now."
"But…but we don't know the way! You can't just abandon us out here!"
"You think I'd do that?" Fallen glanced down at her.
"…Maybe."
"Good. You need to be suspicious in this world. It'll rip you apart if you let it." He picked his bag up off the ground and pulled out a rolled piece of paper. Carefully, he handed it to the hare. "This'll get you there. If any of you can read a map."
She stared at him and unrolled the map. The one that would take him to Redwall. That place he was supposed to go to. His "home."
He wondered why, of all things, he had to become sentimentally attached to a damn map.
His eyes skittered away as the hare unrolled it awkwardly and, having seen it yesterday, turned it over to read the message. There was a moment of silence. "Who's this 'Luke?'"
"Abby Warrior. He'll know I sent you if you show him that map."
"Would he not let us in otherwise?"
"Oh, he would. But now he'll know I'm alive." Fallen closed the bag carefully and shrugged it on over his shoulders.
"Couldn't I just tell him you're alive?"
"No good. I go by a different name than the one he'd recognize."
Silence. "This map is kinda important to you, isn't it?"
"It's a map. I've memorized the route. I don't need it."
"Then why did you just give me three answers without answerin' my question?"
He looked down at her and laughed. "You're pretty intuitive for one your size."
"And you're still not answering the question."
"Ah, and what am I supposed to say?" Fallen asked with a grin, "That it was given to me by a friend I'll never see again? Would that satisfy you?"
"Is it the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then I suppose it'll have to." She rolled the map up carefully. "I promise I'll keep it safe."
"Because maps are in such great peril these days."
She scowled at him, apparently not approving of his way of joking in the face of something so serious as an oath. "I'm serious."
"Burn it if you want to. I'll never see you again either, little hare."
"You will too. If you don't come to Redwall, I'll come find you. Like I'll have anything else to do at that stupid, boring abbey."
Fallen laughed. "And how, exactly, do you plan on finding me? Ever been trained to track a tracker?"
"No. But I bet this Luke'll take a stab at it. And heroes always need sidekicks. Makes 'em seem important." She told him knowledgably.
"Right." Fallen agreed. "Good luck with that one. Luke hasn't had a sidekick since the last time he was one."
"I'll persuade him."
"Poor mouse."
"Right."
Fallen nodded, suddenly remembering he had something more important to do than chat with a hare. "Well, I'd better be going then. Got to go fight for a cause an' all. Save the world from itself."
"You're silly for a hero."
"You're sensible for a sidekick." Fallen retorted and set off back towards the mountain. He had important things to do, lives to end, worlds to save.
So why did it feel like he was just going off to a boring job? What had happened to the sense of duty?
He sighed and picked up his pace, breaking into a light jog. He doubted the battle would begin until mid-afternoon at the earliest, but, still, he had to hurry back.
…
"Run faster!" Root called after the retreating back of ferret he'd sent for more supplies. "Honestly, Darkclaw, how am I supposed to work in these conditions?"
"You've got fifty of my soldiers, squirrel." Darkclaw informed him darkly.
"And you're sending thousands to battle."
"Yes. And I don't particularly care if any of them survive. So be happy with what I give you."
"Anyone ever told you that you were a bastard?" Root snapped at him.
"Yes." Darkclaw retorted. "Now, if you're done whining, I have battle plans to explain."
"What plan is there to it? You just send Sade out there to beat around a few helpless babies and when the badger comes out, you kill him." Root raised a brow. "Is there some kind of wonderful, strategic miracle I'm missing here?"
Darkclaw scowled at him. "You'd be surprised how stupid some of the lieutenants are." He remarked as he stalked out of the tent, his tail snapping in basic agitation.
Root watched him go. "Cat just likes to hear himself talk." He muttered to the weasel beside him that had become his unofficial assistant. The squirrel slumped against the table and groaned in pain. "I need a drink."
"Would you like me to get you one, sir?" The weasel offered quickly.
Root looked up at him through his paws. He hesitated for a very long time. "No." He answered finally. "No, I'm tryin' to stay sober."
The weasel snorted, rolling his eyes.
"What? What was that?" Root demanded. "Do you doubt me?"
"Of course not, sir." The weasel responded with a completely straight face.
Root frowned at him. "Right." He agreed doubtfully. "Well, I'm going to make it. It's just liquid, after all."
The weasel gave a superior, disbelieving laugh, and Root shot him a nasty look.
"Go find that stupid ferret I sent for supplies. He should've been back by now." Root ordered, knowing very well that the ferret probably hadn't even made it to the supplies tent yet.
