A/N: Just a pretty important, if small, preliminary note. This story is a crossover of sorts between me and Waycaster that is entirely non-canon to Black and White. I am still using my main cast of course, but the events of BaW have not happened and will not happen in this universe. These are two separate stories that just happen to share a cast. As some of you may realize quickly enough, this was originally the fifth drabble in my collection of side stories, but then I got ambitious and wrote a follow-up and planned a few more and in the end I decided to neatly divide my canon drabbles from my non-canon ones.
Fret did not remember the last time he'd been so miserable. He'd been miserable quite a few times before of course, but somehow the misery one encountered polishing a magic sword or brushing one's teeth seemed almost negligible besides the misery that came from being enslaved.
His paws were bound tightly together, and a heavy metal collar lay around his neck. The cold metal sent shivers down his spine but at least his collar was brand new. The other slaves were nowhere near as lucky, their necks bound by rusted iron, their arms sore and heavy with chains. Each lay upon the ground, bound to the wall or stakes in the ground. They were all as thin as twigs and surrounded in their own filth, wearing nothing but torn-up rags and dirty pieces of clothing.
How did it all go so wrong? Fret wondered to himself. A few hours earlier his only grievance had come in the form of his peers. At present he lay miserable upon the floor of a cold cell, empty of any comfort. Though at least his part of the dismal place was mostly clean...
Fret was still not sure how it had happened. One moment Abbot Martin had been scolding him for poking at the historical artifacts, the next he'd been alone in a great chamber filled with statues and vases and goblets from Triel's antiquity.
Triel...
Constance should never have let him go this far south…
"Up you get vermin! Enough sleeping!"
Fret bit back a growl. He had never expected to hate another squirrel more than Matiya and his insufferable mother, but this Summerlad or whatever he was called was easily the most intensely dislikeable beast Fret had ever met.
Plain-looking with the classical reddish brown fur of his kind and a singularly unpleasant signature look of superiority. He wore a fancy vest on top of a fancy tunic with lots of needlessly fancy patterns embroidered on.
"Come on! Chop, chop. Stir your stumps, will you? I haven't got all day, you know? Very important day at court! Duke Erlend Swalestorm will be joining us here, with his wife and son of course. Not that you'd know who they were..."
Fret did not particularly care about who they were either. In any case they weren't here to rescue him.
The idiot squirrel's patience was at an end, and knowing that he had no choice but to obey Fret got to his feetpaws, ignoring the intense growling of his stomach. His new owners hadn't bothered to feed him of course.
"Hurry up!" Sommerled gave a growl of annoyance and tugged hard at the collar, bringing the young ferret to the ground and into a puddle of mud.
How had it all come to this?
Everything had happened so fast, the whole memory was a blur in his mind. All he remembered were two tall otters and a whole lot of paperwork…
"Excuse me!" Came the voice of an incredibly, impossibly tall otter. Big and broad-shouldered with a face like smouldering iron. Had Fret studied the intricate and complicated family trees of the Southern Kingdoms he'd have known the beast before him to be Alfyn Stalwart.
Fret, however, was uneducated in such intricate complexities and all he saw was a big angry otter. So he did the first thing any ferret kit did and backed away.
A priceless vase, nearly three centuries old, shattered upon the ground behind him. The ferret winced, knowing full well that he would be blamed for it and that it's destruction didn't do him any favors. To be fair he had knocked it over, but that was because the otter had startled him.
There they stood, a scrawny little ferret barely ten seasons old and an otter suffering from gigantism... who wasn't too much older. The gigantic beast's face contorted.
Fret screamed, and spun on his heel, scampering on all fours as fast as his legs could carry him. Alfyn was in hot pursuit barely a moment later and leapt impressively over the remains of the once-proud vase.
The ferret shot through the first door in sight and sped down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.
The otter behind him did not bother masking the sound of his footfalls and Fret could hear them coming closer and closer yet dared not look back. Twisting his form he turned abruptly, through a narrower hallway. For once luck seemed to be on Fret's side as Alfyn, who had pounced, came crashing to the floor.
The small amount of hope Fret had managed to cling to was squashed upon reaching the next corridor. He stopped running, his head whirling about as his eyes shot up and down the hallway. Everything looked the same! Abbot Martin and the rest of his class were nowhere in sight, and now he was not sure whether to turn left or right or to try his luck on one of the many doors. Even if he had been thinking properly such a decision would not have come easily to him, and it was very hard to think properly when a beast big enough to flatten him was hot at his heels!
The ferret darted to the right as fast as a cork from a bottle just as Alfyn caught up to him.
He was breathing heavily now, not at all used to running this much or with this intensity. A doorway opened on his right, and an elegantly-dressed squirrel raised an eyebrow as Fret shot past. Said squirrel was roughly shoved aside and nearly crushed when Alfyn followed.
Fret was growing slower, his feetpaws were growing heavier and each time he raised them they felt more and more like lead. To make matters worse panic decided to sing in his ear.
He was going to suffer, that much was obvious. Once the otter was done with him, Abbot Martin would give him an earful about the importance of sacred, ancient historical artifacts and then he'd probably have to pay for the vase in some way...
Or the otter would toss him out the window and Abbot Martin would go on to use whatever was left of him as a warning to other students.
The ferret's luck, however, had not yet run out. His pursuer, now expecting a drastic turn to the right, pounced in the wrong direction.
Fret burst through a doorway, now desperate for somewhere to hide. He almost thanked Martin the Warrior, for the door he had chosen led to a library.
Slowing to an awkward stumble, before scrambling once more onto his feetpaws Fret slunk through the library as silent as the grave. If his heartbeats did not give him away, the sharp drawing of his breath would.
It was his scream that really gave him away though.
Waiting for him at the first bookshelf was none other than the large otter from before. He sat calm and collected, and was even sipping tea. Panic and despair came screeching forth before Fret could stop himself. How had he overtaken him? Where did the tea come from? What kind of cruel joke was this!?
Lorcan Stalwart, Alfyn's identical and more bookish twin nearly spilled his tea. The otter was wrenched from the pleasant meadow he'd just been reading about by an ungodly noise. Looking up, disgruntled, he found a young ferret. The creature's eyes were wide and terrified and slowly but surely the vermin was backing away.
