The Traitor

That night the first snow of the cold seasons fell upon the woodlands. Where once the treetrunks were wreathed in gold and bronze foliage they were now encased in ice-crusted snow, deep as an otter's back paw. This was no trouble to the village of peaceful goodbeasts. They had brought in all of their harvest some days before, and they were glad to say that none was lost to the frosting.

Warmth was also not an issue, for though the fluffy frozen rains had come, the sun also shone that morning, jinxing the night's work to an early disappearance. What remained of the precipitation was turning steadily into drippy slush, in some places beginning to show bare soil and patches of inconvenienced grass. The little ones of the village payed no heed to how their elders stepped lightly through the unpleasant mush-throwing themselves in happily and stomping great prints much larger than their own footpaws were.

"Fur and famine, Meelain, get that insufferable brat inside before he catches his death of cold!" The speaker was an aged hare equipped with a stiff brow and eyes that shot romantic ideas to death in mid-flight. Not one of those wistful adventurers, she. Not one who had lusted for the march of Long Patrol, taking off on first whim and chance. No, she was a caregiver of youngbeasts, and those qualities were unsuited to that profession, "I said, Meelain, get that babe inside now! Blood 'n' thunder, he's sopping wet!"

The mousemaid the old harewife was ordering about stood up as if just waking. She was one of those wistful adventurers, able to run about on the faintest of fantasies. But her fantasy had gotten her into a great deal of trouble before-she would not ordinarily be aiding the old one to herd Dibbuns. Were it not for her minor crime, she would be off splashing about like the other young ones.

"I'm sorry, marm, I'll get him right away." She rose from her seat on the side of the low windowsill, wedged between two pies. As she dashed off, the ancient harewife leaned down to inspect the pies. Can't be too careful. The greengage was safe, but the blackberry and apple had a nibble missing from the crust edge. Squinting hard for evidence of whose teeth had done the deed, she spied a place in the wind-weathered wood where Meelain's claws had scratched out a simple message...

I want to go past the trees.

The furrowed face of the harewife gave a fleeting smile. She had never been like that, but it did not stop her from feeling for the young heart that felt trapped in a tiny world. Come to think of it, she herself had never been beyond the confines of old Mossflower. They had grown up together, in a way. She had never even dreamed of leaving.

Still, vandalism was vandalism, even if it was inspiring the staunch caregiver's sympathies. Scooting the pies away, she retrieved a vial of wood repairing resin from one of many haphazard shelves scattered about the kitchen's walls.

"Myna, me ole dear, what's th' trouble?"

The voice belonged to another she had raised. A male hare, one of those that wasn't a wanderer but by no means was possessing of much brains either. Bluedrop, he was named. His wife was Gemma Withersfield, Master Withersfield's lucky single daughter. How Bluedrop secured the marriage Myna would never understand; he was such an annoyance even as he crept into the age of responsibility.

"Don't you talk t' me like that," she snapped, rubbing hard with the resinous rag at the scratched message in the windowsill. "Ain't been that long since I rocked you as an infant to shut up yore whinging mouth."

"Of... course, marm. I'll try to be more respectful in the future!" As he spoke he made a leg, dipping himself down well past his knees. Myna rolled her bagged eyes and pointed stiffly to a bundle hanging from a basket by the other window.

"Babe."

"Oh...Oh! Right, almost forgot about th' liddle gel..!"

Gemma's little daughter was lifted from the basket bassinet by the paws of her foolish father. She was wrapped in barkcloth that had been washed and beaten out so often that it had become soft a the fur on a dormouse's ear. His dun face and frazzled whiskers popping up in delight, Bluedrop looked nowhere but at the face of his baby girl, who was coming fussily out of a doze.

"Aww, isn't that my sleepy little filly? Sorry, did I wake you up, liddle one?"

Myna rolled her eyes at the horrid voice the male was putting on.

"Badgers' beards, Bluedrop, she's not one season yet. She can't understand a damn word ya say."

