Author's Note: The next and final update will be on Sunday. Enjoy!

Characters (c) Kayla Silvercat, Redwallish Concept (c) Brian Jacques

Chapter 2

It had been eight seasons since the burning had passed and Remor found himself dressed in a red silk tunic with new mail over it, his battle-worn sword strapped to his back, and his red-lined war helmet under his left arm, as he stately carried himself to the planning room. He nodded to the guard on duty before stepping in to see Sardan lecturing two captains on the plans for the next battle.

The three glanced up briefly and Sardan said, "Ah, Malak, thank you for joining us. Lord Blackpaw is camping here, at the end of this valley." Sardan slowly traced his claw along the map—making sure he did not rip it—up to a field just northwest of the castle. "I want to stop them once and for all here, on the Terragen field. We have approximately six hundred more soldiers than Blackpaw does, but his Long Patrol have come out on top in the last three skirmishes. His average foot soldier is far superior to one of mine. And that's where you two come in. You are far more disciplined than my other captains, and you are experts on basic training. Your job is to clean up every soldier's fighting ability in the next three weeks. Start immediately; dismissed!"

The weasel and ferret captains bowed before exiting, leaving the pine marten at the mercy of his Lord. While Remor's aging was apparent from the thinning of his face, gray tints at his temple, and an overall darker pelt, Sardan seemed not to have changed a bit. He grinned at Remor—the same malevolent one that no beast could mistake for friendly—and gestured at the map. "Commander, you have proven beyond a doubt that you are more cunning on the battlefield than even the badger lord of Salamandastron. Please, tell me of any ideas you might have, or predictions of the badger's moves," the wildcat said.

Remor stepped up to the map, recognizing the deceit in the word 'please'—a word Sardan liked to throw around, as though reminding others of his superiority—and looked at the region impassively. Suddenly he said, "The Long Patrol does have superior fighting skills, but if they have any sense then they will call on Redwall to back them up. To rely alone on fighting skills would reveal a fatal overconfidence, especially since we are taking them very seriously."

"I think it would also be wise to hold back two contingents rather than committing them all fully into battle. We should take advantage of our numbers and hold back some—what's the word? Spares, if you will—so that when they're tiring we can release a fresh new wave. That could take care of the rest of the forces," Remor said listlessly, taking no joy in motioning out the plan of death.

Sardan nodded and said, "Yes, very nice. I was also planning on sending a contingent through the forest to take the Long Patrol by surprise."

"A good strategy, m'Lord, but you should be cautious. I wouldn't be surprised if the badger set up archers and soldiers to prevent such an attack," Remor countered, hardly even thinking about what he was saying.

"This is why I was planning on sending you and the renegades through the forest to remove their scouts and attack them in their right flank. I know I can count on you to do as you're ordered." Sardan regarded him with a hard expression that was the closest to affection he could get. It made Remor want to wince.

"Yes, sir, I will do that."

"Good. You're dismissed," Sardan said and, if that wasn't enough of a dismissal, he turned away to his map and stroked his chin in deep thought.

Remor gave a weak half bow before turning on his heel for the door. He nodded at the guard, again, and headed left toward the dining hall, intent on having a drink. When he was out of sight of the room, he slumped slightly and did his best to fight the sadness trying to overwhelm him. I'm never going to do anything, am I? I might as well just kill myself because I'll never do any good, Remor mused. Ever since that voice had told him to wait he had fought against the waves from the ocean that had tried to pull him into the sea and drown him. Despite that voice, it somehow seemed to feel that he could fight his own moral battle and offered no back up support when he sought it during one of his lower periods. Once again, the only intervention it offered was when it kept the knife in his paw from plunging into him with the same mantra: Wait…wait.

And so he waited. It's been eight seasons and nothing has happened. How much longer do I have to wait? And what am I waiting for? Remor clenched his teeth at the same questions he'd asked himself aloud in his room countless times, and had yet to receive an answer for them. He suspected the specter—the voice, the presence—was taunting him to see how far he could carry himself before he either died or went insane from the strain. Regardless if it wouldn't let him kill himself then he would go insane very soon. Remor suspected that time would be right after the finale of this upcoming war.

The woodlanders will lose unless they're better strategists. Remor's eyes suddenly widened and he picked himself up as he entered the mess hall, suddenly alert. Or I could give them the battle strategies somehow. Yes…maybe that was what he was intended to do. He could give them the battle strategies!

