70. The Sorceries and the Sword.

No opportunities to escape presented themselves, as Lurthen and his depleted band fled back to the main camp. The snowlanders were not too good with ropes and knots. Ewalt was quite sure he would have been able to untie his paws, if he only had half a night. But he never got that much. Lurthen drove his beasts – and his prisoners, who were forced to row with the rest – hard, allowing them little rest, and himself seemed to barely sleep at all, constantly watching over his prisoners. When he wasn't, one of the two his usual cronies did. Or to be more accurate, they watched over Smalltooth, while paying Ewalt no special attention, but the result was the same.

By the time they saw the picturesque walls and towers of Castle Floret at the distance, and were marched into the vermin camp, Ewalt was exhausted in body and mind. If not for traveling for so long with Suran and Smalltooth just smell and presence of so many vermin all around him, literally rubbing shoulders with him, may have driven him mad, at least in combination with lack of sleep. And creeping despair exact a worse toll. He probably was going to get his chance to escape, once put together with other woodlander slaves. But what was going to happen to Smalltooth? Lurthen's reason to keep him alive was not something Ewalt liked to even think about.

Despite exhaustion, Ewalt still paid attention to his surroundings, alert for anything that could potentially help them escape. But spotting anything meaningful through the crowd of vermin that surrounded him and Smalltooth were allowed to stop was pretty hard. It seemed like every vermin in the camp gathered to greet the battered party of snowlanders, and with them milling around and chattering all at once, he could not either count them or track any particular conversation. So it was a few minutes later, when the crowd started dispersing, when he finally saw Lurthen talking with a very particular beast.

Before this day Ewalt saw Ubel the sorcerer maybe a couple of times, and from very far, but the descriptions he heard were unmistakable – a ferret, tall, lean as a dry bone and of the same unclean white color, wearing a cloak made of a whole fox hide. Then the ferret suddenly looked at him. His eyes, contrary to what beasts called him, were of pink rose color, not that of fire. But Ewalt's heart still skipped a beat.

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There was something strange about the mouse captive Ubel saw out of the corner of his eye. And when the white ferret looked at him directly, his heart almost skipped a beat. Even without weapons, and with paws bound behind his back, the mouse now meeting his gaze was unmistakably a warrior – very tall for his species, about the height of an average rat, thin but sinewy, torn ear and other scars clearly received in battle. And he had dark blue eyes. For Lurthen and his northeners that meant nothing, most vermin soldiers had short memories and paid no attention to random captured woodlanders anyway, but Ubel remembered very well the description closely fitting this beast. And given that remnants of Marroch's old band somehow reached Southsward, why couldn't he be here as well?

All those thoughts shot through Ubel's brain in an instant, and just as quickly the ferret reached a cruel decision. Maybe this mouse wasn't Ewalt the Ghost, and if he was maybe he wasn't any sort of threat anymore, certainly as far as Ubel's visions could fate had no role for him anymore, but just in case…

"Lurthen, my friend, I have a request for you."

"Yes?"

"I will give you two slaves of your choice, and a fine silver bracelet, if you draw your sword and kill this mouse right now. I have a very ominous feeling about him."

For a few seconds Lurthen looked at Ubel suspiciously, then shrugged and drew his sickle-like blade. "Deal."

Ubel felt relief. But not for long. As Lurthen tried to grab the bound mouse by the scruff of his neck, probably so that cutting his throat would be easier, the damn rodent suddenly moved with speed of a viper. There was an undescribable sound of meat and fur tearing, blood splattered on the mud, and even as the mouse fell to the ground, floored by a vicious kick, Lurthen jumped back with a hiss of pain, at least one claw on his left paw bitten off. That, of course, would not have saved the mouse for more than a couple of seconds, if not for the vermin around who turned to look what was happening and where their chieftain was going with the sword in his paw. Half of them laughed or at least sniggered at Lurthen's sudden misfortune, and he whirled towards them, more enraged by that, than by losing a part of his paw. "You frost-bitten, mangy milksops! You want to be buried right next to this mouse?!"

And that too would not have saved mouse for more than half a minute. But then the second captive, some stoat of an unassuming appearance whom Ubel barely noticed so far, shouted. "Wait! Do you know whom you want to kill? Do you even know who this mouse is?"

Most of the vermin around turned to him, as he continued. "He's the royal scout of Southsward, and friend of King Gwynfren himself! Hold him hostage, and…"

"Shut up!" Lurthen roared, raising his wicked-looking blade. And then he swung it down.

Clang! To everybeast's surprise, the sword did not reach its target. The crescent halberd blade met it midway, and knocked it out of Lurthen's paw, so that several vermin had to jump aside from the path of its whirling flight.