"Yes, sir," The weasel respond smugly and went off at a quick jog.
"This is going to kill me." Root complained quietly as he rubbed at his aching head.
…
Redsplash was standing on a battlefield. Death was all around her. The smell of it filled her nostrils. The taste of it lingered in the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. The slimy feel of blood covered her, paired with the chunky wet feeling of gore and intestines. And the sight…well, the sight was too overpowering for her to comprehend.
So much death. So much destruction.
And she had brought it here.
The air was curiously still, though the sounds of a great wind echoed in from the nearby sea. She felt no wind, saw no signs of it, but the sound of it was there. It was almost as if some great giant was sucking in its dying breath. She tried her best to ignore it.
She breathed deeply and nearly fainted at the unbelievable pain emanating from her ribs. She glanced downward to find her shirt and armor torn to reveal a deep, circular wound. A mace, then. A paw reached up to pull the fluttering fabric back and something red-soaked and white showed through the massive amount of blood.
Ribs laid bare to the world. What kind of hellish place was this, where she would still live through a wound like that?
Redsplash closed her eyes and snarled at the pain, pushing it back with a ferocity that drained nearly all the energy in her. And then, she took a step forward.
The world lurched around her. Earthquakes and volcanoes of pain burst from her ribs, her legs, her back. She froze and waited for them to fade.
And then, another step.
This psychotic dance continued until, at last, she found what she hadn't known she was looking for: the badger.
He lay sprawled on his back, eyes wide and staring accusatively up at the sky. Blood covered his armor, and a dozen or more arrows poked out of the tiny slits of flesh the armor had not protected. His helm was missing, and a gigantic slash through his neck revealed what had finally destroyed him.
Blood had dribbled from his muzzle, and his colossal sword lay next to him, abandoned and useless. What use was a sword with no paw to wield it? A danger is only a danger if there is a force behind it.
Redsplash's own sword dropped from her paws, and she stared at the creature in front of her. Dead. Dead like all the others. And she couldn't make herself think of him as the monster he was supposed to be.
Just another victim. Just another casualty of her life.
She drew in a sharp breath, wondering at the pain that didn't come for any wound, and found herself flying.
Over the battlefield. So high she shouldn't be able to see even the mountain in any great detail.
But she saw all of them. Every single creature that had died for her, and her fanatical vendetta.
Darkclaw, run through by a spear, broadswords too far out of reach to be of any use. He was surrounded by the bodies of hares that bore the signs of his claws. Redsplash wondered distantly how many lives had been sacrificed to separate the wildcat and his blades.
Whatever the sacrifice, it had done its job. No hare could have defeated him if he were armed. Redsplash couldn't believe it possible.
She tired to close her eyes, to forget this mass grave below her, but found her gaze drawn to a body she had not expected.
Root's.
He lay just outside of what appeared to the healer's tent. Inside, the wounded had been slaughtered in some fit of senseless rage. It looked as if the squirrel had died trying to keep away whatever monster had come for the helpless. A hero's death, then. Damn the bastard for his stupid acts of justice.
What right did he have to die and leave her here?
What was the use in flying if you couldn't boast of it to someone?
And, then, Sade. Of course, Sade. Why not him as well?
His head had been completely severed from his body, and a look of pure relief still managed to show through his death-glazed eyes. He was dead, dead. And he looked far too happy about it.
Redsplash wondered if she had killed him. She had promised too, hadn't she?
She found herself foolishly hoping she hadn't. Because, somehow, if she hadn't, then it wasn't her fault.
But what point was there in hoping it wasn't her fault? He'd had no real life. No real soul. He hadn't deserved to be alive anymore than Fate had deserved death.
And that was the whole point. The reason behind this battle, this massacre of both sides. Because none of them should be alive.
Not even her.
Not if Fatefiend couldn't be.
Suddenly, she found herself in a field. The grass grew tall and thick, nearly up to her knees. The stench and taste of death was gone, replaced with a sense of home. Of places in her memory she had forced herself to forget.
Peace. Life. Happiness.
She was home.
A smile lit up her face. A stupid, pleasant, little feeling started filling up her stomach. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the sight of paradise.
And found Fatefiend, sitting on ancient stone steps that led up to a closed, arched stone-and-wood gate. In his paws, he held a bowl, and he stared down at it with an expression of such bitterness and sorrow that it almost killed the newfound happiness within her.
"Fate!" She cried. "Fate!"
He didn't even look up. The bowl entranced him.
Well. If he couldn't come to her, she would, naturally, have to go to him.
She set off towards him, battling the long grass that seemed to clutch at her like the paws of all those she'd brought death to. But she fought them and, eventually, they let go.
