27. Converging Paths.
Sovna was elated, when Aldwin proclaimed that they are about to find shelter among friends of the Long Patrol. Her elation swiftly died down, when the captain explained, that said friends are just a tiny clan of rabbits, who can give ten guests a roof over their heads, but cannot spare anything beyond meager tokens of hospitality from their larders. Well, resting under a roof – of a half-house, half-burrow, cunningly constructed in a hollow under a brush-covered hillside, hidden from beasts who didn't know where to look – resting under its roof was good too. And so was resting in general – looking at another snowstorm, that was rising as the Gallopers finally reached this hideout, the captain decided, that taking a day to warm their paws would be prudent.
Now the haremaid was busy polishing her helmet, scowling every time her paw touched the noticeable dent, left by the old fox's cutlass. Her emotions were quite easy to read:
"You look like you're blamin' this fine piece of steel for savin' your bloomin' life, my gal." Aldwin stopped honing his claymore, a fearsome heavy blade, which most hares would only be able to use with two paws, but he easily wielded with one.
Sovna stared at him suspiciously. Since when the captain cared about her? None of the officers she met at Salamandastron did. Not that other Patrollers and cadets were much different, but at least a few of them seemed genuinely friendly, like old Greeves, even if they still didn't care enough to understand how she felt. But she had to say something, regardless:
"It's a reminder for me, sah. That I need to learn more, improve my fencing skills."
Aldwin looked back oddly. "You don't have anything left to learn about fencin', from what I've seen back at the Mountain. What you have to do is practice the bloomin' moves you know till you can do 'em in your sleep and build more muscle. With that you'll be a warrior with few peers, if you only have courage as well."
"Do you doubt my courage?" Sovna bristled, before thinking.
The captain shrugged:
"All fightin' beasts think they have courage, Private, but what most of them have are flippin' different things – confidence in their skills, camaraderie, will to live. A beast's courage – or lack of it – is only revealed when she faces bad odds by herself." Aldwin made a wry face, remembering something unpleasant, before continuing. "I had mine courage tested jolly well, when I fought a score of vermin alone, though I heard that score had grown to a hundred now, thanks to our barrack taletellers. And, who knows, maybe you'll face your own test soon. Keep that helmet in good shape, it might save your life again."
"Captain?" Lieutenant Bascinette walked up to them. She did not even acknowledge Sovna's presence. "The storm seems to die down, our hosts predict weather to clear tomorrow. Will we set out?"
"Yes, Bascinette." Aldwin thought for a second, before moving his whetstone along the claymore's blade again. "In the morning. We'll scout the shoreline first."
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There was one bright spot in Scrimmo's life now – Torbit has finally forgiven him for not keeping proper watch on the night, when Selvathy and her vermin friends stole their longboat. Probably because a new friendship edged grief and rage out of the young otter's mind, to an extent.
But the same friendship made Torbit unwilling to hear anything negative about his new friend or the Axehound clan in general.
"So what if mice and the others work, while otters fight? That's just common sense for ye." Torbit, lounging on a warm bed, tired after a day of competing with the locals in throwing spears and javelins, underice swimming, running and other games, fit for otter warriors, didn't even turn his head to Scrimmo. Torbit did well, being among the best three in every competition, and his mood seemed genuinely good for the first time since the Seacrag Castle. So he was not angered by Scrimmo's attempt to have a serious talk, but neither he was interested in what his older friend had to say. "We're naturally bigger, stronger and faster. Rodents don't even have proper instincts of a fighter, so if they till fields, and we fight vermin, everybeast wins."
"That's what Heddin told ye?"
"And how is he wrong?"
Scrimmo breathed deeply, screwing up his courage, then said:
"Since I was a babe, I was taught, that it's vermin who loathe honest work, and use strength to make others toil for them."
"Yea." Torbit answered much calmer, than Scrimmo expected. "That's how Ilmo Wavedog taught all of us. And look where his wisdom got us. Stop with yer foolishness, Scrimmo. We finally found a safe haven."
Before Scrimmo could think of an answer, a bugle sounded loudly from outside – once, twice.
"Huh." Torbit sat on his bed. "If I remember right, this means returning warriors."