"Don't be a fool," Ulakhai Stonestrength snarling. "If he's not lying, captives like this one don't grow on trees."

The sharp point of Ulakhai's halberd pointing at Lurthen plus the fact that Lurthen's beasts were outnumbered several to one, and perhaps less than entirely loyal, convinced better than words. Lurthen huffed and glared murderously at the larger mustelid, but remained silent.

Ubel felt pounding headache overcoming him again, nearly to the point of nausea. The musclehead just had to intervene when everything was going smoothly! But, as almost always, Ubel controlled himself. "Captain Ulakhai! This mouse was captured together with the stoat, and as only real beasts we are facing are the remnants of Marroch's band from Ergaph, I, Ubel, can bet all of my teeth that this mouse is from Ergaph as well. Now, please, take a good look at him."

Ulakhai turned his halberd vertically and thrust the butt end down, pinning the mouse so that he was unable to even wriggle properly. As he looked, the fur on his neck gradually rose. "Ubel, don't tell me…"

"Yes, before you is almost certainly Ewalt the Ghost himself. Now, kill him!"

"Are you joking? Even if you forgot that I too have a score to settle with this flat-toothed villain, I certainly didn't. He will die nice and slow, very slow, and…" Ulakhai looked at the setting sun, "…not today. This night will be busy enough already."

"Then this little traitor," Lurthen wedged in, "shall too die whatever death you choose for the mouse."

"Sure, just have a little patience," Ulakhai shrugged. "For now, let them both keep guessing what tortures await them, while tied to the posts."

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Silverbrush heard frightening stories about Ewalt the Ghost before, during Enjo's earlier stays on Ergaph. The underfed mouse now before her eyes looked rather disappointing, compared to the tales of a beast who could appear from nowhere in the time it takes you to blink, kill your fellow soldier and disappear like a shadow, a beast who left no traces where he walked and could not be slain. Then again, it is hard for ghosts to impress in broad daylight, among a crowd and when securely tied.

She turned to leave and only then noticed Weitla. The mouse stood and stared as if she forgot where she was. Silverbrush swore inwardly. Why she even bothered to care about the stupid little rodent this far, when her own paws were full of problems? She reached Weitla in a few quick steps, caught her by the paw, and hissed. "I thought I sent you to fetch water, mouse, not to gawk. Do you think you have nothing to do? I can just leave you here, and I'm sure some of the crew will soon think of something to do with an idle little slave! Now, come."

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Ubel examined the magnificent blade with the look of admiration, almost awe, on his face, as Sheska held it before him. "Not a single scratch, not even a smallest spot of rust. And they say this blade is thousands of seasons old. But is it?"

He pointed at a fairly large semi-flat stone that was brought into the tent a couple days ago on his command. "Strike it with all your might."

"But Lord Ubel, won't that damage the blade?"

Ubel snorted impatiently. "Just do it!"

Raising the Sword of Martin overhead with both paws, Sheska swung it down so hard that the clang must have been heard across the entire camp, and she lost her grip on the hilt – pain reverberating through her bones must have been great. Ubel himself raised the marvelous weapon, carefully, as several fingers on both of his paws were bandaged. "A good effort. But the sword is not chipped at all, just as expected."

Sheska did not ask any more questions, when the white ferret placed the first half of the blade straight in the glowing coals of the brazier in the middle of the tent. And when, after half a minute, he turned to her, shoving the blade in her direction, and demanding to touch it, she did as commanded, albeit with trembling fingers. But what made her yelp was not pain, but surprise. "It's cold!"

"Of course. If blows do not damage it, if neither wear not rust touch it, why should fire have power over it? Yes, this is the enchanted blade forged by the Badger Lord in halls of the Fire Mountain from the broken ancient heirloom, on the night of destiny, invoking power of the thousand dead warriors." Ubel's voice rose as he spoke and some new tone in it made Sheska shiver and tremble. "Time that would have eaten away ten mundane swords in a row, leaving nothing but corroded, broken junk, did not diminish it in the slightest. And will never diminish it!"

Ubel looked at her, then grimaced, touching his brow. "If knew this blade is going to be in my paws today, I would have spent all of last night sleeping peacefully. So, the great work will have to wait until the night after tomorrow. No needless risks, with the prize already in my paws. And you too will have a job then, Sheska. You will have to make sure I am not distracted when I work the magic of my life."

"As you command…"

"One more thing. I need you to discreetly deliver a small gift to our young friend, who must already be tired waiting for help he asked when he came to this tent at the darkest hour of night. It is time for certain threads to be snapped."