"Can I help you?" He asked curtly. The vermin's fear seemed to increase tenfold. Lorcan glanced at the door, which had just been wrenched open. Alfyn stormed in, sporting a bruised nose and a fierce temper.
"You're in for it now, vermin."
Fret was wrenched from the foggy memories of the previous day by a cry of surprise, followed by a squeal.
"A ferret!" A squirrel not much larger than Fret himself, who looked not much older, was upon them now. She wrapped her arms around the ferret's neck and squeezed uncomfortably tight. "Thanks dad!"
"You're welcome." Said Sommerled. After a pause that was far too long and wherein Fret's face grew three shades darker he added. "Daughter."
There came another long and awkward pause wherein nothing was said and no sound was heard but Fret's wheezing for breath.
"Thanks." The squirrelmaid repeated.
"Yes. Well... enjoy your nameday. I'll be-"
"At court. Yes. Thank you again."
"You're welcome."
Fret rolled his eyes while scowling dramatically. Idiots, fools, imbeciles! And he was now bound to them by the laws of this accursed country…
Several minutes later, following another awkward exchange, Somerled left and Fret was finally allowed to breathe. The squirrelmaid's paws gently stroked the back of his neck. The ferret found himself purring, only to yelp in surprise when her paws found his tail-tip.
"We're gonna have a lot of fun." The squirrel promised, beaming.
Fret swallowed audibly, and bit back a whimper.
"I don't think this is the best of ideas..." Grollo whispered. The chubby hedgehog scratched at his headspikes. "Abbot Martin said he'd handle it." His companions were deliberately ignoring him. Grollo might have been the biggest of the three (both in height and girth) but he was by no means their leader. "And Fret can't have gone too far. Somebeast would have seen him."
Momchillo rolled his eyes. "Grollo, Grollo, Grollo. We're not worried about Fret. We just want to make sure he's okay."
Matiya nodded, but decided not to add that he was primarily motivated by guilt. The last time he'd seen Fret he'd been teasing the ferret about his resemblance to a tapestry of Ayvar The Brainless, an ancient Trielian warlord.
But then they had left the hall, Fret still glaring at the tapestry, only to be treated to a sumptuous feast. Redwallers were welcome everywhere, and though feasts at Redwall were without equal Triel had tried their hardest to outdo them.
Which was another way of saying that, buried under food and drink as they were, nobeast had remembered Fret.
Until last night anyways, when Abbot Martin had had a panic attack.
And had left them to check the castle.
He had yet to return and although Hawthorn and Roseheart (and now Grollo) advised patience, the three young boys had been raised on tales of heroic rescue and daring adventure.
It didn't get more daring than searching a castle for a lost friend.
Guided by Momchillo's excellent sense of direction, they came upon yesterday's tapestry. Ayvar looked just as ugly and grizzled as he had the day before. A tall ferret of black and white fur, with wide musculature and a scar going down one eye... At the moment about to be beheaded.
"I should never have made that joke." Matiya groaned. "He doesn't look a thing like Fret."
Momchillo placed a paw on the squirrel's shoulder. "We all make terrible jokes sometimes..."
Grollo crossed his paws over his chest. "But you could have thought of a better one. Whoever Ajvar is he looks nothing like Fret."
"Yeah Matiya... not your wittiest moment."
The squirrel groaned again and buried his face in his paws.
The sound of a door snapping shut brought the trio's attention away from the tapestry and towards the hallway nearby. Momchillo silently and frantically gestured for them to hide, before diving headlong into a disproportionately large vase. Matiya took cover besides a suit of armour and Grollo, frozen on the spot by the approaching footsteps, did his very best impression of a mannequin.
Grollo's mannequin impression wasn't very good, but the beasts that passed didn't seem to notice. The pair of otters were too enthralled in their own arguments.
"You barely even notice him." Said the female. Big and broad-shouldered and wearing a pair of gauntlets, she looked more dangerous than Bella Badgermum and a bath brush!
The male otter shrunk slightly and tugged awkwardly at the collar of his tunic. "Well... it's not my fault he is..."
"He is what?" The otter with the gauntlets raised her eyebrows high. Inside the vase Momchillo shivered. This beast was formidable, whoever she was. "Quiet? Different? Yet that never seems to stop you from spending ample time reading with Sigrun."
"I don't see you spending much time with him either." Said Erlend. "Corrado though... you're always writing to Corrado."
Lorelei, the one with the gauntlets, seemed to grow in size. Grollo flinched. "I do not! How dare you! To suggest- why! I never! Don't you dare change the subject!"
"I am not changing-"
"This is about your relationship. With your son. You are the one who neglects him. And it's so obvious that you do. You have always favoured your Sigurd, while neglecting our Thordan."
It was lucky for Matiya that the pair of them were moving away. Their dramatic quarrel was beginning to make his head spin. So many names...
"Well... have you tried taking care of Thordan without calling on Niels for assistance?"
Their voices slowly faded. Momchillo, still upside down, breathed a sigh of relief and hastened to correct himself.
"That was a close one." Grollo was saying, as he mopped sweat off his brow.
"Yeah." Matiya agreed. "Although something tells me they wouldn't have noticed us anyways."
Momchillo tapped at the inside of the porcelain flower pot. "Hey guys... I think I'm stuck."
"Stuck?" Grollo's eyes were wide with worry. The hedgehog moaned and tugged at his ears. "I knew this was a bad idea."
"Where are you?" Matiya asked, tapping at a suit of armour.
"In here." Came the mouse's muffled voice, and the pair turned towards the vase.
"Alright. Hang on, we'll get you out." The squirrel clambered up the side of the ridiculously large vase (what was the potter thinking?) and lowered his paw into it's mouth.
"I think I got your tail."
"That's my footpaw."
"Guys..." Grollo whispered.
Once more he was ignored. Matiya was heaving with all his might. Momchillo was having the singularly unpleasant experience of being dragged out by the tail.
"That hurts!"
"Well I'm trying!"
"Well try something else!"
"Guys!" Grollo repeated even more feverishly. "I think somebeast's coming!"
As the squirrel and the hedgehog worked together to tug their friend free of the vase, an otter walked around the corner.
CRASH!
Thordan screamed.
The porcelain vase, well over four centuries old, shattered into a million tiny pieces upon meeting the floor.