Bludrop covered the sleepy babe's flopped ears with one grey mitt, scowling at the nurse.

"Myna! Such language!" He busied himself over his tiny one again, brushing errant bits of fur away from her dewy eyes, "Right in front of my widdle one, such a meanie. That's right, Myna's an' ole meanie, Blythie..."

"Blythie..?" Myna looked up from scrubbing dirtied oven trays to shoot a quizzical look his way, "Her name's Blythe, leveret, and don't you forget it. Gemma chose that title for her little girl and that's what she'll be known as!"

"It's only a nickname, affectionate, y'know..?"

"No, I don't know. Your name's Bluedrop. How'd you feet it I took a liking to callin' you 'Bluebum' one day?"

The father hare stuck his coral pink tongue out to the great amusement of his little leveret. "I'd fancy that, marm. It's not untruthful, at least after the mid-season games. Ooch, never gonna volunteer to balance on a pole ever again, no sah..."

The tinkling bell sound of Gemma's chuckle in the doorway drew both of their gazes, Bluedrop with a fumble of the giggling babe and Myna with a severe gesture in the husband's direction. The young harewife in a winter gown of heavy fleece and long sleeves paced up the step into the kitchen and delicately reached for her little girl.

"How's my rare one?" The female's sweet voice hummed into her daughter's tiny nub ears. Myna huffed, hunching back over her work. Bluedrop put all his bodily effort into not dropping the infant as he passed Blythe on to her mother.

"She's been sleeping up a treat, love." The hare scratched his nose, "Bit like I wish I could do everyday... An eight hour nap sounds absolutely capital..."

"Hmph!" Myna's growl was audible from over the sloshing sudsy water in the washbasin.

"Sure, Blue..." Gemma pretended to roll her eyes at her husband's silliness, but couldn't eliminate the trace of a giggle crinkling her tan nose and lips, "Come, into the parlor, will you? I'm expecting Dochunn to come over and meet us up there. He has something to tell you..."

"Me?" Blue followed after his wife after a beat of bewildered staring, "What would that old hog want with me? I'm not one of his warriors."

"No, but he still wants you to hear him out. He said it was dreadfully important."

"He said it was 'dreadfully important'?"

Bluedrop winced and shrunk away as Gemma shifted the baby into one arm and raised the other one as if to slap him one. Retracting the violent gesture, she chuckled with good humor along with his nervous giggle.

"No, not exactly, but you know what I mean."

The morning came too soon for the frantically struggling beast gnawing his way through the green saplings of his prison cage. The snow had pushed into the sides of his pen, freezing and stiffening the poles that lashed him in. Jerking like a stricken partridge with the freezing temperature, Dankwood found that the cold had caused the small trees to shrink ever so slightly. Pressing his back against one corner, the weasel planted both footpaws on a single bar.

Suddenly he straightened his legs. The chill-weakened sapling strained, produced several grating crackles, then split into three spiraled fractures. His fangs rattled together as he grinned.

Fayron awoke from the cross-legged pose he had frozen himself in overnight. His stiffened body cracked and groaned as he stood in a fluid motion, creeping around the guttering smoulders of what was left of his tent's fire. He came to the doorflap and peeled it aside, his quick eyes taking stock of the half-molten snows outside and the dim forms of a few tribesbeasts who were up already.

The pine marten left the tent in silence, as ever. None of the other creatures nearby marked his passage.

The sun was beginning to shine out clearly, even in the deep treeshade of the inner woodlands. Fayron picked his path carefully, more from a want to keep his footpaws' joints pain-free than from a desire for stealth. Into the trees at the edge of the camp he went, shuffling his brown robes and eying each dead leaf and crust of frost as if critical of their presence.

The black-furred creature paused.

The sapling cage, reserved for punishing those who committed crimes of honor, was empty. Pacing about it with a turned head, the pine marten was reaching a venerable paw down to the splintered fragments of wood on one of the bars when the cold shock of metal on his neck hit him.