The sprint across the field made her lose her breath and, as she neared the ferret, she slowed to a walk, gasping. "Fate." She wheezed. "Fate, will you stop looking at that bloody bowl and say hello? D'you have any idea what I've been through to see you again?"
She saw him tense and then, gradually, let out a breath. He stood up, still peering down at the bowl. With great care, he placed the bowl on the step he had just been sitting on, and straightened.
He just had to lift his chin, and he would see her. And once he saw her, then he wouldn't really be dead. Or she wouldn't really be alive. Whichever, it did not matter. Not to her.
And then, slowly and resolutely, he turned his back on her. Something about the way he did it, about the way his eyes were still firmly locked on the stone, told her he knew very well she was there. That he was doing this on purpose, abandoning her, leaving her. Again.
But this time, he had a choice. And he'd chosen to desert her.
"Fatefiend!" Redsplash cried out, unable to believe he would leave her. "Fatefiend, don't! You can't leave me! Not again!"
He hesitated for a long moment and then, slowly, began climbing up the cracked stone steps towards the closed gate. She tried to chase after him, but found she couldn't move. The grass wound tight around her legs and would not let go. Once again, she was helpless to stop him from leaving her.
"Fatefiend! Don't leave me here!" She shouted, screaming at him.
The ferret ignored her, moving up that last step.
"Why?" She shrieked. "WHY?"
He hesitated, his paw on the wooden gate. "Redsplash," he breathed so quietly she could barely hear him. "Redsplash, what have you done?"
The gate opened, and a great light came out, as if the sun shown from inside, and when it closed, Fatefiend was no longer there.
The grass released her, and she flew up the stone steps and flung herself against the gate. There was no way in. Not for her.
She wasn't allowed.
She battered her fists against it and then, slowly, slid down until she found herself crumpled on the stone, breathing heavily. The pain from her ribs was unbearable, and the cold of the stone stung. But, what did that matter?
She wasn't good enough for Fatefiend anymore. Not even good enough for him to yell out, to hate. She could tell from his tone that he didn't hate her.
He pitied her. He mourned her. He felt for her like she would feel for a bird with broken wings. She was something he couldn't help. So he'd had to let her go, sever his ties to her, to save his own heart. To save himself the pain.
And if he could do that, it meant she was truly beyond everything. Not even a rat's friend would have to do this.
She choked on something, possibly her own crushing self-pity, and coughed and jerked until she found herself staring down straight into the bowl Fatefiend had valued so dearly.
For a second she had the urge to throw it, to shatter it, and then the first image shimmered to the surface.
The badger stared up at her, anguish and disbelief in his eyes. He was on his knees, their eyes at the same height from the ground now. For all his strength, he could be brought down to her level. For all his greatness, he wasn't immortal.
His lips moved, but she could not hear. She saw herself snarl a reply. He looked at her, tired, not understanding, and answered.
She watched her eyes widen and glow with red hatred, and then, with him kneeling, wounded, and helpless, she slit his throat. He seemed to shiver and then fell, slowly. As if gravity itself did not want to bring him down. As if the world did not want to see him fall.
She saw herself sneer at his corpse as droplets of blood dribbled from his gaping mouth, and she cleaned her bloody dagger on his face.
She stepped back to stare at the corpse and then in a final spasm of hate, spat on him.
When she turned, it was to find axe, whirling end-over-end, coming straight at her face.
A body leaped in front of her, and then slammed into her as something altered its course. It was Sade, and the axe had lodged deep in his chest.
She cried out softly, both in and out of the image, and then watched as she dragged him away from the badger, propping him up against an outcropping of rocks. He looked at her, the first real smile she had ever seen lighting his fading eyes.
She watched herself shake her head, denying it. His smile grew, and he relaxed against the rocks.
Slowly, his smile faded.
The entire bowl tinted red and, though there was no sound she could hear, she could feel herself screaming in anger. And everything went by quickly after that. Hares, rats, weasels, stoats. Everything died on her blade.
She didn't care. It was senseless slaughter. A bloodlust that seemed to drive everything from her mind.
She watched in disbelief as, finally, everyone lay dead.
Everyone but Darkclaw who was slowly picking himself off the ground. Hares lay sprawled around him, dead. He, himself, was wounded, but fighting to stand up. He looked at her and, slowly, his slight grin turned into a disbelieving stare.
She watched herself pick up a spear and then saw it pierce Darkclaw straight through the heart.
He fell back, and she knew he was dead.