Grollo whimpered and curled up in a ball, certain that the guardsbeasts lining the palace would soon be upon them. Momchillo was dazed and covered in bits of vase. Matiya was the only beast thinking rationally. And he was not the most rational of creatures…
Gesturing wildly for the otter's silence, the squirrel leapt forwards. "Shhh, shh, it's okay. It was just an old vase!"
Thordan had been reading a new book on herbology as he walked (it was one of his few talents, the ability to walk and read) but herbology was the last thing on his mind right now.
"Who are you?" The newcomer frantically asked. "Where are you from? Why is a flowerpot broken?" He was definitely on the small side when it came to otters but looked at least a few seasons older than the squirrel.
"Just calm down!" The squirrel insisted, flailing his paws and looking very un-calm. "We're looking for our friend Fret, he's a ferret and he-"
"Ferret?" Thordan tapped his head. "I saw a ferret once. Can't recall when though."
Momchillo, who had recovered sufficiently by now to understand the situation, scampered over to Matiya's side. "Really? Do you remember where you saw him? You sure it was Fret? Small-ish but taller than me? Scrawny? Looks angry? Stinks like a half-rotten cabbage?"
"Yep. Saw one." Thordan fought back the amused grin he had worn the previous night when he saw Alfyn chase a vermin. He had seen fit to excuse himself from the feast the previous night, and had not met the three Redwallers. "Probably a runaway slave. Doubt it's him."
"Oh." Both mouse and squirrel frowned in deep disappointment.
"He did stink though. Wait... Alfyn did tell me about it. He broke a vase, like you did, and he's in Duke Somerled's possession."
"But if it's just a slave..." Matiya trailed off, his eyes slowly glazing over. Hadn't the warriors of old always fought for freedom and against slaver? "Just a slave..."
"Well..." Thordan knew this to be a difficult point and proceeded with caution. How do I put this? "It has been this way for quite a long time, and it isn't likely to change."
"So..." Momchillo narrowed his eyes and crossed his paws. "You're a slaver?"
"No!" A slaver? Preposterous! "Nonono! You must be kidding?" He may have been raised Trielian, but he was too young to own vermin!
Momchillo and Matiya shared a look. It was often the look shared between two warriors who held each other in high regard and who were, in their opinion, conversing with a coward.
"What did you do with Fret?" Momchillo demanded, paws crossed.
Matiya seized an ancient rusted sword from a nearby stand.
"Nothing!" Thordan laughed nervously as his eyes traced the old weapon. "Nothing at all! Now, if you excuse me, I have to-"
Matiya moved swiftly and blocked his path. The sword was pressed against the otter's throat.
"Where is our friend?" Fret would have been touched by the display of valour.
Probably.
"I don't know!" Thordan was trembling.
"I'm only going to ask one more time." Momchillo snarled. "What did you do to him?"
"I don't even-"
Matiya pounced, and brought the hilt of the blade upon the otter's head. The blow had no effect.
Thordan quickly spun back and tried to get away from the madbeast - straight into a less angry hedgehog.
Grollo, who had not been paying attention to the entire conversation, was not sure why somebeast was screaming so close to him.
Matiya looked at the otter and the sword. Normally the hilt-to-the-head would have knocked him out…
Weaving around the hedgehog, Thordan sprinted straight into the nearest wall.
In all honesty... Fret had expected worse than a change of clothes. The ferret was definitely, most certainly, absolutely, under no circumstances whatsoever enjoying himself. But really, it could have been worse, all things considered. He had gone to bed the previous night hungry and cold and dreading the imminent crack of a whip. He was still hungry, and not pleased by the circumstances. But there was no whip in sight.
"Now... just affix the collar to your neck..."
No doubt his classmates would be laughing if they could see him now.
Clad in an overly-fancy tunic covered in overly-fancy little patterns, with a tail-sleeve made for a much bushier tail and frowning determinedly into a mirror, Fret could not have blamed them.
He looked ridiculous.
"There! You look wonderful for a Deilart squirrel! Despite being vermin, that is."
Morag, as the she-squirrel was known, had even attached a big fake bushy tail to his backside.
"Thanks." He muttered, without a trace of thankfullness.
"Ooh! Nice manners, ferret!"
The compliment took him by surprise, and his thanks was more genuine this time, though still laced with bitterness.
"At least you talk less than Father. He just goes on and on about taxes, court, how he hates Borellers and stuff. Boooooring!"
"Aha." Fret replied, his eyes narrowed. All of those things did sound very boring, but frankly so did a teenager's opinion of their father.
"You see... he's one of the most boring beasts in existence! At least Thordan Swalestrom and his herbs can help other creatures."
Can't help me can they? "...It must be frustrating."
"Look! You understand me more than him. Well... can you be him?"
"I'd rather not..."
"Just try..." Morag grinned, like an eagle who received a dancing invitation from a mouse.
Fret did not like the grin. "Taxes... taxes?" He whimpered.
"More like this." Morag placed her paws upon her hips and puffed her chest forwards. Her tail flared up behind her dramatically. "Double the taxes! TRIPLE the taxes! Show those peasant's who's Duke of Deilart and not some smelly farmer!"
The ferret narrowed his eyes again, his muzzle drawing itself into a frown. "... He sounds... popular..."
"Well... not really."
Fret was forced to hide a rueful smile. "I wonder why?"
"Take a guess."
"Must be the tunic." The ferret said after a pause, gesturing at the oversized clothing he wore. "Stinks of pollen."
"Wrong, little - what's your name again?"
"Fret." Fret replied, cordially.
"Weird name - better than most vermin. They say that those are nicknames anyway."
"My name is a name!" Fret snapped, before glaring at his feetpaw, his paws crossed over his chest. "My momma gave it to me."
"Ah. Better than most vermin indeed. Wonderful."
Fret harrumphed and glanced at the doorway. Supposing he made a run for it... How far would he get before the squirrelmaid caught him?
"Don't even think about running... Fret, was it? Ah well. You're stuck with me forever!"
Fret stepped away from her, now genuinely considering running away. "B-b-but I-"
"Nope. I hope you like it here. If not, then too bad!" The squirrelmaid snapped her fingers and pointed a claw at a rat in the corner. "Go on Inkheart, immortalize my nameday!"
"Tell us what you know." Momchillo demanded, now clad in the old relic's of a warlord's armour. He thought he looked more intimidating that way. It was lucky the unnamed warlord was a mouse, or else the armour might not have fitted.