"What want you, Dankwood weasel?" He did not have to turn to see whichbeast it was that was holding the blade to his throat. He heard a snicker from behind and felt the steel wander up to the soft space beneath his chin.

"What d'you think I want, old one?" The weasel hissed into his ear with a bitterness that implied he would bite it were he more enraged, "Somebeast has to pay for taking what is mine!"

"Thievery is not the denial of what a greedy one seeks, weasel."

The blade pressed harder into the pine marten's neck.

"Now isn't the time for your damned wisdom, blackfur," Dankwood growled. "Now it the time for you to tell me what you saw."

"...Saw?"

"In your visions, daft one! What else does a Seer see?"

"Wish me to tell thee the meaning of visions mine?" The pine marten would have shaken his head, but being unable to do so he instead scoffed audibly at the beast's request, "My visions are for nobeast to steal. I speak to only Mogja. Ye shall answer to him in time, weasel, for this day. And for yesterday."

This time, Dankwood was unable to control his violent urge. He pulled the blade, a straight-edged sword, from the old creature's throat and spun him where he stood until he was facing the criminal.

"You'll pay, Chief's dog!"

The sword rose in an arc of sunlight reflecting off the keen edge, upwards in a wild lash. The pine marten was too close and too feeble to jump away before the point of the sword bit him in the ribs and was torn across his chest. He fell on mixed snow and damp leaves, already stained by specks of his own blood.

The weasel turned away with no need to see the full extent of his own evil work. From the bushes there came a rustling sound, and the four ferret guards rose groaning.

In an instant the weasel's blood-spattered swordpoint was in the biggest one's face.

"Stand up, cur."

The ferret, unarmed as he was, did as he was bidden. Dankwood crooked a claw on his free paw over to where Fayron lay disheveled on the reddening ground.

"See that?"

The ferret nodded, numb with fear and shock.

"See what happens when anybeast steals from Dankwood, son of Sorghum?"

They all nodded.

"Nobeast else better steal from me, yes..?" The weasel's eyes bulged at the four mustelids. Their lips were tight with unspoken terror and their paws were useless, so disheartened by their morning discovery that they were powerless against the will of the traitorous beast.

Dankwood strode past each of them in turn, still pointing with his blade. He stopped on one of the smallest and stared hard into his face for what seemed an age upon an age.

"Tell me, dirt-tail, what power has the Seer?"

"...He has power of Spirit, over Death, over--"

"No he doesn't!"

The weasel's paw snapped through the air like a whip, clubbing the ferret full in the snout and littering the trunk of a nearby birch with sprinkles of blood.

"I have the power of Death! I brought Death to him. And I can bring Death to you soon enough..."

He resumed his stride, glaring down at the next shortest ferret standing nearby. This ferret was clearly close to losing it, whimpering under his breath and shaking from both cold and horror. Dankwood leaned in until the point of the sword and his feverish eyeballs were mere inches from the ferret's.

"I am no Mogja, and I am not nearly as deadly as his son, but I have fought them both and lived! And I will continue to live! Anybeast standing against me will die a death not fit for a scum-sucking worm."

To illustrated his point, the weasel suddenly flung himself upon the largest of the ferrets, who was obviously much physically larger than himself. Taken by surprise, the ferret writhed on the ground under the punishing blows the traitor was giving out with the flat of his sword. Reaching down with his free claw, Dankwood added a final insult and injury by raking his nailtips across his victim's eyes.

"Hyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!"

Dankwood rose and stalked back and forth a few paces. All four ferrets were crumbling now, completely rendered useless to fighting back. The weasel grinned.

"Do you lot wish to die like that..?"

"...N-no, no we don't..."

"...Please, no..."

"Anything..."

Dankwood trod on the edge of the temporarily blinded mustelid's staghide kilt, stopping him from standing again.

"Serve me then. Follow me into battle. Do all I say."

The ferrets stared blankly at their aggressor, quietly weeping and fixated on the tip of the reddened sword...