Don't be a fool! They'll strike you down the minute they see you, before giving you a chance, and they have every right to. You are the commander of Lord Sardan's army—their worst enemy. What makes you think they'll let you speak at all? Remor heaved a great sigh before sliding into a spot, alone, at a bench.

"Can I get you something, sir?" A young mink—who was restricted to the kitchens with the rest of the cooking staff in war time—offered while wiping the scarred and unpolished table beneath him with a white rag.

"Yes, Falston, get me some Goldenknife wine," the pine marten said while kneading his eyes to clear his head of the headache that was developing.

Falston immediately dropped the rag and came back a few minutes later with a mug and a bottle filled with amber liquid, which appeared golden in the sunlight that shimmered through the windows. Remor gratefully grabbed for the mug. He was relieved to see Falston had the foresight to fill it, and took a long draught from it. He set the mug down with a thump and gasped for air before he took a more controlled sip. Falston studied him.

"Is our future really that bleak?"

Remor blinked at the mink as if he was surprised to see him, but then he laughed and grinned. "No, young Falston, our future is not bleak." Mine is, but not yours so long as you stay in the kitchens, kit. That was something Remor so desperately wanted to say to the mink, but knew such an admission was grounds for treason. No one, not even Falston whom he genuinely liked, could be confided in. "No, it's looking more like the badger lord of Salamandastron and his Long Patrol will finally be defeated."

He brightened. "Is that true, sir?" The pine marten didn't respond, but Falston took it as a confirmation and grinned. "You are a wonder, sir." He seemed about to say more, but his eyes widened and he looked around fearfully. There were two creatures quietly having a game of chess, a raucous bunch were in the middle of an equally raucous card game, and then another assistant was cleaning a table on the opposite side of the room, but otherwise they were alone. Remor's eyes flipped back to the mink and he saw him lick his lips before bending over to whisper, "I don't think this army would be anywhere without you. Try to stay safe out there on the battlefield."

"You can't be safe out there," Remor said with an unpleasant laugh. He hoped Falston never decided to pursue a career in the army, because the fame that might come with it was rarely worth the risk.

The mink gave him a weak half smile, and then turned back to cleaning the tables with the determination of one trying to paint a masterpiece. He was clearly shaken by Commander Malak's despairing attitude, and Remor wanted to curse himself for hurting another innocent creature. He pushed that thought away and wished to the voice pursuing him that Falston would find a good life away from the army.

He poured himself another glass of wine.

Remor was just about to quaff the last of it when he heard the main doors crash open. Everybeast in the vicinity jumped, including the card players, and they all turned expectant eyes. Cursing duty, Remor got up to attend to the matter, leaving the unfinished glass and the half-filled bottle of wine on the table for Falston to clear away. After smoothing out the fur on his head and mail, he strode out with a stern air and came across three soldiers wrestling with a struggling bundle.

"What is going on here?" The soldiers nearly let go of their captive when Remor suddenly materialized, walking with his usual commanding air and severe expression.

The soldiers slightly bowed to show their respect, but they were immediately up to keep the creature from trying to take advantage and one, a rat, said, "Sir, we found this woodlander skirting the wall. We think he is a spy for the badger."

He glanced down at the bundle pinned to the floor with this forepaws tied behind his back, who had been glaring at him. But upon seeing his expression the eyes widened, and he did not seem as fearless or courageous as before. Remor saw the mouse and his breath caught.

Something clicked at their eye contact and Remor suddenly understood everything. This mouse is what he'd been waiting for. Not only would he finally do something worthwhile and not destructive, but he could also be his envoy to the woodlanders who would otherwise not give him a chance. The war would turn from Sardan's favor immediately to the woodlanders if he could somehow save him.

That's easier said than done, he thought, but immediately pushed that away. His eyes flicked back up to the rat and he said, "Does he have any weapons?"

The rat and his weasel companion immediately searched on his person—he noted the shudder of revulsion that ran through the mouse—and they pulled three throwing knives and a dirk. Remor took them and strapped them onto his form, giving the pair a look that dared them to question his authority. Finally he said, "Make sure you have a good grip on him, I'll escort you down to the cells."

On the way Remor stopped to knock on a door closest to the cells and got the cell keys from the tired warden, who had been on watch the night before. The ferret, with strange red streaks on the side of his face, peered blearily out into the corridor and, upon seeing the mouse, couldn't contain the nasty grin of glee. "Ooh, I'm goin' to have fun with ye, me pretty, when the Lord allows it," he said and hissed in delight. "G'night, me bootiful, and good day to ye, Commander."