"N-nothing!" Thordan wailed, hoping somebeast else would come to rescue him.
Thordan Swalestorm was wrapped up and bound thickly by the tapestry of Ayvar the Brainless himself! Seated atop him was Grollo, to ensure he could not escape easily. Matiya was at the doorway, on look-out duty. It would not do to be caught by the enemy. Tales of Gonff the mousethief had taught him the importance of subterfuge.
The brownish-yellow mouse changed tactics. "If you tell us where Fret is, or where he might be, we will untie you and let you go on your way."
"I've never heard of a Fret!" Thordan was quite aware that his life may be lost at the paws of these... children, but that would occur only if he resisted.
Momchillo frowned. This was a wily creature and could not be trusted... but seemed to be telling the truth. Another idea came to him. "Do you know where the slaves are kept?"
"In the pens! Down in the basements! Unless if they belong to a noble..."
"Go on." The mouse encouraged, his footpaw tapping the ground impatiently.
"They would belong to the property of the noble, so you would find them in their residence, or near it." Thordan could feel sweat dripping off his forehead and onto the floor.
"How many nobles are there?" The dangerous mouse asked.
"Er... there's King Garmund, Duke Somerled, my parents... the Borellers aren't here..."
So many beasts... Momchillo was beginning to despair. How were they ever going to find him? Triel was huge!
"I would go for Somerled first, if you ignore the Stalwarts..."
Grollo thought fit to speak now. "We should find the abbot!" He squeaked. "We can't just-"
"Where do we find Sommerled?" Momchillo asked, his paws on his hips.
He was addressing Thordan of course. "The North Tower!"
"Thank you for your help." The mouse cleared his throat. "Where... is the North Tower?"
"Er... the North side of the castle?"
"I guessed that." Momchillo brushed at the old breastplate. "But I was hoping for... directions..."
"Turn left twice and go up the stairs!"
"Thank you." Momchillo beckoned Matiya and Grollo over.
"Can you please untie me?" Thordan tried to gesture at his paws.
"Wait." Momchillo shushed him. "Be patient." The three redwallers fell into a huddle.
"We don't know if he's telling the truth about anything." Momchillo whispered, loud enough for their captive to hear. "But we don't really have much of a choice. Might as well start somewhere, right?"
Matiya was the first to nod, and after a hesitant pause the hedgehog repeated the gesture."But we can't just let the otter go." He pointed out. "He'll tell on us..."
"That said I think we should split up. You guys head up to the North Tower and find this Sommerled. I'll check the pens."
Matiya nodded.
Grollo glanced at the captive otter. "But if... if somebeast sees him like that?" He swallowed audibly.
"It's a risk we'll have to take if we want to save Fret from these slavers." Matiya replied, without any hesitation.
Momchillo chewed his lip, before nodding. "And nobeast should see him anyways... Grollo find something to gag him with. Matiya help me drag him to the corner over there. It'll be harder for somebeast to see."
"Wait. What?" Thordan's eyes widened in worry.
"Of all the places you could have lost a vermin babe in, you choose the one country that actively enslaves their kind?"
"It was not my intention to lose anybeast..." The abbot replied, scratching his chin.
Garmund shrugged. He was a big mouse, broad-shouldered and strong from years of warfare. He was not in his prime anymore but was nevertheless still a formidable creature. Abbot Martin was virtually the opposite kind of mouse. Old, small, frail and bespectacled. "Still he can't have gone too far. Don't worry your old bones, he'll be brought to me before sundown or somebeast will know about it... "
Fret glared into the mirror before him. Morag seemed determined to make him suffer. A lot of beasts did, to be fair, but usually Fret was not completely at their mercy. He would have clawed at the detestable squirrel but knew full well that the guards outside would not hesitate to run him through or throw him out the window, should the need arise.
The great big bully of a squirrel, who truly put Momchillo and Matiya to shame, had twisted his ears, pinched his tail and stuffed him into costume after costume. Piles of crayon drawings lay upon the floor, each immortalizing Fret's humiliation. The ferret hoped dearly that his peers would never see them. Though they might never see him again at this point.
He was now wearing the traditional winter clothing of the Borrelers... whoever they were...
"Half-vermin bog-dwellers." Morag chattered on, wrapping a scarf over the ferret's mouth. Whether this was to muffle any of his complaints (not that he complained much... aloud) or to compliment his outfit, he was not sure. "Near total savages and to think I'm betrothed to one." From the depths of her wardrobe of terrors she withdrew another unnecessarily large scarf.
Fret whimpered out loud. The fur atop his head was already matted and flat with sweat and the rest of him was buried so deep within the costume that Fret could scarcely breathe. It felt like he was carrying the weight of three Grollos. What would he give for the freedom to fan himself?
"If those dastardly greybeasts can wear this much, you can too." Morag snapped, neglecting to mention that said dastardly greybeasts only wore this much in winter. It was currently midsummer. The squirrelmaid wrinkled her nose as she attached the final scarf. "Try not to sweat so much, you're stinking up my room."
I should have clawed her when I had the chance...
"When I said I wanted those taxes tripled." Sommerled started slowly. "I was under the impression that you had money to pay with." The squirrel cleared his throat. Peasant revolts were one of the few problems being nobility couldn't get you out of. In fact, peasant revolts only ever seemed to target nobility. "Seeing that you are no more than stinking farmers I realize I was mistaken. I will lower the taxes when I see fit, you can go home now." Sommerled liked to think that he was ready for anything. The magnificent speech he'd just practiced was his fail-safe way to pacify the revolting peasants should they revolt.
His head would roll faster than a wheel if he ever had to put his speech-making to the test, but he was too busy staring at his reflection to realize that.
Sommerled was very plain-looking for squirrel nobility. He lacked both charm and charisma and had almost no redeeming qualities... scratch that. He had none.
The squirrel gave an irritable growl and glared at the door. Somebeast was knocking! Aware that it might be somebeast of importance that he ought not to get on the wrong side of. He cleared his throat, straightened his whiskers and marched towards the door. Upon pulling it open he found he had half a mind to slam it shut again. Standing before two small children, a squirrel and a hedgehog respectively.
Sommerled crossed his paws over his chest and did not try to hide his annoyance. "And who are you?" He demanded.