Redsplash watched herself standing there, breathing heavily and so bloody her fur stuck out in drenched spikes. There was no spot on her broader than an eye that wasn't bloodstained. She was completely covered in a blanket of gore.
And she, slowly, her head turned towards a spot off the battlefield.
She watched herself trot purposefully away from the battle.
To meet Root standing outside the healer's tent, a determined, terrified look on his face. He dropped an empty flask and drew his knife. The look in his green eyes said he knew he was going to die.
And he did. Quickly, effectively, thoughtlessly.
And then, each of the hundred or so wounded. Some tried to get away. Those that could crawl, did. But she hunted them all down and slaughtered every one of them. Redsplash could feel the hatred, the anger, the jealously radiating out of the image.
The thought came to her: Why should they live? Live, when he is dead? Dead. Dead like I should be. Dead like they will be. Die! Die, you bastardsDie
And, in its sickness and its insanity, it made a beautiful sort of poetic sense. She watched herself hunt for any left living and understood her other self perfectly.
She didn't want to the kill the badger anymore. No. She simply wanted to the kill the world.
And, when no more victims presented themselves, she watched herself trot back to the battlefield. Perhaps to make sure none had escaped her notice. And, as it turned out, one had.
Sade.
She watched herself watching him pull himself up to a kneeling poison. He stared at up her tiredly and reached weakly for the axe that was still embedded inside him. With an open-mouthed scream she could not hear, she watched him pull the bloody axe out of himself. He collapsed briefly from the pain of it and then slowly, determinedly, pulled himself back up.
He stared at her and in his eyes she could see his purpose, hear his thoughts. He could not rest, because he had to stop her. Had to keep her from her rightful position as Executioner. As Assassin of the World.
But he was so weak…
She watched him throw the axe at her and some part of her hoped, begged, that it would kill her. They are strange, the times you find there is still good in you. Strange, indeed…
But, of course, he missed. She dodged too fast. He couldn't stop her. The world, after all, has a soft spot for its own destruction.
She watched him watch her slow, stalking approach. She held in her paws the axe that had nearly killed him once.
He breathed difficulty, his chest moving in and out as if it was killing him to keep breathing. His eyes were dulled as she moved behind him. She watched his eyes close in silent acceptance before the axe dug into his throat and then sliced it clean off.
His body slumped to the ground and blood fed the greedy sand.
And, slowly, the image of her eyes swam to the top of the bowl, and she saw in her own green eyes the madness she'd always known would get her in the end.
"Redsplash, what have you done?" Redsplash looked up in hopeful surprise, but the gate was still locked, and Fatefiend had still left her.
And she could feel inside her the madness that laughed at the images she'd just seen. But she could also feel the disgust, the revulsion. No matter what anyone else thought, there was good in her yet. But not enough to save her.
No. Just enough, as always, to torture her.
She got to her feet slowly and then, with all her still-considerable strength, threw the bowl at the gate. It shattered, and the water droplets flew away, images of gore and slaughter glinting briefly before they disappeared into the grass and fissures of the stone.
"It won't happen that way." She growled, knowing she was lying. "I won't let it happen that way."
And she turned her back on the gate and started down the ancient stone steps.
She woke to find Sade sharpening a sword. He looked at her, blue eyes expressionless. "I was wondering how long you could possibly sleep." He told her blankly.
She sat up quickly. "Sade." Her voice was sharp. "Sade, I dreamed you died."
He stared at her. "Then, by all means, let us hope you have prophetic dreams." He stood up and held the sword out, hilt-first, to her. "I got you a sword.
She stared at him and then took the sword, standing up as she did so. "No, Sade, you don't understand. In my dream, I killed you."
He turned his back on her and then returned with a belt and scabbard. "You'll need these, as well."
"Sade!" She snapped. "Listen!"
He hesitated, the belt and scabbard still in his paws.
"I dreamed I killed you, Root, and Darkclaw. I dreamed I went insane!"
"And have you ever had dreams come true before?" He inquired politely.
She stared at him. No. She thought. No…I haven't... "No…" She admitted.
"Then why are you worried by dreams, now?"
"Because this one…it felt real, Sade."
"Dreams sometimes do, right before battle." He informed her, his tone somehow soothing and still completely emotionless.
She relaxed, breathing easier now. Actually, she had no idea why she'd been so worried. It was only a dream, after all. "D'yours?" She asked.
He stared at her. "What?"
"Do your dreams feel real? Right before battle?"
A slight frown seemed to settle on his face, though, as far as she could tell, his lips did not move at all. "No." He answered finally. "But, then, I do not dream."
She gaped at him. "Not at all?" He shook his head. "Never?"
