The great fox stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing at the horizon beyond. He and his crew had been camped here at the shore for nearly a season, and Vandar was growing restless. He twirled the great sword in his hand, thinking back to the day he claimed the weapon. Those stupid squirrels, trying to fight against his vermin horde. Hah! The ones that fled were the smart, if cowardly, ones. But, they would be caught up to one day, and they all eventually would be slain.

Vandar turned from the cliff edge and walked back to camp, pulling his white-furred cloak around him. Everyday it became chillier; winter was definitely on its way. And, even though he knew his horde would hate it, he planned traveling to the northlands. The Wandering Whites were in their element in the winter, and they would be easy to find and kill. After all, Vandar's cloak was becoming rather worn and would need to be replaced.

"Wenva!" yelled the fox. "Tell the crew that we break camp tonight; we are heading north first thing in the morning."

"Very well, sire." The elderly female rat bowed and kept out of her master's way. She had only become this old because she feared her master, and was very valuable as a Seer to him. Wenva had found Vandar as a kit, and she had raised him. She was the one who decided he must have been the lost offspring of the Marlfoxes, whose race was now gone. There was no proof at all that this was true, but, for the sake of fear and splendor, it was proclaimed throughout the land.

Wenva scurried about the camp, relaying the fox's order. The face of every vermin was crestfallen, but they refrained from speaking their minds in front of the Seer. Another reason Wenva was so old was that she was the perfect sneak, knowing what and when to report to her lord of the remarks or actions of the horde beasts. No vermin spoke until they knew Wenva was beyond ear-shot, then they whispered in small groups.

"Trudgin' to the northlands in winter!" griped a rat named Grimpaw.

"Rubbish of an idea," commented another rat, Dret.

"We'll all freeze to death, save Vandar, of course; huh, he's got so many of them squirrel pelts, it's ridulous!" This was the statement of a ferret, Copple.

"Don't worry, good creatures, someday the pelts will be shared." The two rats and the ferret turned and froze in fear at the sight of Vandar, grinning evilly, standing right in front of them.

"Perhaps you will keep warm if you stop standin' around, gossipin' like a pack of old female pigeons, and started helpin' your mates break camp!" He strode off away from them, sad to leave their hilarious terror-stricken faces. But, he had other things to do. He was hardly angry at the vermin he had just reprimanded; chances were every beast in his horde had the same feelings. However, a good jolt of terror every once in a while always helped him keep his authority.

Vandar strode into his tent and sat upon his bed. It was an old badger pelt stuffed with moss and loam; a very comfortable resting place. He placed the sword by his side and lay back onto the mattress, staring at the very special pelt that hung on the tent wall in front of him. It was just a plain, grayish-brown squirrel pelt, not as nearly appealing as some of the finest white squirrel furs he owned, but this pelt was different. The skin came from the squirrel that had originally wielded the sword that Vandar now possessed. That battle had been a few seasons back, but the memory was still fresh in the fox's mind. He remembered the squirrel: fierce, tall, lean, but yet, vulnerable. He clasped the paw of a female Wandering White, and he was calling the name of another as he slashed down at vermin. In his eyes was a sign of worry, of panic, and he was too distracted to see Vandar in the shadows, too distracted to dodge the arrow that found its way to the squirrel's heart. Vandar immediately raced over and claimed the sword, and brought down the female whose paw still clasped that of the dead squirrel. Other squirrels raced off through the forest, and the vermin celebrated their victory.

Vandar pulled his fur cloak around him, and settled into sleep. His mind was dark and cloudy, a space absent of time or reason. But then, there was a sound. The tolling of bells, steady, and faint at first, but increasing in volume until it rang throughout his mind. And then, through the mist, came the image of a female squirrel, her eyes orbs of fiery iron, with a red aura surrounding her. From a sheath on her back, she drew the sword that Vandar had stolen. She held it above her head, and from behind, legions upon legions of white squirrels came forth, yelling, all armed with slings or blades of some sort. The lead squirrel spoke:

"The spirit of those who fell to your greed will haunt you for all eternity."

Vandar woke, shaking. The sword still lay beside him, the pelt still hung on the wall. There was a different air about it though. Instead of feeling pride in possessing it, Vandar felt remorse and distress. He walked from his tent, not wanting to look at that skin, and quickly put on a false composure as Wenva came up to him.

"Sire, all are doing as you bade," she announced.

Vandar nodded. "Good. We shall leave at dawn." Though now, he wasn't as confident about traveling to the northlands as he previously had been.