"S-sorry to bother you." Grollo began, swaying back and forth on tip-paw, the way nervous beasts did. "But we-we er-"
Sommerled began tapping his footpaw impatiently. "This had better not be some sort of Borreler joke." He snapped, shooting a glare in Matiya's direction.
"Borreler?" Matiya didn't know what a Borreler was, but the older squirrel's tone implied it to be something rude. The abbey youngster hardened his face and did his best to look intimidating. "We're from Redwall." He said, with all the majesty of an Abbey Warrior. "And we're looking for our friend. Fret is bitter and mean and can't take a joke to save his life but he's one of us." He pointed an accusatory paw at Sommerled. "And we think you had something to do with his disappearance."
Grollo clapped his paws excitedly, easily impressed by the mini-speech.
Sommerled merely frowned. "I have no idea who you're talking about."
Matiya's majesty vanished. "Y-you don't?" The young squirrel scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"None. I would never imprison another squirrel... unless they're a Southard or a Borreler of course."
"But Fret's a ferret." Grollo pointed out. The hedgehog gestured at Matiya's habit. "Wears one of those things."
Sommerled's ears fell. "Oh... well then... this is most unfortunate but I'm afraid he's mine now."
"What!?" The abbeybeasts exclaimed in unison.
"My daughter's anyway, but all of Morag's things are my things."
"But how can you own Fret?" Matiya demanded, fury turning his fur an even deeper red. "He's a freebeast."
"He's vermin." Sommerled shot back. "And a vermin commoner at that. I am Trielian nobility and well within my rights to own slaves."
The younger squirrel's tail puffed up with rage. "Fret is no slave!"
"He's our neighbour." Grollo pleaded, wishing that somebeast more mature were here to sort everything out.
"It must be very distressing for you and you are welcome to find a corner to cry in but I am a busy beast." He made to shut the door, but Matiya stepped forwards before he could do so. The two squirrels glared at each other. After a few minutes Sommerled relented with a sigh. "Perhaps there is some way I could compensate you for your loss." He reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a single copper coin. "There. That ought to be how much he's worth." Sommerled placed it into Matiya's paw.
"W-what?"
"Payment for your ferret." Sommerled said proudly. "I know, very generous of me, but I do understand the value a good slave can have."
For a moment the younger squirrel was stunned. He knew not what to do, nor what to say until Fret's grumpy face and Abbot Martin's worried one swam before his vision. Matiya would do what any true warrior would do. With a cry of 'REDWAAAAAAAALL!' the abbeybeast clenched his fist and punched Sommerled.
Somebeast had left a large number of keys unsupervised, and Momchillo had seen fit to swipe them off the table. It was a good thing too, for he had needed to go through a few locked doors to get this far down.
The first thing Momchillo realized about the pens was that they stunk worse than Hellgates. The second thing he realized was that all of the slaves were weary-looking vermin. The third thing he realized was that Fret was not there.
This last realisation was in fact, a blessing. Were Fret here he'd no doubt be suffering intensely. The ferret himself stunk, but not as much as this. Momchillo had to pinch his nose shut and breathe through his mouth just to stay conscious. The slaves lay upon a cold, hard floor, surrounded by their own excrement and bound in chains so tight it seemed hard to breathe.
The young mouse had been raised on tales of heroism and chivalry. Gonff the Mousethief had not stood and watched the creatures of Mossflower suffer. And neither would Momchillo.
The door to the pens screamed open, and half a hundred eyes glanced in his direction. Filled with indignation, Momchillo stomped over to the nearest rat (careful to avoid the filth as much as he could) and began searching through the keys. The vermin looked up at him quizzically, but did not protest when Momchillo freed him of his collar.
"Thanks..." The vermin muttered rubbing their neck.
Momchillo merely nodded before marching towards the next slave.
Matiya liked to think that he was an excellent warrior, he was a child of course and all children thought themselves excellent warriors. Sommerled thought himself an excellent warrior, most nobles thought themselves excellent warriors. Neither Matiya nor Sommerled were excellent warriors. Grollo wasn't either for that matter. But he was at least aware of this.
The elder squirrel reached for his sword, but was pounced upon by the younger one. The two tumbled around in a whirl of fists and fluffy tails. "Guards!" Sommerled shouted. "Guards!"
Grollo whimpered and curled in on himself. This could only end in tears!
Matiya, who had come out on top in their rolling contest, aimed a heavy blow at the noble's jaw. Sommerled's latest cry of 'guards!' was cut short. The elder squirrel responded with a punch of his own that managed to throw off his assailant.
Matiya rolled to his feetpaws, in time to hear the approaching footsteps of what sounded like a small army. "Grollo!" He snapped, finally catching sight of his terrified friend. "Now's not the time to be a coward!"
It was no time to get distracted either, for Sommerled stood on his feetpaws now, his sword drawn and pressed threateningly against the younger squirrel's back.
"Ha! You've been listening to the rumors, haven't you?"
Matiya raised his paws in surrender, but could only reply with an awkward 'um'.
"Don't act like you don't know." The squirrel snapped. "All the other nobles spread them. Talk about how I'm supposed to be some weak, defenseless creature." He spat aggressively. "Well, as you can see, I am a beast you don't want to get on the wrong side of."
The footsteps were drawing closer, the guards were nearly upon them. Sommerled went on, excitedly chattering about how great he was and listing his many accomplishments. Matiya seized his chance and stepped forwards suddenly, so that the sword was no longer pressing against his back. He whirled around as Sommerled swung the blade and ducked just in time. The young squirrel continued to back away from the older beast's furious (and badly aimed) blows, until he had reached the door. He could hear footsteps fast approaching, soon he'd be outnumbered. Luckily for him the lock had a key in it...
Matiya slammed it shut, ducked under the singing steel, locked it once, darted to the side, locked it twice, hopped over the sword and finally pulled the key free. Sommerled, having grown more and more impatient over the course of their duel, jabbed forwards with enough strength to skewer a crow.
Thankfully neither crows, nor Matiya stood in the way of his mighty blade, which plunged itself up to the crossguard in the door.
"Grollo catch!" Matiya tossed the key in the hedgehog's general direction (in other words it landed nowhere near Grollo) before slamming Sommerled's head into the door. "REEEEEDWAAAAAALL!" Matiya cried, his throat beginning to hurt just from the repeated battlecries (how did the warriors of old keep it up?). The young squirrel pounced upon Sommerled's back, and knowing the weakness of squirrels everywhere, grabbed one ear in each paw and pulled with all his might.