"When I was a cub, yes." He answered. "But I stopped as I grew. I do not mourn them. They could be very disconcerting."
She nodded, smiling now in relief. "Yes." She agreed. "Very disconcerting."
…
Redsplash found herself dressed for war. She wasn't quite sure how this had happened, only that Sade had kept marching in with more weaponry and more armor until, finally, he seemed content. He seemed to know something she didn't, and the something could not possibly be good. Or, at least, could not possibly be peaceful.
Eventually, she wandered out of her tent and went on a grand trek through the camp until she found the healer's tent. Root was in there, giving orders like had actually had a clue as to what he was doing, and looking very much harassed. His eyes settled on her, and lit briefly with welcome, and images of her murdering him played behind her eyes.
"Redsplash!" He called. "You finally woke up?"
"Apparently." She murmured unhappily and trotted over to him. "You have any idea what you're doin'?" She asked.
"Absolutely none." He answered, his grin wide and his eyes terrified. "Don't suppose you'd have any idea how to do this?"
"Me? Sorry. My experience lies more with the killin'. Less with the healin'."
"So I guessed." He admitted dryly.
She surveyed the tent, and a coldness seeped into her gut. It looks exactly like it did in my dream…
"You a'right, there?" Root asked, elbowing her lightly. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head and stared at him. "Nothin'." She told him finally. "I just had a bad dream."
"Oh?" He waited, as if hoping she would tell him about it. She didn't. He sighed and drew out a flask. "Here." He said. "Have this."
It was the flask he'd dropped in her dream right before she'd killed him.
She turned and fled without a word.
About thirty seconds later, she ran headlong into Sade. If he didn't have such amazing reflexes, they both would have fallen. As it was, he just stepped back rather quickly, not quite stumbling, and brought her to a halt.
"What is it?" He asked, reaching for the twin swords on his back.
"N-nothing." She snapped. She was rather upset he'd ruined her flight.
His blinked. "In all my travels, I have never seen 'nothing' manage to send someone into a panic." He surveyed her solemnly. "But, you are a strange one."
She stared up at him. Was that some kind of joke? He's capable of jokes? "Just…just that dream again." She admitted, somewhat ashamed of it all.
He nodded slowly, his eyes moving about ceaselessly. Again, she was struck by the thought that he knew something she didn't. "And what dream can trouble you after you have woken?"
"It's just…" She held it in a half second more. "Well, I dreamed I killed Root, right? Only, I killed him in the healer's tent. Well, not quite there. Just outside, actually, and, anyway, he had this flask. And he dropped it. In my dream. And he has it now. I just saw it. Awake. Not to mention the healer's tent looks exactly like it did in my dream, too."
He was looking straight at her now, his eyes narrowed slightly against the flood of her words. When she was done practically vomiting up her troubles all over him, he waited for a good ten seconds, perhaps suspecting there might be more. Then, his intense gaze moved elsewhere, and what seemed to be a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "And how many variations can there be in a healer's tent, do you suppose? I imagine there are cots in rows, and medicines and bandages lying around, and a few healers standing about."
He's right. And, immediately, she started feeling more really stupid and rather relived. "But the flask…" She started with a renewed sense of panic.
"Was the same one he has been carrying around for a good week, was it not?" His eyes flickered back towards hers.
A grin broke out on her face and she wondered how an emotionally dead otter who had asked her to kill him could make so much sense. Not to mention kill off the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her. "Y'know, you're makin' me feel really stupid."
"I could stop, if you would like." He offered calmly.
"No! You have complete permission to keep on like this." She shrugged. "I'd rather be stupid than panicked."
"As would we all." He agreed blandly. "Now, if you no longer have need of me, I have Darkclaw's orders to attend to…"
"What orders?" She demanded, somewhat suspiciously. What would he do if she demanded he stay with her and ignore Darkclaw? Maybe she'd have another attack of senseless panic. What if she needed him to make her feel stupid again, and he was off listening to that idiot wildcat?
"To start the war." Sade informed her.
"Start the war?" She demanded, scowling. "And how, exactly, is he having you do that?"
"By drawing out the badger." Sade replied.
Honestly, would it kill him to answer in complete sentences? She was about to demand a full and grammatically correct explanation, when she suddenly remembered. Darkclaw was having Sade torture some prisoners to get the badger out. Right.
"Oh. Yes." She frowned. "Well, then, I guess you'd better get…torturing."
He nodded. "I plan to."
…
It took seven of the cubs and four bloody hours to bring the badger out of his mountain. He knew, of course, that he was going to his death. There was no mystery to his life. Not since he'd seen those carvings in the rock. Of course he would die today.
