THE CRIMSON BADGER - Chapter Thirty-Six

It took longer for Cyrus to regain consciousness than anticipated. The day after his surgery passed into evening, and thence to full night, and still his eyes did not open. He did stir from time to time, and his overall appearance did continue to improve, but wakefulness eluded him.

When the long-awaited event did occur, on the second morning of his recovery, it was like a twin dawn for the Abbeyfolk. The golden sun that rose high above the treetops of Mossflower was mirrored by the glow of hope and cheer which shone from the Infirmary, and spread quickly throughout the Abbey. Cyrus was fully returned to them, and the time of this darkness was past.

Cyril was, of course, the first to see his brother's eyelids flutter, then slowly slip open. The older sibling had never left Cyrus for even a moment, keeping the constant vigil that he had sworn to hold, although he had napped off and on during the night. Now, his perseverence paid off. Cyrus would wake to behold the mouse dearest to him above all other creatures in the world.

The sun was already high enough to throw its morning rays through the Infirmary window onto the bed where Cyrus lay. For a brief moment his eyes came halfway open; then, the glare made him squint to the merest of slits. It was, after all, the first light Cyrus had beheld in two days, and his vision, like the rest of his body, would need time to return to normal. A cloudy day might have made his awakening easier on his eyes, but it seemed only proper that he should fully rejoin the living when summer was in its full brilliance.

Cyril clutched Cyrus by the paw. "Cyrus! It's me, Cyril! I'm right here!"

Cyrus squinted up at his brother. "Cyr ... am I okay?"

"Yes!" Cyril smiled, struggling to keep from shouting with joy. "Yes, you're fine. It's going to be okay, Cy!"

"Oh. I had the most frightful dream, Cyril ... beasts fighting ... blood ... "

Cyril was trying to decide whether he should tell Cyrus that it hadn't been a dream at all when Sister Aurelia popped up from the bed opposite his. The healer mouse had been snoozing, since she'd been awake during much of the night. Instantly she was beside Cyrus, feeling the youngster's brow. "Oh, hullo, Sister Aurelia," Cyrus said weakly.

"Hullo yourself, Cyrus, and welcome back," Aurelia beamed. "You've been away from us for awhile, and had us pretty worried, too. But I can see now that you're back to stay."

Cyrus closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "I sorta 'member what happened," he murmured. "But it's all kinda blurry ... "

"And with any luck, it will stay that way," Aurelia told him. "No creature of your young seasons should have to face what you've been through. Best for it to fade from your memory and never return." She turned to glance at Machus. The swordfox had approached when Cyrus awoke, but stood back where the mousechild would not be able to see him easily. He looked a question at Aurelia, who turned back to their patient. "Cyrus, there's a fox who'd like to have a look at you, but don't worry. It's all right. He's a friend."

"You mean ... Mr. Machus?" Cyrus screwed up his face in concentration. "Yes ... I remember him. He's a good fox."

Machus flashed a warm smile and stepped forward. "I try to be, son. Now, let's have a quick look at you, then I'll leave you to your Abbey friends. I'm sure they'll all want to come up for a visit when they hear you're awake."

He turned down the covers and pressed his paw lightly all around the bandaged wound. "Does that hurt at all?"

"Kinda sore, but nothing that hurts really bad," Cyrus answered, studying Machus as he worked. "Feels kinda stiff, an' scratchy, and ... it itches!"

"Well, that's to be expected. Try not to scratch at it, Cyrus. I know that's easier said than done, but you don't want to risk opening up the wound again. If you absolutely can't resist, scratch around the dressing, but not on or under the bandages."

"I'll be here to keep a constant eye on him, don't worry," Aurelia assured Machus. "And I'll warn him as many times as I have to, if I see him clawing away at himself."

Machus pulled the covers back up, leaving enough room for Cyrus to lay his paws atop the blanket. "Well, young lad, things are looking well for you. I don't think any of my seasoned troopers could have pulled off a speedier or more satisfactory recovery than you have. Rest up, and we'll get you back on your feet in another day or two."

"Thank you, sir," Cyrus smiled weakly, and looked to Cyril. "So, I guess it wasn't a dream after all, huh?"

Sister Aurelia took Machus aside, leaving the two mouse brothers to themselves. "Was that just an act," she whispered, "or do you really think he's out of the woods?"