Remor didn't even nod, but he gave the ferret an odd and somehow harsh expression before turning away. He despised the Warden if only for the reason that he was usually the torturer, but his strange habits and ways of talking always caused Remor to give him a wide berth if they met in the halls. Sardan, too, didn't seem to like him, but there was no denying he was…gifted at extracting information.

The wooden door, with only the tiny window up top and a slot to slide food in below, opened with a horrible screech that caused everybeast to wince, and then the soldiers shoved the mouse unceremoniously inside before slamming it. The guards began drifting away, but Remor hesitated, wondering if he should bring up his plan or wait. But when he saw one of the guards turn to see if he was following he decided against it. He'd wait until tonight when he knew everyone would be asleep.

Remor slipped out of his quarters in the dead of night, and cursed when he could barely see in the pitch dark of the halls. He had to take a candle with him much to his disdain, and it would be a beacon to any creature that might be awake. But there was no choice, so he simply steeled himself and quietly slipped down the stone hall.

He was more than relieved he didn't meet anyone on the way there. The pine marten was extra cautious creeping around the Warden's door, but a noise couldn't be heard within its confines. Seconds later he was standing at the cell door.

After a moment of hesitation he finally said, "Psst, mouse! Wake up!" He glanced around hurriedly to see if the guard at the entrance to the jail might've heard anything—he was snoozing quietly when he walked by—and turned back. When those black eyes were suddenly at the grill, glaring daggers at him, he jumped with such force he hit the opposite wall. The mouse had been completely silent.

"What do you want, vermin?"

"I'm Commander Remor Malak, second to Sardan. I'm sure you remember—"

"The one from earlier; well, scum, what do you want from me? I have nothing to tell you or your army, so any deals to make my death quick for information are useless. I'm prepared to die for what's right," the mouse rasped to him, displaying the exact hate Remor knew he would've gotten if he'd attempted to go to the woodlanders.

"Are you?" The speech was by far nothing new and he waved it with a paw and said, "Listen, I understand your hate toward me. I'm fully deserving of it, but I was going to say I want to help you escape from this castle and get you back to your allies."

"Why would you want to help me?" The light he saw from the eyes suddenly disappeared and Remor realized he was going to the back reaches of his cell.

He sighed and then shoved a glass jar through the grill and said, "Here, take this!"

The mouse ripped it from his claws and stared back at him with a very cautious curiosity. "What is this? Poison?"

"It's a cream that our infirmary keepers know how to make. It will deaden the pain of any wounds you receive from torture, and it will help them heal faster."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want to help you escape! I have been trying to leave for eight seasons, but the warlord keeps pulling me closer and closer. I also want to provide your friends with information about Sardan's strategy in this coming battle. If you don't help me get this information to them then you will be destroyed, and that is the honest truth."

There was a long silence, but Remor waited patiently—if eagerly and increasingly worried of his discovery—for him to reply. Finally he heard the mouse say, "When can you get me out of here?"

"You'll have to wait three weeks, which is why I gave you the cream. The preparations for battle are being set up, and I'll be needed too much for us to make a clean getaway. When the army leaves I can give them the slip and come over here," Remor said easily enough, even though he wasn't sure if he could even do that.

"What makes you think I'll still be alive?" The mouse sounded incredulous and even Remor wasn't sure if he would be, but he still tried to allay his fears.

"As I said, the Long Patrol and Redwall will be destroyed in this coming battle if they're not prepared. You're a low priority, and you'll be useless when the battle is finally done. If I don't free you you're more likely to spend the rest of your days here."

There was another silence and when it seemed the mouse wouldn't be breaking it he said, "What's your name, mouse?"

"Arden. My name is Arden."

"Very well, Arden. You understand everything I've out-lined for you? Are you willing to help me get this information to your leaders if I get you out of here?" Remor awkwardly pushed his paw through the bar. There was a pause then—much to his relief—the mouse grasped it in as much a pawshake as it could be.

"Yes, I will help you," he said in a choked voice as though it killed him to rely on vermin to help his friends.

"Good. I must go back Good luck," he said and started walking away at a brisk pace. He wondered if his tired mind was spooking him when he thought he heard a faint whisper of "same to you" reach him from down the hall.