But at least most of his hares had gone and would get to safety. And he knew, someday, that hares would come back with a new badger. He had seen it. But he also knew of the dark, bitter seasons that stood between then and now. The mountain would fall.
And it would stay empty for many long seasons.
But it was his duty, and the duty of the hares that stayed with him, to fight as best as they could. To die as honorably as possible.
There was nothing else he could do.
So, as his hares lined up behind him and he prepared to push the boulder away from the entrance, he did not mourn his coming death. Only the deaths of all these hares who stood behind him and all those prisoners in their cages who would die soon, too. Because he could not save them.
He could only die for them and hope that was enough.
…
Sade materialized so quickly, Redsplash choked on her apple. The otter hit her on the back so hard the half-chewed piece of fruit went flying across the tent. She turned to hit him back, and found a flask offered in return.
"The badger and his hares are out." He told her blankly. "Drink this, and then come with me."
She took a quick sip and nearly choked again on the harsh liquid. "What is this?"
He shook his head sharply. "Do not think about it." He ordered. "Just drink it."
She stared at him suspiciously but drained it completely. It burned all the way down her throat and into her stomach. "Ugh, that's nasty."
He nodded as if acknowledging this, and then grabbed her arm and pulled her out of her seat. "Hurry." He said with no real urgency behind his words.
She got up, wordlessly, and followed him.
All around her, she heard horns blowing and voices shouting. It hit her all at once that this battle really was coming.
A grim smile settled over her face as she imagined ripping the badger to shreds.
…
Root tensed as the horns started booming their macabre messages. His paws went instinctively to the flask at his hip, and he forced himself to take a deep steadying breath. His second-in-command eyed him smugly. "Gettin' thirsty, sir?"
Root scowled at the weasel. "Get the other healers ready." He snapped grumpily. "This is no time to be stupid."
"Or sober." The weasel retorted quietly as he turned towards the others and began bellowing his orders.
Root leaned heavily against the table, completely covered with the bandages he'd managed to gather, and held his head in his hands. He was unable to shake the gut-wrenching feeling that he was going to die today. That his last sight would be this tent, full of vermin screaming in pain.
Why am I here? This isn't where I was supposed to die…
…
Fallen heard the sounds of horns bellowing. His lungs, already starved for air, protested as he broke into an all out sprint. He had no choice now. The badger would wait no longer.
The battle was starting, and he was still so far away…
…
Darkclaw watched as the vermin gathered around him. For a brief moment, he considered forcing them to line up, to get in formation. But what was the point to that? Chaos would be far more intimidating to the carefully structured hares. Besides, the numbers were so superiorly stacked in his favor, there was no chance of the hares and badger winning. Not, at least, if the badger could be taken out before he had a chance to use that rather large sword of his.
"Archers, forward!" He shouted. Immediately, he heard beasts stepping forward.
He looked around to find not just archers, but Sade and Redsplash moving towards him. He could see the she-otter's eyes already flickering oddly red. The other otter stood beside her, his eyes blank and his swords sheathed on his back. As Darkclaw's were. But not for long.
"The badger's armor has holes." Darkclaw snarled at the archers. "I want you to aim for the holes, but do not kill him. I want him injured, not dead."
Redsplash snarled, her fangs bared. "I will kill him." She promised.
"If you get to him first." Darkclaw retorted.
"He's mine!" She growled possessively. Darkclaw's eyes narrowed as Sade's paws headed for his swords. For all his willingness to torture cubs for him, the otter's loyalties still firmly belonged to Redsplash. Best not to anger her then. He didn't need a rebellion right now.
"Of course." Darkclaw told her, and she relaxed slightly, the red glow fading to a tint again. "Archers, tell me when he is within range."
The archers put arrows to the strings and drew the back. The badger and his hares saw this and broke into a run, screaming their ancient war cry.
Darkclaw's upper lip drew back in a sneer. Their traditions wouldn't save them now.
…
Fallen heard the horns grow silent and let himself slow down from a sprint to a jog. He knew he was getting close. Perhaps fifteen minutes run away. And he knew that the tired warrior died the quickest. And he had absolutely no right to die when the world needed him so badly.
He slowed his pace just enough to allow his frantic lungs some air, and his weakening legs some chance to recover. But he did not stop running. Because if he missed this battle, there was a chance he wouldn't be able to track Redsplash down quick enough to stop another massacre in her name.
…
The first arrow bounced harmlessly off his chest plate. But the fifty that followed didn't always follow the first's example.
