30. Destiny and Death.

Belk hardly slept that night – or was it night? He could not tell in this stone sepulcher. The squirrels expected to end up in complete darkness, once their torches burned out, but there was some light in the underground realm – very dim, eerie green fluorescence, coming from strange growths on the wet parts of the walls. And that was the only thing that gave Belk a bit of relief – he would not be blind and almost helpless in case of treachery. But treachery did not come. No knives in the dark. Instead, the familiar female rat returned, after who knew how many hours, to summon them before her master.

The fire now burned brighter than before in the Ruler's cave, spreading a strange smell. The ancient beast himself sat before a big rug, on which food and drinks for his guest were served. This time Zarfayn appeared far more vigorous, which only made hideousness of his appearance starker.

"Please, sit down. Accept my humble hospitality. Salads of fruits and nuts from above. Fish from the underground lake. Wine I kept for important occasions. Enjoy yourselves."

"Thank you for your generosity." That was what Belk said, but in his thoughts he congratulated himself on warning his wife when they were left alone: "If they are to offer us food and drinks tomorrow, do not touch anything that one of the hosts had not tasted. And if they give us cups, check if they are smeared with anything on the inside, before drinking."

"So," the squirrel warrior continued, "you have something important to tell us? I don't want to be rude, but we've already lost plenty of time, therefore, can you start with it?"

"Do not be in such haste." Zarfayn paused, licking his parchment-dry lips. "A few hours are not going to decide anything. You are going to Southsward, yes? I can show you the paths to the other side of the Abyss. I can order jerbilrats to be your guides. That will save you much time. So take some of it and listen to my story."

The ancient beast filled his cup with wine from the smaller one of the two bottles on the rug before and drank in small sips, before continuing:

"You must still wonder why I want to help you. Answering that is not hard, but may be long. It all began fifty seasons ago. Or fifty two? No matter. I was about your age then," he pointed at Belk with a cup. "Still strong and handsome like you too. I might have been a great warlord, if I wanted. But I always was drawn to... other sorts of power. I, Zarfayn, have mastered all the arts known to Seers, witch doctors and magic creatures of lands near and far. Healing, omen reading, dream walking, curses, disappearance. It was never enough for me. The Warrior of Redwall you were? I even considered sneaking into your Abbey, in search of greater sorcerous knowledge."

"Sorry for my impudent interruption, but I will say as many times as it takes – we at Redwall have no sorcery or magic, and particularly no magic swords." Belk was frowning. "If you were such a wise beast, you should have realized that. Or had you?"

There was that unsettling sound from Zarfayn's nearly toothless mouth again, but this time it resembled laughter a bit more.

"No magic! Agh, cough…" His body bent in a coughing fit. After recovering, he continued slowly. "No magic in the place which, as all tales of your kind say, is guarded by a mighty restless spirit since times immemorial? What a laugh."

"But that's a different thing." Myns looked at Zarfayn as if she was teaching one of her unruly children. "Of course, the spirit of Martin the Warrior protects and guides the abbeybeasts throughout the ages, but it is not like we have any spells or curses, charms or talismans."

Zarfayn shook his head, and poured himself more wine. Seeing that – and not seeing any suspicious substances on the inside of her clay cup – Myns decided to take a drink too. This plum wine was among the most delicious she had ever tasted! Meanwhile, Zarfayn responded: "Naive tree dweller. The power of sorcery, the real sorcery, not sleight of paw, lies in two intertwined things. Destiny and death. Only the dead, who linger beyond the grave, can truly see the great pattern of fate. All the mystical arts – foretelling, entering dreams and thoughts, meddling with fate in small ways – come from them. Or rely on them."

Zarfayn found himself unexpectedly carried away. He always remembered that mystery and resulting fear were the bigger half of his power. Since youth he hoarded secrets like treasure in a tightly locked chest, and only once before that chest was opened to share. Having no need to guard them anymore was strangely liberating:

"And you sit on the greatest fountain of magic and miracles in the world. Without even realizing that. A guardian spirits who bears good will for the living… That in itself is an unparalleled miracle."

Belk shuddered slightly, remembering his own prophetic vision. "What do you mean "unparalleled miracle"?"

"The lot of the dead is a miserable one. When the living try to describe how the dead see their abode… even "see" is a wrong thing to say. Do spirits have eyes like they did in life? No. There are no words to describe their existence properly. The closest thing to the truth our tongue can convey – it is a great, cold, empty waste. Where you are freezing and starving to death, but cannot die anymore. That is Hellgates. Therefore the dead envy and hate us, the living."