Sommerled screamed.
Young Thordan was most relieved when Alfyn found him. His elder cousin had always been protective of him and now ungagged him with all the ferocity of a badger in bloodwrath.
"Thank you." Thordan gasped.
"Who did this to you!?" Alfyn demanded, tossing the rag away. "Where are they and where can I find them?" In all honesty he looked a bit like a badger in bloodwrath...
"Couldn't you untie me fi-"
"This is no time for jokes Thordan!" Alfyn bellowed. "Where are the beasts responsible? Is this that rat Bohemond's idea of a joke?"
Bohemond was King Garmund's eldest son. And a prankster, to his father's chagrin. "Well it was a mouse." Thordan started. "And they went up the North Tower to look for Sommerled. Now could you please-"
"I will avenge you!" Alfyn promised, placing a paw on the bound otter's shoulder. "Stay strong!" He shouted, rising to his feetpaws and shooting off in the direction of the culprits.
"Untie me..." Thordan sighed and slumped against the ground.
"No." Said Fret, flatly, at the sight of Morag's latest outfit. It was one of her own dresses, a frumpy, frilly thing, filled with patterns of emerald flowers and tiny little rose designs. It exposed too much in the chest department and looked so tight Fret doubted that even he and his bendy ferret ribs could squeeze inside.
"You sound like father now." Morag pouted. "He never lets me wear this."
For once, Fret found himself in agreement with something her father said. "It's ugly." Fret snapped, his ears pressed flat on his back. He didn't care anymore. If she tried to make him wear it he'd claw her to shreds if it was the last thing he did.
"It's prettier than you are." Morag shot back, before seizing him by the cheek and tugging. "And you're a very sweet little thing."
The ferret pulled away from her grip and hastily rubbed at where she had grabbed him. He had no reply at the ready for that, and Morag grabbed him again, this time by the collar of his habit.
"Anyways you don't get a choice. You have to put it on because I say so." She smiled sweetly. "You will look adorable!"
Fret had had more than enough now. The slave pens, and even death itself, seemed preferable to the squirrelmaid's company. "Can't I wear that one instead?" He pointed at another outfit behind her, and when Morag turned around to see which one he'd chosen, Fret spun free of her paws and away.
"Huh?" Morag spun back around, realising the deception. Her eyes went wide.
Fret reached the door. He made to wrench it open, but found it wouldn't budge. His hearts sunk. "No! Nonononono!" He whimpered and tugged at the door with increasing desperation.
The squirrelmaid giggled as she drew forwards, her every footstep made Fret's tugging all the more frantic. "When I said you're mine forever." Her paw tightened around his tail, and slowly but surely she pulled him away from escape and freedom. Fret's claws raked the ground as he was pulled away, drawing gashes in the floorboard. "I meant forever."
The almighty struggle of an abbey warrior determined to liberate his classmate from a cruel and arrogant slaver was a tale Matiya knew well. He'd been born and bred on stories of warriors and glory, of daring rescue and exquisite swordplay. The reality of it all was somewhat less impressive than the stories...
"Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go!" Sommerled ineffectively smacked the top of his own head in a frantic attempt at liberating his ears from the clutches of a most sadistic opponent. "You vile creature! I'll have you flogged! Stripped of all titles!" Matiya twisted one ear especially hard. "EXECUTED!"
Matiya opened his mouth to reply but could think of nothing to say. In hindsight striking a noble hadn't been the wisest of moves. Even if they did save Fret and flee Triel, this squirrel had all the means necessary to besiege Redwall! He would no doubt be beaten back if he tried to, of course, but the risk was still there!
"Y-you heathen!" Sommerled continued to shriek. "Vile, treacherous creature! When the King hears of this!" The elder squirrel stumbled over a stool and fell backwards. This proved to be an effective way of throwing off an opponent attached to one's back. Matiya was winded on impact and Sommerled seized the opportunity. The elder squirrel shot to his feetpaws, his ears once more free to breathe, and brought a fist into the younger one's nose. Matiya replied by tucking his feet in and swiftly bringing them into Sommerled's face.
The kick itself did not hurt very much, but it was enough to knock Sommerled off balance and onto the curled-up form of Grollo.
Sommerled screamed. Again. Much louder that time.
Momchillo breathed deeply. The air stunk so hard he was dizzy just breathing it, but after a while he had gotten used to it. Or about as used to it as a mouse from Redwall could become. The young rodent rubbed at tired wrists. The constant turning and testing of keys and locks had been tiring and the less said about his cleanliness, the better. To his surprise, the vermin he had freed were still where he'd left them.
"Ahem." The mouse cleared his throat, and all eyes darted to him. Not even Abbot Martin could get somebeast's attention this quickly... "I have released you."
Some slaves muttered thanks, others grunted. None rose from the muck.
Momchillo was a little bit annoyed now. "You can get out of here, you know? Walk right out the door and into freedom!"
The vermin glanced at one another and most shrugged.
Momchillo crossed his paws over his chest. He had resolved not to leave Triel without Fret. He would not be leaving without these beasts either. "You're going to get out of here whether you like it or not." The young mouse growled.
"There." Morag placed a tiara upon the ferret's head. "You look just like a princess."
Fret looked like a sad and angry princess. His lips quivered. Was this his fate? His destiny? Was he doomed to humiliate himself for the rest of his days? To be nothing more than a living, breathing doll in the paws of a spoiled child? It was a terrible enough fate to reduce anyone to tears. But Fret wasn't crying. Not because he had some kind of inner strength or anything, he just wasn't hydrated enough.
"Oh don't be sad." Morag smiled at him. It would have been a sweet smile, coming from anybeast else. "We still have two dozen different things for you to try on! And really, these are the height of fashion. I can't see why you wouldn't want to wear them! The finest silks, most exquisite colours, embedded jewelry. Fantastic patterns! Oooh! You should wear this next!" She held up a silken robe complete with heart patterns. "What are you doing?"
"Oh nothing..." Fret smirked and there was a verminous gleam in his eyes. "Just that... if this is so valuable... it would be a shame if somebeast were to..." He drew a claw further down the neck of the dress, tearing it as he did so. "Oops!" He cackled.