"I think the danger's past," Machus said confidently. "If any infection were going to set in, we'd have seen it by now. And there's no sign of any bleeding inside. I don't foresee any relapse. It might take more than another day or two for him to be up and about, but other than that I was being completely truthful to Cyrus just now."

"What about Cyrus scratching at himself?" Aurelia asked with some concern.

"I don't think that will be much of a problem. He's still very weak, and will probably spend a lot more time sleeping over the next few days. And he'll be getting lots of visits from other Redwallers, which will help keep his mind off the itch during his waking periods. All in all, I'd say the worst is well past."

"Oh, I do hope so." The healer mouse gazed at Cyrus. "This Abbey owes you a greater debt than we can ever repay you, Machus. You have brought one of our young ones back from the very brink of death ... something I could never have done, or Abbess Vanessa either. You truly are a good and noble beast - words I never imagined I would say to any fox!"

"Things are changing, Sister," Machus nodded. "Things are changing."

00000000000

Fitkin the shrew ran a small ferry barge on the shores of the wide stream that ran east to west across the Western Plains. He used his raft to move passing travelers from one bank to the other, never to sail them farther up or downstream. Some ferry shrews lived on their craft and made their home wherever the currents carried them. But Fitkin kept a quaint dugout hovel with timber roof along the south shore, and there he dwelt, favoring a firmly-grounded abode to one always on the water. He called the hut his "tollkeeper's station," and in it he kept all the goods that he collected for his services. His home might not have been much to look at from the outside, but Fitkin lived as rich a life as any ferry shrew on the Plains.

His usual customers were solitary wanderers, or companions in groups of two or three. Once in awhile a larger band would engage him for the use of his ferry, but that was rare. And so Fitkin was at something of a loss on this summer's day, when an armor-clad badger and eighty fighting hares emerged from the morning mists and stood gazing at him expectantly.

The badger rumbled a question. "You are a ferry shrew?"

"Well," Fitkin wagged a paw at himself, "I'm a shrew. And yonder's a ferry. Whadda you think?"

The badger's mailed paw went to his sword hilt, then fell slowly away. Unsmiling, he said, "I can see you must live alone, and probably for too many seasons, if your manners toward strangers are any indication."

"Never needed nobeast but myself t' get by," Fitkin said defiantly, as he scanned the ranks of hares, and found them to be beyond easy counting. "Regular li'l army y' got here," he observed.

"I am Lord Urthfist of Salamandastron, and these are the hares of my Long Patrol. We are bound for Redwall, and possibly for war."

Fitkin scratched at his jaw. "Redwall. Ain't that that place up north Mossflower ways with them fightin' mice an' squirrels? Never been there m'self, but word o' their deeds has spread pretty far throughout these lands. S'posed t' be pretty decent folk. What's yer quarrel with 'em?"

"I have no quarrel with decent creatures," Urthfist said. "Tell me, what news have you had from Mossflower in recent days?"

The shrew gave a shrug. "You 'n' this gang o' yers is the first strangers I see'd in more'n a fortnight. Why? Sumpthin' s'posed to've happened there?"

"Yes. Something." Urthfist stepped back from Fitkin and took Traveller and Major Safford aside. "What do you make of this?" he asked them in a low voice.

"This character's as ornery as shrews are s'posed t' be," Safford said. "Can't say that I think much of his hospitality. Perhaps we should teach him how to be more friendly."

Traveller shook his head. "We haven't time for such things, Saff ol' chum. Besides, we were jolly lucky to find a shrew this far west. Should cut a day or two off our march to Redwall. An' since we do need this chap to get us across the stream, I suggest we ignore his ill manners an' put him to work."

"He doesn't seem to know anything about my brother, or what's going on at Redwall," Urthfist said. There was a question for the hares in his tone.

Traveller took in the terrain around them. To north, east and south could be seen only rolling plains, broken here and there by a hillock or copse of trees. Behind them, the mountain range whose foothills they'd just skirted rose high against the western sky.

"We're still at least a good day's march from Mossflower proper, M'Lord. Two or three days to Redwall itself, an' then only if we keep up our pace. We thought your brother's horde might keep to the north of this river. They must be concentratin' their forces at Redwall and the countryside right around it. Not too surprisin' that they haven't made it down this way so far."