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Torbit was correct. But while he expected to see the High Warchief and the whole Axehound army, when he and Scrimmo went to the gates on the mountain-facing side of the fort, when the gates opened he saw only a handful of sea otters.
The otter who led the tiny group stood out among the others, thanks to her shiny steel armor alone. A coronet of silver and amber on her head, and a thick cloak of stoat hides marked her as a beast from the very top of the Axehound clan, although she obviously coudn't be Warchief Willag.
Heddin stepped forward and hugged her:
"Aunt Akkla! How glad I am to see you alive and well!"
"And I am glad to see you did as the High Warchief bid you." Akkla Axehound had harsh, piercing voice, now slightly pained, as Heddin forgot his strength in his rejoicing. Her appearance was harsh as well – she was tall and lean, with dull fur that started to turn gray with age, protruding cheekbones and visible teeth, as if her hide was just a tiny bit too small for her skull. "Who are these otters?"
"Oh, them?" Heddin turned towards Torbit and Scrimmo and motioned the pair to come closer. "They're friends from an island far out in the ocean, Ergaph, they sailed here to find refuge with us, and of course I welcomed them."
"Is that so?" Under the scrutiny of Akkla's unblinking green eyes, Torbit found himself uncomfortable. "They look like real warriors, so their arrival may be quite timely."
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Honestly, Rowanbloom did not expect to save all of her patients, yet somehow even Smalltooth started on a clear path to recovery after two days.
The squirrel healer also did not expect to have as many willing helpers. Lynne, the eldest child of Dornal, was quick to offer whatever assistance she could. Rowanbloom wondered if this had something to do with the fact, that two of the feverish beasts were male mice, and Trugg was pretty handsome too, despite a life of slavery. To think of it, Ewalt looked pretty good and surprisingly youthful as well, at least when sleep softened his perpetual scowl. Upon catching herself on this observation, Rowanbloom also wondered if she was putting her own deep-buried thoughts into the young mousemaid's head.
Much more surprisingly, Tezza the weasel also volunteered to sit with the sick beasts, change their compresses and poultices, and trying to keep them warm and dry, when she was not outside, hunting. Rowanbloom never expected this sort of kind impulse from a creature, who, as everybeast in Marroch's band knew, wore a curved knife specifically for skinning, and relished any chance to use it on Kunas' soldiers. The squirrel healer was hesitant to let this weasel close to her patients, yet so far Tezza seemed to treat them with sincere tenderness. Rowanbloom could only scratch her head in puzzlement.
Regardless, they needed at least a few more days, maybe a week, before everybeast will be healthy enough to travel safely.
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Later in the evening Heddin, Akkla, Torbit, Scrimmo and most otters in the fort sat in the feasting hall, enjoying a simple dinner, and listening to the news from the field of war.
"I am not here simply to check on you," explained Akkla. "The High Warchief is still laying siege to Thundertop. As the saying goes, even a rat can put a fight, when cornered. Vermin there must be already reduced to eating their own spawn, but as long as they still have enough strength to defend the walls, the High Warchief cannot send away too many warriors and weaken our stranglehold."
"I guess my help is finally needed?" Heddin smiled broadly.
"There is a matter in which your help will be most useful. One big fish had slipped through our nets. Sargiss from Green Ravine and the remnants of his horde. They had more fighters left than I expected, and put to the sword every creature who slowed them down, so Sargiss broke through our pickets and ran down south and towards the shore with about fifty vermin."
"Not much of a force." Heddin shrugged.
"Enough to burn shrew villages and ravage the countryside. And if we leave them be until the next summer, they may grow in numbers, gathering all the runaway dregs to their banner. The High Warchief wants them dead this season. Our shores are now shielded from seascum by winter itself. Are you and your warriors ready for a hunt?"
"Haha!" The young warrior jumped up from his seat. "When I was not ready, Aunt?"
He turned in Torbit's direction. "My friend, it's great! Now you can show your mettle to us all! Maybe even catch your own foes, if they reached the northern coast. Won't you go with me?"
Torbit rose, smiling in return. "Of course! I'll go with ye, wherever ye lead me!"
To say that Scrimmo didn't share his enthusiasm would be a severe understatement.