Myns was unable to keep silent again:

"But only the wicked beasts go to Hellgates. The virtuous ones enter the Dark Forest!"

Zarfayn tried to laugh again, then another coughing fit seized him. "Woodlanders…" he wheezed. "You believe the strangest things… If there is no fairness in this world, why think that the next one is different? But I have digressed."

He emptied his wine cup, and went for the second bottle, as he spoke. "So, I dared not to enter your Redwall – because it was guarded by such a spirit. Instead, I was drawn here. To this ancient, fated place, like other beasts before me. I found what I sought. As seasons passed, I, Zarfayn, have surpassed all of my teachers put together. In this generation, in a thousand generations before, only one beast now rivals my knowledge of necromancy. The art of communing with the dead. But there was one more thing left to desire…"

The ancient beast paused, gathering his thoughts. "Yes… that was fifty two seasons ago. There was just one more thing I wanted at the time. A beast who could understand and inherit my secrets. Do you think that is strange?"

Belk shook his head. "What master of his craft doesn't want to raise a great successor?"

Zarfayn snorted, looking at his cup. "I was so proud of my mystical might. I decided to question my own fate. To see, if and where I can find a worthy apprentice. I succeeded. In visions, I saw a cub, recently born, and already about to perish. With my rats, I set out to find him. And in the waste to the south. we did. Him and his mother. Two polecats, dying from thirst and exhaustion. But the most unusual polecats they were – with fur white, like bleached bones, and eyes red, like fire."

Belk's astonishment was obvious enough for Zarfayn to notice it:

"Did my words strike a chord?"

The squirrel warrior nodded. "I was told – shown – that my enemy is probably a beast with "eyes of fire", that I was."

Zarfayn sighed deeply, lost in thought for a time. Belk was about to prompt him, when he spoke again:

"That must be Ubel, the son."

"And from where had he and his mother come, what chased them alone to this plateau? Can you tell?"

"They escaped from Southsward… Erma, the mother, was sentenced to gallows there. She took her newborn son and ran. And in that son, that Ubel, I found what I asked for. Though not what I truly wanted. The cub was bright and very gifted. He learned all that I taught him quickly. I saw that he had a great destiny."

Myns wanted to check, if wine in the second bottle was as wonderful, as in the first, but, mindful of her husband's warning, she noticed that Zarfayn had not actually drank since refilling his cup from it.

"But I could not see what that destiny was. Maybe I did not look hard enough. Because of Erma, the mother. That might seem bizarre to you two... I thought that only knowledge and power can bring me joy. Not trifling things, like female company. And then, already well past my youth, fate proved me wrong. I and Erma, we knew each other for only eight seasons… yes, eight. And the rest of my seasons were worth less than those eight."

Zarfayn was staring in the direction of his guests, as if they weren't here, as he took a gulp of wine, and continued:

"And while I was happy with Erma, Ubel grew in ability. In cunning. He played a filial elder son, an obedient disciple. I saw the signs. I suspected the rot inside him. But Erma loved Ubel, and I feared to break her heart." Zarfayn's feeble paws visibly shook with helpless rage. He almost spilled his wine, before putting it down. "Then one day, Ubel decided to strike out on his own. But not before stealing most of the treasures I collected. And putting poison in our food, so that I would not stop him. I lived. Erma did not. Ubel disappeared to faraway lands. And I remained here, old and ill. One thing kept me going – while recovering, I have seen that one day I will meet you. The beasts whose paths will cross with Ubel's in the future…"

Zarfayn's words trailed off, his head lowering as if the effort of talking exhausted him completely. Myns, and even Belk, looked aghast, the story they've just heard almost too terrible to accept. Myns hastily poured more wine to herself and her husband, just to occupy her paws with something. The ancient one leveled his gaze at them again.

"And so you know, why I am interested in you."

Belk tried to clear his mind from emotions and think. There was no warning about Zarfayn in Martin's vision sent to him. But that Ubel – he almost certainly was there, he almost certainly was that terrifying creature with eyes of bright and hungry red fire, that Belk saw. His mouth got dry suddenly, so he reached for his cup, but then another, uninvited, thought gave him a pause:

"And what about the prophecy that jerbilrats talked about?"

Zarfayn made a strange wet sound that was maybe supposed to be a chuckle. "It is not entirely made up. I saw how you were going to meet them. I needed them to bring you to me. You can show them a new path, too. I know not, whether you will."