Major Safford seconded Traveller's opinion. "Much rather run into a rude shrew than a blightin' battalion of armed vermin, wot?"

Urthfist was still dubious. "What about refugees? If my brother's crimes at Redwall are as horrible as Browder would have us believe, there should be flocks of woodlanders fleeing that region to seek safety elsewhere. Why hasn't this shrew seen any of them?"

"Maybe things there are even worse than we'd imagined," Safford suggested. "Maybe His Bloodiness isn't letting anybeast get away."

"Or maybe," Traveller countered, "they're trying to hold out until we can get there, to help them make their stand and try to take Redwall back."

"Then we must tarry here no longer." Urthfist stepped forward and addressed Fitkin. "We must cross to the north shore. You will ferry us."

Fitkin's eyes widened slightly, and once more he surveyed the vast assemblage of hares. "All of them?"

"We are an army. I won't be leaving any of my troops behind."

"Hmm ... how many's that, exactly?"

"Eighty-one hares, plus myself."

Fitkin did some out-loud figuring. "Lessee ... my raft'll hold 'bout ten o' them beasts ... hafta take you across separate, so that'd make nine trips total ... take most o' the rest o' today, but yeah, I reckon I could do it. Whaddya got?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Whatcha got? I ain't providin' free service, y'know. I got my upkeep t' keep up. Gotta charge fer passage. So, what've you got to offer?"

The Badger Lord was aghast. "We are on a mission to aid goodbeasts who are in distress, and you ... you would seek to profit from this?"

"Your mission don't concern me. Never involve myself in no wars 'n' such, that's yer own affair. I'll give a crossin' to anybeast that's got goods t' give fer my trouble, but those who don't can build their own boat, 'cos they ain't gettin' no free rides from this shrew."

Urthfist was gritting his teeth, and a threatening rumble was starting deep in his throat. Traveller quickly ducked around in front of his master and asked Fitkin, "What would satisfy you, to get us all across? We're a military unit travelin' light, an' not carryin' much wot we can spare."

"Military, eh?" Fitkin looked thoughtful. "You must be carryin' rations, then. Food's as useful to me as anything. Nuthin' fresh, mind, I'd want vittles that'll keep fer awhile, but none o' that nasty hardtack dreck neither. Gotta have some flavor an' not taste like wood, elseways I ain't int'rested. I'd usually consider clothes too, but you big hare folk wouldn't have nuthin' that'd fit old Fitkin. Now, a nice weapon or three, that's the kind o' thing I could always use fer trade, an' you lot look to have plenty to spare ... "

"No weapons!" Urthfist roared. "We'll have need of every spear, shaft and blade when we get to Redwall, and perhaps long before then."

"Ah, but first you hafta get there, don'tcha"? Fitkin pointed out smugly. "An' that means crossin' this here stream. If you don't care fer my terms, you can always keep walkin'. There'll be another ferry shrew, in half a day's march, or a day's, or mebbe two ... who knows? Most shrews don't stick to one place like I do, so there's no tellin' fer sure."

Traveller said to Urthfist, in a soothing voice, "He can have some o' our provisions, sir. There's good foraging in Mossflower country. We only need enough to get us the rest o' the way across the Western Plains, where the pickin' tends t' be a tad slim. We need this boat, M'Lord."

Urthfist stood silently for a moment, still galled by the shrew's greed and selfishness. Finally, he forced down his rising gorge and said, "All right." But a tinge of red in his eyes betrayed that his mood was still dangerous.

"Okay, then." Fitkin rubbed his paws together as he surveyed the hares. "Eighty head, figure a day's worth o' food fer every two of 'em ... "

"Hey, wait a minute!" Major Safford protested. "You should be chargin' by number of trips, not hares. Takes so much effort to get your barge across, whether there's one beast or ten on it."

"Shows what you know, bunnydog," Fitkin sniffed derisively. "A heavier ferry's always tougher to pull. Extra work on these paws, an' that means higher toll."

Safford looked at the stream. Fitkin had set up the usual ferry-crossing arrangement, with a heavy rope tied around stumps on either shore so that the raft could be guided across the waterway just by pulling on the rope, which ran through a couple of eyelet hoops on the deck of the craft.

"Heck, our paws are a bally lot stronger'n yours," Safford said. "We'll do all the pullin' if you want. That should entitle us to a whoppin' big group discount, wot? You can even sit on the bank an' coach us from there if you want, an' not hafta get your paws wet."