Morag shrieked. "No! N-no! What are you doing?" She made to grab at him but Fret managed to step away in time to avoid her paw.
"Touch me one more time!" The ferret growled. "And I will rip this stupid outfit to shreds!"
"Y-you wouldn't!" Morag herself did not sound very convinced of this fact. Fret proved it wrong in any case, when he tore it apart from the inside.
The squirrelmaid fell to her knees with a cry of anguish. "Y-you monster!"
Fret kicked off the sorry remains of the dress, sadistic glee rushing through his form at the sight of her now. "That's for treating me like a toy." The ferret snapped, stomping over to her unprotected closet.
"Guards! Guards!" Morag screamed, but it was too late. Another pair of (extremely expensive) rags were torn apart and dumped unceremoniously upon the ground.
A pair of armoured squirrels burst through the (locked) door and into Morag's chambers.
"Call them off!" Fret warned, holding a third dress in his claws.
"Go away!" Morag sobbed. "Out!" The squirrelmaid brought her paws over her face. "I said out!"
The guards shared looks of confusion as they exited.
"And tell your rat to take his drawings and burn them." Fret added.
"B-but my nameda-"
Fret's only reply was a slight tearing sound.
"Stop! Stop! Stop! As you wish. Inkheart! Destroy them all!" The rat hurried away to do her bidding. Morag fell to the floor, defeated. "Just leave my clothes a-alone!"
"Oh I will. No following now. Or else I might slip and tear something else..." Fret grinned and left the squirrelmaid sobbing.
Sommerled was hissing like a serpent. Vague and gruesome threats aplenty poured from his mouth like poison. The squirrel-lord would have looked more fearsome, and indeed might have resembled something right out of Hellgates, were he not busy removing quills from his posterior.
Grollo was convinced that the elder squirrel would act upon his promise to 'pin you to a tree with your own quills and watch you rot away' (and Sommerled might have, were he not Sommerled). He found it hard to quell the panic threatening to overtake him. The guards outside demanding to be let in did not help his nerves in the slightest.
Matiya on the other paw was laughing his head off. Growing up among hedgehogs it was only a matter of time before one was pricked by a spine or two. And it was always hilarious when somebeast (somebeast other than himself anyways) had to deal with the protective hairs of a hedgehog.
Sommerled hopped about, pulling the spikes out of him with as much dignity as he could muster... which was another way of saying he looked ridiculous. With a final scream of rage Sommerled removed the final quill and tossed it haphazardly upon the floor.
"You will pay for that." He spat, curling his paws into fists. "The both of you, your vermin friend and any beast else that thinks they can get away with-" Sommerled's bravado was crushed as soon as he stepped forwards. He walked right into a quill. And screamed. His throat hurt more than anything at that point.
Matiya laughed all the harder, barely holding himself up. Warriors were not supposed to enjoy the suffering of their enemies but the young squirrel couldn't help himself. Then again, he supposed every warrior was different...
He stopped laughing when the door was thrown off his hinges by a hulking creature big enough to rival a badger in musculature. This was Alfyn Stalwart, a Trelian Skipper that put Mossflower's otter chieftains to shame. Every inch of him seemed to possess enough strength to snap a boulder in half and Alfyn did not look pleased in the slightest.
"What's going on here?" He demanded, his anger died down ever so slightly, at the sight of the abbeydwellers whom he had impressed the night before with tales of incredible daring. But Matiya saw the look of pure evil and the promise of pain that had drawn itself over Sommerled's face and knew that he had to leave before the squirrel lord became coherent.
"We were just looking for directions." Matiya smiled innocently, when Sommerled tripped over Grollo here. Dreadful thing hedgehog spikes. Right Grollo?"
The hedgehog was too terrified to do more than nod.
Alfyn snorted, and to everybeast's surprise, kicked the duke. "Embarrassing yourself in front of foreigners I see. No surprise there."
"They attacked me!" Sommerled hissed.
Alfyn chuckled. "You expect me to believe two abbey children did this to you? What a silly thing to say." It was only then that he noticed Matiya and Grollo fleeing through the door. "But... this is you we're talking about and... Thordan!" The Skipper gasped, remembering what the younger otter had told him. The abbeybeasts were targeting the weakest amongst the nobility! "Oi!" The giant otter roared. "Where do you think you're going!?"
"Run Grollo! Run!" Matiya screamed, as the two raced helter-skelter down the hall.
"Come back here!" Alfyn shouted, so forcefully that were it not for an overpowering sense of self-preservation the two would have stopped running and cowered before him with their tails tucked between their legs. As it was, they chose life.
"He destroyed you Rosaline." Morag cried, clutching the remains of a silken dress. "And you Dandelion. I- I need a pawkerchief!" She shrieked, rising to her feetpaws and sprinting away in search of one.
She was the first creature Matiya crashed into.
"Sorry!" The younger squirrel shouted, having knocked her off balance.
"Sorry." Grollo panted, brushing past.
Morag glared at their retreating backs just as a paw closed over her middle.
"Sorry." Said Alfyn (who had always been more brawn than brain), picking her up and throwing her like a javelin towards the retreating abbeybeasts.
"Aaaaaaaaah!" The Skipper had thrown too hard and Morag sailed over the retreating children. She landed on her front, winded and sore and groaning.
"Sorry!" Matiya cried again, hopping over her.
"So-rry." Grollo panted again, accidentally treading on her paws and tail as he raced away.
"Sorry." Alfyn apologized, crushing her underpaw.
"Worst... nameday... ever..." Morag wheezed.
"No, no, no." Down in the slave pens Momchillo was tugging at his ears in frustration. "You're supposed to desperately want freedom. When I release you, you're supposed to be excited about escaping. You want to see your family again, right? You want to... smell the sea again, right? Or the forest? Or the flowers? O-or anything other than this?" The mouse gagged. "How do you live here!?"
The slaves shrugged in unison.
The mouse began to hop up and down in frustration, when suddenly an idea hit him.
"So... let's try this again... you'll do anything I ask you to... right?"
The slaves shrugged in unison, but it was a shrug of confirmation.
"Okay then." Momchillo tugged his tail and cleared his throat. "I order you to break out of this prison, steal a boat and find a nice island to live on. Farm or fish for food and live peacefully. I also command you to enjoy the rest of your lives, to always be kind and honest and respect your elders and betters. Please?" The brownish yellow mouse grinned hopefully.