"So that's how it is." Strangely, Belk felt relief, and his attention turned to the cup of wine again.

Myns knew that she might get drunk at this rate, but after spending who knew how many hours in this oppressive underground, and all the frightful things she just heard that seemed like a good idea. Yet even when her nerves were overwrought, she remained a connoisseur of fine foods and wines, as befitted a cook from the Redwall Abbey. So, she mechanically took a moment to inhale the flavor of the dark liquid in her cup. Damson wine, pretty old… but what was that? Something else, a scent that shouldn't have been there, unnoticeable perhaps for a beast without her experience...

Just as Belk's lips were about to touch the wine, Myns turned, fear giving her thoughts and paw unexpected swiftness, and knocked the cup out of his paw:

"Don't drink it! There's something strange in the wine!"

The squirrel warrior believed Zarfayn's words, and that made him drop his guard to an extent. Before he realized what was going on, the Ruler of the Abyss shouted, surprising, desperate strength in his voice:

"Shlacht! It's your turn! Get them!"

Belk's warrior reflexes kicked in before he had time to consciously evaluate the situation. He jumped to his paws and whirled to face the cavern's entrance, drawing the Sword of Martin in the same motion – just in time to face the monstrous mustelid who rushed in, accompanied by a half-dozen of black rats.

Shlacht was geared and ready for battle. A bronze helmet covered his head, thick spiked gauntlets his paws, and a crude brigandine, made from an assortment of irregular iron plates, protected the torso. He wielded a hefty spear, tipped with a straight, broad blade, bigger that some mouse-sized swords, and an iron crosstree under it.

"Myns! Stay behind me!" Belk cried out, as he jumped back trying to evade a spear thrust.

But this time Myns did not hear her husband, which was all for the better. Sudden rage, beyond anything she knew in her entire life to this day, gripped her, when the whole extent of Zarfayn's treachery, the fact that her husband nearly drank his own death right now, dawned on her. With a growl of rage, which no one in Redwall could expect to hear from the somewhat timid squirrelwife, she tackled the ancient beast, drawing a knife – a small one, meant for cooking and utility, not for battle, but quite sufficient to take such a frail life.

"You've lied to us!"

"I told the truth!" Zarfayn's sole good eye gleamed with madness in the yellowish firelight. He struggled to throw Myns away with surprising vigor, but nothing, neither rage nor potions, could actually restore strength to a body as decrepit as his. "Just not all of it! Kill her! Kill them both!"

Myns turned his head to see a bunch of black rats, who stopped at the sight of the blade pointed at their ruler. Luckily, she remembered something from the old tales, before the rats moved again:

"One step, and I'll knife him! I swear!" Her free paw pressed on Zarfayn's neck, preventing him from crying out again.

Shlacht's eyes were only on Belk and the shining sword in his paws, as he hacked and stabbed furiously, trying to reach the elusive squirrel. But this squirrel wasn't named an Abbey Warrior many seasons ago for nothing. It took only a few moments for Belk to get the measure of his opponent. This creature didn't have much in the way of skill or formal training. Yet his size, brute strength and the longer weapon more than compensated for that, and he wasn't slow or clumsy by any means. Had Belk the misfortune of meeting him in the thick of battle with only a sword, the outcome would have been swift indeed. In this fairly wide cave, the fleet-pawed squirrel could at least avoid death by dodging and weaving, backing away before the whirlwind of attacks.

Then he saw an opening, a moment when Shlacht swung the spear too wildly, got too far out of balance, and rushed in. The Sword of Martin slashed deeply, as Shlacht instinctively raised his left paw in defense. Not deeply enough. Its razor-sharp blade cut through the thick gauntlet, hide and muscle, but not the bone.

Belk already started jumping away, when a mighty kick imparted to his body much greater acceleration in the same direction, sending the squirrel flying into the wall. The fact, that Belk already started jumping away, reducing the impact, was the main reason why this kick did not end the battle on the spot.

"Stop it! Make him stop!" Myns screamed, releasing the pressure on Zarfayn's neck to grab him by his fur and shake violently.

"I… I… I cannot." The ancient creature hissed, a look of triumph on his hideous face. "Even if I wanted!"