"Don't mind wet paws," Fitkin said sharply, "I'm a ferry shrew. An' no lumberin' hare troop is gonna make a mess o' my livelihood. I'm steerin' each raftload across myself. You can help all you want, but the charge'll be the same."

Safford's ears flopped sideways forlornly. "Well, that hardly seems fair, chap."

"You wanna swim across, be my guest," Fitkin retorted callously.

This was too much for Urthfist. He shoved forward between Traveller and Major Safford, moving with the speed of his wrath, and hoisted Fitkin off the ground by his collar before the shrew knew what was happening. The enraged badger brought Fitkin's face nose-to-snout with his own.

"Your greed has been your undoing this day," Urthfist growled at the terrified ferrybeast. "We might have rewarded you handsomely for giving us passage, but now you shall get nothing! There are great matters upon me, and I cannot spare trouble for an insignificant and quarrelsome rudebeast. Begone!"

And with that, Urthfist hurled Fitkin through the opening of his small hovel. There was a muted crash and clatter from within as the airborn shrew collided with some of his stored possessions. Urthfist stalked over to the hut and fastened his massive paws onto the forward roof timbers. Straining with the full strength of his fury, he pulled at the edge of the roof until it gave way and collapsed down over the doorway, sealing Fitkin inside. Urthfist stood still for several moments, chest heaving from his exertion as his immediate rage subsided.

"Major!"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"Start splitting the Patrols into groups of ten. We'll ferry ourselves across."

"Yes, sir! Um, what about our nasty friend?" Safford jerked a paw toward the collapsed hovel.

"He can dig his way out. We won't be needing him."

"As you say, M'Lord." Safford quickmarched back to the ranks and set to the task of organizing the army into groups of ten hares each. The job was completed quickly, with the help of the captains and lieutenants and the superb discipline of the Long Patrol. Urthfist glowered in silence, gazing off to the northwest across the stream, where Redwall lay.

Safford came up to Urthfist. "We're ready to get started, sir."

The Badger Lord nodded. "You and Traveller go across with the first group. I want the far banks scouted thoroughly before I send the rest over. From this point on, we must be even more vigilant to avoid walking into an ambush. My brother could have forces lying in wait anywhere between here and Redwall."

"Yes, sir ... although Traveller says there's not much by way of cover on the Plains. That should make it hard for any large group to catch us by surprise."

"It will also mean that my brother will be able to see us coming from a long way away," Urthfist reminded his commander.

"Well, we didn't throw this party, but there's not a hare who wants to miss it." Safford glanced back at Fitkin's hut. There was no sound from within, no way to know for sure whether the shrew had even survived Urthfist's abuse. "Um, occurs to me, sir, that when the last of us get across, the ferry'll be on the wrong shore for this nastychops. I mean, he'll be on one bank, an' his boat'll be on the other."

"If he wants to get his raft back so badly, then he can swim for it," Urthfist answered unsympathetically. "Now let us be underway. Redwall awaits, and so does my brother."

00000000000

Urthfist would have been very surprised to learn that his brother was in fact three days south of Redwall, and a full day south of Urthfist and his hares, although still far to the east. Even as Urthfist was arguing with Fitkin, Urthblood's forces were turning westward through the lower reaches of Mossflower on the leg of their journey that would carry them to the coast, and thence to Salamandastron.

There was a rudimentary path of sorts that wound through this region of Mossflower in the general direction of their march, but it was hardly a true road like the one they'd traveled for the previous three days. It twisted and turned beneath the forest canopy, through which the blue summer sky peeked in bits and patches. Trees grew close on either side of the trail, their roots reaching into the path and making the route an endless series of dips and rises. In many places, grass and moss and weeds grew almost all the way across the trail, causing it to virtually disappear. The progress of the army was slowed considerably that morning, for over such terrain the soldiers had to tread carefully. It would be very easy to twist an ankle or break a leg on uneven ground like this.

The narrowness of the path posed an additional dilemma. It was now impossible for the wide column to march as it had along the spacious southward road from Redwall. Urthblood ordered the troop column to be narrowed to match the trail, so that it was now only two or three beasts abreast but much longer. This formation would make them vulnerable to an attack along their flanks, but the only alternative would have been for the soldiers on either edge of the column weave in and out among the adjacent trees as they marched, which would slow the army down even more. At this point, speed was more important than defensibility, since they were not very likely to encounter Urthfist or any other formidable enemy here in the dense woodlands of lower Mossflower.