Advigilian went down, roaring, as a dozen arrows ripped through him.
His hares stumbled, halting, and the vermin took that opportunity to charge.
…
Redsplash found herself in the middle of a roaring, running, hungry mob. She'd lost Sade and Darkclaw after the first few seconds of the charge. They were quicker than she was, and she could not keep up. But she liked it here, in the middle of a bloodthirsty horde. Her own hunger to kill, to rip, to slaughter did not feel at all out of place. It seemed only to drive those around her into a kind of fanatic frenzy.
Here, in this piece of chaos, her bloodlust was shared like the weaker beasts shared love and friendship. Only, friendship had never driven a group of beasts to descend on the first hare they met and rip her arms from her body, trample on her corpse, discard what had once been alive to find fresher prey. Something that could still scream.
…
Darkclaw was nearly to the badger when the first hare flung itself at his chest. It was quickly followed by at least seven more. They bore him down with their weight, and his broadswords were ripped from his paws, flung away from him. He was weaponless, and their knives dug into his lightly-armored flesh.
The words of his father echoed out of memory, "A Warheart is never weaponless."
His mouth twisted into a demonic grin, and his claws slid out.
…
Redsplash was almost to the badger, running as fast as she possibly could over this damnably slippery sand, when something impossibly solid slammed into her chest. She went flying backwards, her momentum completely reversed, and landed heavily on the sand. A scream of pain was ripped from her, and she writhed in a frantic attempt to get away from the agony.
A mace to the ribs…
A deep, freezing terror settled over her, and she stared up into the wild eyes of the hare that had done this to her. His bloodstained mace raised, blocking out the sun.
Not like this. Not like this!
Her bloodwrath returned, and she was up, ignoring the pain. The hare stared in shock as her sword ran him through. She snarled in vicious triumph as she kicked him off her blade and, as he fell, sliced him open from stomach to throat.
His ruined body lay on the ground, and she stood over him, alive. But the realization that had frozen her a second ago was still roaring in the back of her mind.
Mace to the ribs. Flask. Healer's tent. Badger and the arrows. It's all the same…all of it.
She forced that thought away, letting the beauty of the bloodwrath settle over her, and moved, once more, towards the badger.
…
Fallen came upon the massacre from a high point, perched on a slope. He could see it all. Could see how the outnumbered hares were slaughtering the outclassed vermin. And how the vermin were pressing in around them, waiting for any signs of weakness, and then ripping them apart. He had never seen vermin fight like this. They were supposed to be a cowardly, disorganized lot. Not at all this driven, self-sacrificing mass he saw before him. It was almost as if they weren't at all aware of themselves. As if some other force controlled them, ordered them, sacrificed them.
And, as he watched a lone otter streaking towards the wounded badger lord, he knew how this had happened. There was something about this Redsplash. Some kind of force that came from her. She had absolutely no social skills, no charm, no eloquence, but she drove those around her as if she actually knew what she was doing.
And she did it without ever seeming to mean to.
If only I had saved her before she became this…if only she could be saved now.
But he knew she could not. Knew in the way she gutted a young, confused hare and stole his spear as he fell, that she was beyond his help.
There's nothing I can do for you now. Forgive me, Brighteye.
And then he hurried down the slope and towards the battle he'd always hoped he wouldn't have to interfere with.
…
The spear pierced the tiny hole in the badger's armor over his knee, and he went down again, roaring. The rats and stoats around him went flying as he swiped at them with his arms. Around her, bodies lay sprawled. Perhaps they had thought him weak, ready to die. But he came from a long line of badgers who refused to die when they were too weak to stand.
On his knees, he could kill more than any of these vermin would ever slaughter. And, on his knees, he already had.
But the otter was coming for him, her red eyes blazing. She held in her paws another spear and a knife.
He blinked and, before he could open his eyes again, the other spear slammed against his armor, directly over his heart. It did not penetrate, but it dented. Where she got the strength, he did not know, but suddenly it was very hard to breath.
Knowing the folly of it, knowing it was suicide, he forced his helm off his head. He knew his destiny. He would not meet it out of breath and half-blind.
He and the otter were strangely alone, the battle having moved in a different direction. Slowly, he tried to stand.
The otter pulled a dagger out of her boot, tossed it up, caught it, and threw it. She was damn accurate with those slight holes in his armor, and he went down, once more.
With a spear through one knee, and a dagger slicing through a main artery in his leg, he knew standing was beyond him. The arrows stuck out of him like a hedgehogs spikes, only the spikes on a hedgehog didn't slowly kill, drain, ruin. He knew he was dying. He didn't…didn't know why though.