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Lady Violet just did not like fighting. That was, perhaps, a substantial character flaw for a Badger Ruler of Salamandastron, whose duties revolved around eternal war and eternal vigilance. That's why she trained and sparred assiduously.

Blunt point of the rapier foil hit her on the ribs painfully and she yelped.

"Your mind is wandering." Brigadier Greyfield spoke matter-of-factly, even as he pressed in another attack. In this generation of hares, he was one of the two good enough to give Violet a challenge, and now, with Aldwin gone, her only usual sparring partner.

Violet growled, rage getting better of her for long enough to try knocking Greyfield's foil aside with a wild swing. A dumb mistake, that was immediately punished by another painful poke, this time below the neck. Greyfield did not have Aldwin's size and wild strength, almost approaching Violet's own, but even if no longer young, he was flexible like a young tree sapling, and hit any openings with speed and precision of a diving falcon. "No focus at all, if I say so."

Violet lowered her foil and raised her free paw, open palm towards the Brigadier. He was right, as pain amply evidenced. Her thoughts were indeed wandering, her mind in turmoil. The Axehound army approaching Salamandastron, results of hapless Lieutenant Brushwood's attempt to recon their forces, arrogance of Willag Axehound, Aldwin and his hares fighting a different war in a faraway land, the blade that Aldwin had to deliver, and above all, the vision she saw nearly four seasons ago, so close to coming true… And what could she do about all that, when she couldn't even do something as simple as concentrating on the opponent before her? She steadied her breath and raised the foil once again. "One more time."

Slim blades of the two blunt rapiers gleamed in the light, streaming through narrow windows, as their wielders crossed them. As usual, Violet moved first, thrusting as quickly as a wasp stings. Once again the formidable Brigadier parried or deflected every single strike, but this time he could not find even a slightest chance for a good riposte. Pressed by the assault that seemed endless and tireless, in no time he found his back against the wall, literally. Then Violet lowered her foil and stepped back. She knew Greyfield was hitting her as hard as he could whenever he could, if he ever had shown any restraint in their sparring that stopped the last winter, but…

"You're confoundingly kind-hearted." Greyfield did not sound pleased by escaping, at the very least, a solid bruise. Then again, lately he never sounded pleased.

"I want to hear your thoughts, Brigadier." Violet walked to the nearby table, put down her foil and picked up a jug of water. "What do you believe Willag plans to do once he and his throng reach the Mountain? Surely, you must have considered that already?"

Greyfield shrugged. "Willag has far too many blighters with him to feed, even by stealin' our own harvest right from the fields. A famine year will seem a feast time to this horde if they're forced to sit in one place besieging us, and old Axehound isn't the type to burn whatever burns on our land and turn around. He believes we'll meet him in the field, to fight out a jolly old pitched battle. Or he wants to put some fear into us with his numbers, so that we give him what he blinkin' wants without fightin'. I'd bet an apple against acorn on the latter, given he returned Brushwood and his chaps to us alive, and just a bit worse for wear."

"And you believe I should give him what he wants." This was not a question.

"A permission to speak freely, Milady Ruler?"

Violet looked around. The door leading to the small training room was shut firmly. "You have it, as always, when we're alone."

"Hmph. Give me a moment." Greyfield wiped sweat from his fur, put his red coat on, his monocle into his eye, and straightened his whiskers, before speaking. "What I believe does not matter, doesn't it, wot? If I think that Aldwin was so far in the wrong that you couldn't see the faintest gleam of rightness from there, and so were you, when you decided to stand for his decisions and give the vermin villains shelter in Salamandastron, what does that change? Now it is all about honor and pride. How can the Long Patrol retain them after bowing to an army, which defied our Ruler's word and came to threaten and bully us, whether we were right or wrong at the start, wot? As for myself, I still jolly well remember the day I gave my soldier's oath on my own free will. And soldiers follow orders. Whether we like them or not. That's what sets us apart from vermin and other scummy scoundrels."

"I understand," Violet nodded. "Then you shall have an order. Tomorrow, unless we're both wrong about Willag Axehound's intent, I will have to talk personally with him. You will be left in charge. Make absolutely sure that no hare attacks without my direct command."

"Not that I expect such treachery from Willag – but even if the whole horde charges us in the middle of parley?"

Violet shook her head. "I don't expect foul play either. But doubly so then. The Long Patrol and the rest of our hares will be positioned on Salamandastron's slopes, where they'd have higher ground, rocks to shelter them from arrows, and cliffs to cover their flanks. Leaving that position would be very foolish. So remember my order well – do not let a battle start if you can help, and do not let anybeast attack, even if you'd see me killed right before your eyes."