The slaves shrugged and got to their feetpaws.
"That's better." The rodent rocked back and forth on his feetpaws. "Er please do so now. As er- loudly as possible?"
"Freedom." The assorted rats and weasels cried, unenthusiastically.
"Wait!" Momchillo cleared his throat again. "Free every slave you meet on your way out and er- if you see a young ferret called Fret could you tell him to sit tight, stay put, help is on the way? Pretty please?" He gave them another hopeful grin and this time the slaves nodded in acknowledgement as they turned and headed away.
"Well...that went well..."
"I- pant- can't- pant- run- pant- much- pant- longer!" Grollo panted.
Alfyn Stalwart showed no signs of slowing down, yet Matiya could feel his paws beginning to tire and Grollo, who was unfit to begin with, was going on adrenaline alone.
"We just need to get to the pens!" Matiya shouted back. "Fret is definitely going to be- Fret!"
The young ferret had just emerged from another hallway, and turned at the sound of his name, only to widen his eyes at the sight of Matiya's rapidly approaching form.
"Fret!" Matiya grinned, only to realise that he was going too fast to stop. Fret seemed to realise the same, but too late to do anything about it. With a scream and a clatter and a whirl of limbs the two rolled upon the ground. "Sorry..." Matiya groaned, all at once on top of, under and around the ferret.
Grollo tripped over them before Fret could reply.
"Ye be free now." A tall, muscled rat grunted to a smaller one carrying a stack of papers. "Come with us." The larger vermin left no room for argument.
I never liked Morag anyways. Inkheart decided, dumping the pages he carried onto the ground. She always pulls my tail...
Momchillo, following in the wake of the freed vermin, noticed the large pile of drawings, and curiosity compelled him to pick one up. The mouse winced at the sight of Fret... wearing far too little clothing and looking very angry.
"Poor Fret..." Nevertheless Momchillo could not resist taking a peak at one of the other drawings... or the one under it...
"My liege!" Sommerled slammed the door of the throne room open, hastily bowed, and half-limped, half-stomped towards the pair of mice. "This treacherous old fool." The squirrellord pointed a paw at Abbot Martin, who was understandably miffed at being called a treacherous old fool. "Set his children upon me!"
Garmund raised an eyebrow.
"I beg your pardon?" Abbot Martin flared up.
"Oh no!" Sommerled seethed. "I beg for yours!" He pulled a quill free from his rear. "Your children attacked me without provocation! They beat me and bit me and clawed me and saw fit to thrust entire spikes up my-"
Garmund and the guards were laughing so hard that Sommerled failed to finish his sentence. He flared up with indignation and seemed to triple in size, as if getting ready to smite down the redwaller standing before him.
That was when one Alfyn Stalwart burst in.
"Children!" Abbot Martin breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the three being carried by the Skipper. They were dripping with sweat, exhausted, and all three had a painful amount of spines sticking out from places they shouldn't be.
"Father Abbot sir!" Matiya was the first to recover. "We can explain!"
"Sire!" Cried a squirrel guard, bursting through the doors.
"Your slaves are revolting!"
"And they're stealing a ship!"
Garmund shot to his feetpaws. "Bring me my axe!" Roared the warrior mouseking. "I've got heads to split!"
"N-not yours." The guardsbeasts pointed at Sommerled. "His ones! Somebeast released them from the pens and we didn't know what to do-"
"Get me my axe!" Sommerled roared, forgetting that he neither owned, nor knew how to use one.
"The p-pens?" Grollo squeaked, wide-eyed and worried. Matiya stiffened suddenly and realisation struck the old abbot.
"Where is Momchillo?"
Sommerled had not been pleased. He had not been pleased at all. Morag had not been pleased either. Because her father refused to buy replacement dresses. She was rather glad to see the back of the ferret.
The Old Abbot was surprisingly good at bargaining, and in the end had managed to secure Fret's freedom, to the ferret's immense relief. He hadn't managed to convince Triel to abandon slavery as a whole, unfortunately, but he had managed to stall the squirrel lord long enough for the beasts Momchillo had liberated to get their paws on a boat. Nobeast was too interested in sailing after them (except Sommerled of course, but they had stolen his boat).
There had been a great deal of apologizing and a great deal of explaining and, of course, a quick lunch but the abbeybeasts had left in all haste after that, lest the squirrel-lord find a way to blame them for lost property (It was technically speaking, Momchillo's fault he now had no slaves).
Fret himself could not remember being happier. The abbot's impassioned speech about him being a redwaller at heart, and the various exploits of his peers (even if they were motivated out of glory rather than any desire to free him) had made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. It was a good feeling, if an unfamiliar one. The ferret sighed contentedly, and made his way over towards his classmates. Matiya, Momchillo and Grollo were huddled in a corner, passing around pieces of paper and giggling like dibbuns.
"Hello." Fret sat opposite them, rather awkwardly twiddling his paws.
"Oh, hey Fret!" Matiya looked up from the paper and grinned widely. "Quite an adventure, eh?" The squirrel glanced back down at the paper and his grin vanished instantly.
"Yeah." Fret rubbed the back of his head. "Quite an adven- what?"
The three had grown unusually quiet and were sending awkward 'what do we do' faces at one another.
The ferret's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly the papers seemed quite a bit familiar. "What is it?" He asked, dreading the answer.
"Well..." Momchillo spun his sheet around to reveal one of Inkheart's drawings. Of Fret. In a dress.
The ferret's face fell. "Oh..."
The mouse could not suppress a little chuckle but the young abbeybeasts tried at least to look apologetic. "Let's just say we're glad we got you out when we did."
Fret gave a nervous chuckle. "Y-yeah… real glad… I was… I was gonna thank you for it…" He noticed the large stack of papers Grollo was now trying to hide and felt a familiar anger rising within him. "But you all think it was funny so now I won't bother!" The ferret shot to his feet and stomped away, muttering under his breath.
"We're going to have to apologize…" Matiya lowered his ears in shame.
"Yeah.." Momchillo agreed. He smiled guiltily and reached over for the next drawing. "When we're done we'll burn them but for now…" He spun it over and the giggling continued.
Fret kicked at a stray piece of dirt and looked back towards Arnet. It's palace was still visible, glimmering in the sunset. "Worst place in the world…" The ferret muttered. "Worse than Redwall."