What had driven this otter to this…this murder?
"Why?" Advigilian demanded, disgusted at the fatigue, the bitterness, the anguish in his voice. "Why are you doing this?"
She stared at him, her eyes wide and red; her hatred obvious. "You killed my friend." She snarled at him, trying to show him how much she despised him, how much she wanted him dead. But he knew she hated him. He didn't know the pain, the deep, violent sorrow behind the hatred. He didn't know she hurt just as deep as he did.
"He was only a ferret." The badger replied, weak and dying.
An incomprehensible rage entered her eyes, and the glow turned into a fire. He saw her lunge, felt a searing pain ripping through his neck, and then felt himself falling.
His last sight was the otter that had killed him, and the strangely glinting red eyes. He'd never seen sorrow through blood-colored eyes before…
…
Redsplash stared at the knife she'd just killed the badger with. It was bloody, disgusting. She felt the urge to clean it and her eyes locked on the badger's face, and the clean fur she'd seen herself mar. Knowing she had done it before, would do it again, and there was nothing she could do to fight it, she leaned forward, bloody knife in paw.
And then, suddenly, her paw jerked, and the knife went flying out of her grip. She stared after it, not comprehending, and wondering what it could mean, and heard a strange sound.
She turned to find an axe, whirling end-over-end, coming straight at her face. A body leaped in front of her, and then slammed back into her as something altered its course. It was Sade, and the axe had lodged deep in his chest.
She cried out and grabbed him, lifting him up. He stared up at her, and then looked down at the axe stuck in his chest. His blue eyes blinked, and the tiniest of smiles started growing in his eyes.
Redsplash stood up, holding him as if he were a cub, and looked around. Her eyes settled on the rocks, far away from the frenzy of the battle, and she knew what she had to do.
…
Fallen felt the battle around him, but it didn't seem to matter. He had failed, again. The axe had left his paw, heading straight for Redsplash's heart. But that other otter had stopped him. One of their tribe. Of course. No other could have made that suicidal dive.
The fact remained that he had failed.
And that Redsplash had picked up the self-sacrificing fool as if he meant something to her. Had picked him up and was carrying him away from the battle. As if…as if some part of her still acknowledge the value of life.
He watched her, watched the other otter's head loll back in a way that screamed of death, and knew that Redsplash was carrying a weakening body that was soon to be a corpse. Wasting her time. Wasting her energy. On life.
And he knew he couldn't kill her. Maybe he'd known all along. But now the knowledge of it overwhelmed him.
He had failed not because the axe had been stopped, or because some fool had sacrificed himself. But because he wouldn't try again. Because he couldn't try again.
He turned his back on the both of them, on this battle, on the body of the badger who could have stopped all of this but had spared a ferret out of mercy, and started walking away.
There was nothing for him here anymore.
…
Sade felt himself being placed on the sand, his shoulders and skull propped up on cold, clean rocks. His vision swam, his mind reeled, and he knew that he was going to die.
"Sade!" A voice, calling to him. One he had to heed. One with power. But I'm tired…
"Sade!" A face peering down at him, troubled and distressed. He recognized her. Strange, how she seemed so far away when he knew she was kneeling right next to him. "Sade, you'll be fine. It's just a little scratch! I promise!"
He wanted to laugh at her. A little scratch? He could practically feel his heart trying to beat around this strange metallic object that had suddenly sliced through his chest. In his lifetime, he'd felt plenty of "scratches." None of them came close to being this liberating.
"Stop looking so deathy!" She screeched at him, slapping at his face lightly. His vision swam again and then focused on her face. For some reason, she looked terribly upset. Almost as if she hadn't been planning on killing him after the battle. Not really.
She reached out, and her paw tightened around the axe handle, as if she were preparing to pull it out. The axe moved the slightest bit.
And he screamed. Screamed in pain because he hadn't known a pain like this before. His heart was beating so fast that he was sure it was trying to hammer its way out of him. Abandoning him to die heartless, as he had lived.
"Damn!" Redsplash let the axe go and stared down at him. He stared back up at her, tired and dying. The world seemed to fade around him. The colors turning gray…
"Sade…" She bit her lip, and her eyes skittered around nervously. Perhaps she was using her brain for the first time since he had met her. "Sade, don't die."
His eyelids fluttered closed. A strange sense of something…sympathy, he supposed, settled over him. Redsplash didn't want to see him die. She shouldn't have to. But this was out of his control. Beyond his grasp. Death was something even he couldn't fight.
Not that he wanted to.
"Sade, I order you not to die."
No…no.