Winokur wondered whether it was the right decision. If Urthblood was sending out advanced scouts to spy the way ahead, or flanking scouts to guard against a sideways assault, the young otter wasn't aware of it. Come midmorning, however, his unspoken concern was answered.

Urthblood ordered the army to halt at a large glade, almost like a stretch of hilly meadow that had been dropped into the midst of the thick forest. Only the leading elements of the column were stopped out in the sunshine, but everybeast in sun or shade was equally grateful for this brief rest from the tiresome woodland march.

The red-armored badger climbed to the top of the nearest hillock, and there he stood for long minutes, scanning the clear sky with an unblinking gaze.

Winokur turned to his father and Captain Saybrook. "What's Lord Urthblood doin' now?"

"Just routine scouting reports," Saybrook replied. "We do this all th' time up north. Guess Lord Urthblood feels it's best to keep up th' practice here in Mossflower. Can't say I blame 'im, what with his mad brother maybe on th' prowl in these parts. Ah, here we are, now."

Winokur followed Saybrook's gaze. A large kite dropped out of the sky and landed on the tussock alongside Urthblood. Like the falcon Klystra, this bird also wore a stiff jerkin around its torso, sleeveless so that its wings could flap freely. The cut of the garment had something of an officer's rank about it, and the material looked thick enough to stop arrows loosed at a distance: uniform and armor all in one.

Saybrook shaded his eyes with a paw as he examined the raptor. "Captain Halpryn, unless I'm mistaken. 'Course, kinda hard fer us otter folk to tell our bird comrades apart. Even when they're in uniform, they all look much th' same t' me. But, yep, I'm sure that's Halpryn. She's a good one. Not a creature on legs or wings that escapes her eagle eye."

"Eagle, y' say?" Warnokur grinned, poking Saybrook playfully in the ribs. "She looks more like a kite t' me!"

"Ha! Y' got me there, ya ol' riverdog! Whoops, an' off she goes already! That didn't take long. Let's hear what she had t' say."

Urthblood descended from the hillock as Halpryn's majestically flapping form dwindled rapidly into the western sky. Several of the other captains had come forward from the standing column to listen in on this latest aerial report.

"There is no enemy force visible within a day's march of our present position," Urthblood announced to the eagerly awaiting commanders. "Captain Halpryn spotted some shrew activity to the south of our route, but that should not concern us. There is another clearing similar to this one, roughly half a day's travel ahead of us. She will meet us there this afternoon or evening with a further report. That is all. Return to your regiments; we will resume the march at once."

As the captains headed back to their places in the column, Winokur fell into step alongside Urthblood. "No sign of your brother or his hares at all, Lord?"

"Not in this part of Mossflower, or the near Plains."

"So, they could be anywhere," the novice otter mused. "Hiding under this tree cover somewhere up ahead, or already at Redwall by a different route, or still at Salamandastron, not having left there at all ... "

"Yes," Urthblood nodded, "this is true. I will try to keep alert so that we are not caught unaware."

"I hope so, My Lord. The Abbess entrusted me to be Redwall's envoy to Salamandastron, to try to stop bloodshed between you and your brother if I possibly can. A surprise ambush won't give me much chance to play peacemaker. Then again, it would be funny if your brother did go to Redwall, and we arrive at Salamandastron only to find it completely empty."

"No chance of that," Urthblood rumbled. "Even if Urthfist makes for Redwall, he would not leave the mountain unguarded, open to the searat hordes of Tratton. There are sure to be hares at Salamandastron when we arrive, not matter what my brother has done."

"I say, M'Lord," Winokur wondered as they cleared the glade and plunged back into the deep forest shadows, "do you know any of your brother's hares?"

"It has been so many seasons since I was last at Salamandastron, I could not say. Some of the older members of the Patrols may have been in service when I was Lord there, but of course they would have been fairly young then. But my brother has had long seasons to warp their minds, as we have witnessed with Hanchett. If any of them remember me at all, they may not remember me as I truly was, but as Urthfist would have them think of me. I fear things there may be very different from when I was last at Salamandastron. We will find out soon enough."