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It was hard to sleep, when a combination of sniffle and sore throat made even simple breathing troublesome. Smalltooth almost forgot the feeling of being hale and hearty. For seasons now, he was hungry when not ill, bone-tired or bruised when not hungry. Sometimes, when in terrible, but lucid condition, like right now, he wondered why he is clinging to life so desperately. Was it because he hoped that something good will happen to him, if he survives long enough, like that mouse, Trugg, did? Like that pine marten, back in the Seacrag Castle's tower, did? What a foolish hope. Nothing good awaited an ermine as weak and cowardly at him. Even when he managed to accomplish something, to stab that king, may he know no warmth on the other side, from the back… nobeast noticed.
Embers in the fireplace still emitted a dim glow, and Smalltooth could see Kethra, lying right next to him, discern her face. Now, that was a beast who had every virtue that he had not – strength, skill at arms, beauty, valor, strong will, air of authority. Yet here she was, ill, breathing hoarsely in her troubled sleep, because she rushed to save him. Was that because she had so few underlings left? Or because her brother's death gave her some bizarre ideas about how a warlady was supposed to act? It had to be one of the two. Not like she paid any attention to him, when Marroch still had a real band. No, a hope that somebeast actually cared if he lived was doubly foolish.
Smalltooth bit his claws. He wanted to simply ask Kethra, why she risked her life for him, Hellgates, he wanted to touch her, relieve her own suffering somehow, show his gratitude, but he was too afraid – of what she might answer, of making a wrong impression. To think of it, that was his reason for clinging to life as well – he was just terribly afraid of dying. How a coward like him could expect anything good from life? I was only a matter of time before things will turn for the worse again.
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Three Starscatter otters joined the ranks of the war party that gathered on the next morning – Torbit, Scrimmo and Groundswell. The rest of their able-bodied tribesbeasts had families or cared for orphans, and were busy settling down in their new home.
Heddin Wintersky first intended to set out with just a handful of friends, but Akkla didn't want to even hear about taking needless risks. So almost thirty otters, every fighter in the settlement, save for the remainder of Starscatter refugees, and those too old or too young to keep up, now gathered, weapons and armor gleaming bright under the clear morning sky. Axehound warriors were well-equipped – powerful longbows with steel-tipped arrows, long-hafted battleaxes, broad-bladed spears, large wooden shields, iron helmets, even chainmail tunics on a few! Torbit could not help, but to feel that the war assembly of Starscatter otters, even in their better days, which he barely remembered, would look like riffraff next to this force.
"Ahhh, Aunt, does your heart swell as much of mine, when you think of leading this crowd into battle?" Heddin and Akkla were observing the gathering from the steps of the long hall. Their height was the same, but that, and eyes of uncommon colors, were the only similarities in their appearances. "I only wish we had an enemy worthy of us ahead."
Akkla looked at Heddin, her glare and voice cold as usual. "Be careful with such wishes. A good Warchief does not seek needless battles for personal glory."
"All right, all right, but I'm not going to be the Warchief anyway, so..."
"Neither does any good chieftain, however few beasts he leads."
Heddin laughed. "I just can't win against you, Aunt?"
Akkla patted his shoulder, her normally disdainful expression softening slightly. "One day, you will look and see more than I ever could. All my tedious advice is only to ensure that your hot blood will not get you killed before that day. Now come, it is your time to give the command to march. May our hunt be good, and may no vermin escape our wrath."
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The greatest scourge of any bedridden beast often is not an illness that left him bedridden, but terrible boredom. Of course, everybeast among the Ergaph runaways faced the same scourge during long winter evenings, so they knew all the usual ways to fight it – stories, songs and simple games. This morning Kethra felt herself well enough to try the latter – the ill beasts were not in the shape for telling tales and singing songs, and most of the rest went outside, hunting, fishing, and otherwise searching for food. Rowanbloom, tired after spending half the night awake, decided to take a nap, so only Lynne was left, to watch over the patients and the children:
"Ugh, where are these pestilential dice?" Grumbled quietly the ferretmaid, reclined against the wall, as she sorted through her travel bag.
"Ummm, I don't think you should do it." Lynne's objection sounded timid. "As the squirrel lady said: "complete rest is the swiftest way to recovery"."
"Lying like a week-old carcass and letting boredom gnaw on me? Nah!" disagreed Kethra. Then she turned to the right. "Hey, Ewalt, do you want to play some dice? Not like we have anything to bet... how about playing for flicks?"