Shlacht roared and slashed with his spear. Half-dazed, Belk had no time to dodge, so he parried. Metal screeched against metal and sparks flew, as the Sword of Martin met the mighty spearblade, deflecting it to the side and upwards, making it strike stone instead of the squirrel's neck. The legendary sword was, of course, unbreakable so it did not break upon meeting the thick crosstree with a loud clang. More surprising was the fact that neither did Belk's paws. The squirrel warrior ducked and lunged forward, slashing at the bigger beast's unprotected footpaws, but the blows he just suffered took some speed and strength from his attack – and this time it was Shlacht who managed to jump back in time to merely receive a wound, instead of losing a footpaw outright.

"You will perish, heheheh…" Zarfayn leered.

"Why?!" Myns felt herself chocking with fear and rage. "Why you are doing this, vermin?!"

"Because you are fated to bring Ubel what he wants!"

Myns no longer paid any heed to what was going on behind her back. Had even one of the black rats tried to move against her, pulling her away from Zarfayn and slitting her throat would be no problem. But the rats, none of whom were real fighters, only watched in astonishment the battle before them. The very idea of somebeast fighting equally with mighty Shlacht, who could beat them all together in a tug of war, was ludicrous, unthinkable! And yet, it was happening.

Both warriors slowed down now, Shlacht leaving bloody footprints with every step, Belk having hard time breathing. Yet their fighting spirits still burned bright. Shlacht, full of fury, cornered his enemy against the wall, and thrust with all his might. Belk sidestepped at the last moment, only the crosstree grazed him – and that was enough for his left paw to instantly go numb. The spear stuck stone with an ear-splitting screech and crack – what Belk was unable to do even with the Sword of Martin, Shlacht did for him, breaking the sturdy spearshaft.

Zarfayn, who just at that moment turned his head enough to see the fight, let out an unintelligible whine, as the squirrel slashed at his shocked opponent's unarmored thigh, lunging past him. The huge mustelid turned in an instant, facing the squirrel again, but now, with only a short piece of wood for a weapon, his legs suddenly feeling numb, he was the one being pressed. The Sword of Martin flashed again, again, biting deeply into his paws, piercing the poorly made armor.

"No! Stop!" Zarfayn cried out. Yet his words could not reach either of the fighters, their attention wholly consumed by each other and rage of battle.

But if not words, then, perhaps, the desperate tone of his voice did, giving Shlacht one last burst of energy. The broken shaft met the shining blade, and, as the Sword of Martin got stuck in the thick wood, Shlacht twisted powerfully, tearing it from Belk's grip. Myns gasped, her paws shaking, the knifeblade scratching Zarfayn's neck, as the monster got his paw on the hilt of the legendary weapon, easily removing it from the wood.

But that burst of energy was the last. Shlacht's fur was soaked in blood, blood already started forming a puddle under his footpaws in the brief seconds it took him to disarm Belk. His vision clouded, mind was in a haze. But he still could see Zarfayn, hear him crying in despair.

"Don't come closer!" Myns shouted. Belk only growled and drew a knife, as he backed away once again. Shlacht was already beyond noticing them. He made a few more uneven steps.

"See, father. I won. The sword... the sword is here. I did as you said. I… I am your…" Shlacht's footpaws failed him, as he lumbered another step forward, and fell heavily.

"Is anybeast else in a hurry to the grave?" Belk pointed his knife at the rats. He was bluffing brazenly. Every breath caused him pain, some ribs probably broken, the left paw refused to obey, dislocated or worse, blood from gashes on chest and side, which he only now noticed, swiftly darkened his fur. A couple of rats had spears, quite enough to slay him in this condition.

"Kill them!.. Kill them, you miserable cowards…" Zarfayn tried to shriek, but his voice finally failed him, dying down to a pained wheeze.

The rats looked at each other in doubt, then the aging female, the same that was first to meet the squirrels, answered decisively:

"Kill them yourself, if you can." She bowed to Belk. "We obeyed those two only out of fear. Now you're our master by the right of conquest."

"Traitors! Foul, bellycrawling traitors… Shlacht… You…" Tears streamed down Zarfayn's face, his whole body shook with impotent wrath. And then with something worse. Myns recoiled in terror, when she realized that the ancient beast is wracked by convulsions. Was this the poison that he, no doubt, drank, or did his old heart finally refused to serve its master as well? But even in the final agony, Zarfayn still tried to crawl to where Shlacht was drawing his last breaths, still tried to whisper something.

Author's notes: I'd like to extend my special thanks to Blackish, who not only was very helpful with his reviews, but also graciously agreed to be my beta reader.