Unlike Kethra, Ewalt had no problem dividing his days between sleep and dwelling in his own thoughts, once he was reasonably sure that woodlanders and vermin around him are not about to go for each other's throats. Despite chills and fever, he found such indolent existence, being cared about and fed, with no imminent danger lurking just outside the door, more pleasant than he wanted to admit. Trying to decline the offer politely, he answered:
"I'm not a beast to pass a good game. But see, my head aches pretty badly. And honestly, I don't like to play dice that much."
"But why?" Kethra sounded quite surprised.
Ewalt cursed inwardly, before saying:
"It's all pure chance. Luck."
The ferretmaid chuckled. "But ain't that's why dice games are just right for us, warriors? How can we survive and prosper without luck?"
"Do you really believe that?"
Kethra looked at Ewalt patronizingly. "Of course. All the wise beasts say – a great destiny is marked by bloody great luck, those favored by fates, destined to rise high, are lucky, both in battle and in games of chance."
The mouse warrior frowned, his right paw curling into a fist. "And how, by fur and fang, we are "favored"? Do we, between two of us, have even one of our kinbeasts alive?"
There was a brief silence. Then Trugg, who was lying next to Ewalt and heard the whole conversation, spoke:
"And do you not think that we must be really fortunate to survive, when death took everybeast around us? I mourned my parents, but I think, if they watch me from the silent forest now, they are glad that I'm alive. So I'm glad to be alive too." Trugg was looking at Lynne, when he said that, something that Ewalt, not having eyes at the back of his head, could not notice, but Lynne very much did.
"See, Ewalt, at least some of your kind are sensible." Kethra tried to smile, with limited success. "Ah, I'm wasting time talking to you. Trugg, come here. Hey, Smalltooth, can you move? Let's play without this surly mouse."
Ewalt never joined the game that day. From what he heard, by the time Rowanbloom woke up and started nagging at her patients for crawling out of their beds early, other gamblers owed Smalltooth plenty of flicks, that the ermine refused to dispense, pleading his illness and weakness.
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Dornal did not like to be alone with the fox, out on the ice, fishing. He just did not like letting the fox out of his sight even more. However, he had to admit, that fishing came naturally to the big vulpine, and he was of great help cutting holes in the ice too.
"Aha! Come to me, my tasty!" And once again, Suran effortlessly dragged out a fish big enough to make Dornal struggle for several minutes.
"Methinks that's enough for one time." Dornal inspected their catch, plentiful enough to give them hard time carrying it back through the snow. "If only I had a place and seeds to grow rye here. All this fish, and no real bread to eat it with…"
"Wait, you what… want to be a farmer?" Suran chuckled. "Woodlanders..."
"I don't expect you to understand."
"Bloody right, I don't! I had enough of farmer's life, when I was a cub, you know. Spending all the warm seasons in life tilling earth – that's worse than death. Then some beast, who had enough wits to live by the sword, comes about, grinds your snout into mud, and takes your harvest for yourself."
"So you decided to be that beast, the one who lives by the sword?" Dornal's words dripped with contempt.
"Yeah!" The fox agreed eagerly. "And so I lived better, than a bloody dirt farmer in this seasons-forsaken land can imagine! I travelled lands from sunrise to sunset, tasted all they had to offer, from wenches to wines."
"And all you have to show for it now is your sword. That's what I can call justice."
Suran found himself incensed. "Don't tell me your fat wife and five whimpering whelps are a better reward! What do you know, I probably sired more kits than you can count."
"Have any who won't spit on your grave?"
Dornal was neither slow nor blind, so when the fox lunged at him, he jumped away right in time. For a moment, the two beasts stopped, staring at each other, Dornal torn between fear and pride, Suran trying to fight seething rage. Then the fox smiled, showing yellowed teeth:
"Our conversation carried us away a bit. Let's go, we should bring fish to the house before it all is frozen solid."
Dornal simply nodded. He didn't want to talk with the fox anymore – ever. The day when this bunch of strange comrades will get out of his house could not come soon enough.
Author's notes: Trugg's name for afterlife is actually used in one of Redwall novels, if you wonder. "Dark Forest" and "Hellgates" are the most common canonical names for what is supposed to lie beyond, but far from the only ones.