Chapter 4:
Rose sat on her bed, sobbing into her paws. She wished that she hadn't been able to go back here, hadn't had to hide, hadn't had to die in the first place!
She remembered it clearly. Everything.
They were setting the Rambling Rosehips' cart on fire, and unleashing it to fuel the flames that would eventually devour the heavy wooden gate hungrily, ravenously.
They had planned this well. Rose was to be with Grumm and the moles, who were tunneling under the stone walls, and protect them from fire, catching any vermin she could with her sling.
The ambush was going well. There were cries in the air, and more vermin fell than woodlanders, which she was grateful for. Martin was with the bow beasts, under Ballaw's direction.
All had gotten in, and Rose heard the roar of Rowanoak, and guessed that she had gotten through the flames of the front gates.
"Badraaaang, I am here!"
A sudden chill went up and down her spine. Knocking yet another vermin off the wall with a well aimed stone, she gestured to Pallum and Grumm, and ducked a sword swung at her by a rat, who was stunned instantly with a pebble fired from Grumm's ladle. In the flickering firelight, smoke obscuring the stars above, she saw the stoat running from a mouse, who fought harsly.
Martin……
"Come on! He'll need us to help stop him!"
She set off at a run, and skid to a stop as she noticed him, through a gaping hole in the stone, where the rat had seen her and climbed out of, make his way to the compound , where many of their fighters were still exiting from.
"Through the compound tunnel, we've got to stop Badrang!"
They went through, Grumm first, Pallum last, and Rose in the middle. They saw, upon exiting, Badrang coming very close to the compound.
"If he gets through you two, I'll block the tunnel entrance!" without stopping to hear their opinion, Pallum jumped back into the hole.
Grumm launched himself at Badrang, his ladle raised. Viciously, Badrang swung at him, and it was only the ladle which saved Grumm, the sword catching the ladle instead of the mole.
Gritting her teeth, she quickly loaded her sling, and pounced on the tyrant, hitting him, once, twice, thrice on the face. She saw blood on his lips, and he grabbed her, snarling. Lifting her up, she was aware of Martin's scream of rage, and a sudden pain in her head, disappearing as she plunged into darkness.
There was a knock on her door.
"Who is it?" she wiped a tear off her face, and plastered a small smile on her face, though her voice came out cracked.
"Gonff."
"Oh. Come in."
The door opened, and Gonff came in, looking at her quizzically, and upon seeing the water in her eyes, he sat down on the bed with her.
"What is it?"
She gave him a sad smile, and shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."
He frowned at her slightly. "I think I would, Laterose."
She stiffened and turned towards him. "You know my name is Teralose!" her voice came out high and squeaky,
He ignored her. "Or would you prefer Rose? Much easier t'say."
She sighed and sobbed again, a fresh wave of tears cascaded down her cheeks. Gonff put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him, crying, and mumbling incoherent things.
"Shhh…shhh…it's alright, it's okay…"
Rose lifted a tear-stained face to look at him. "No, it's no 'okay'. You wouldn't understand the whole of it, you wouldn't understand much of it."
Gonff frowned. "You really think that?"
"Yes."
Laying down, he looked at her, arms crossed over his chest. "Well then, you can just try it."
Rose looked at him.
Should she?
Or should she not?
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Boar, once again, watched Rose. He would have to do that constantly now, for the message must be sent.
Tonight.
He watched Gonff as he asked her to tell him. He watched her struggling to decide.
She would tell him.
At least, that was what he thought.
"Rose," he mumbled, "Please, Please don't tell him too much, if anything at all. Please."
Rose shook her head. "I'm sorry Gonff, perhaps another time. If B-a friend were here, he might tell you most of it, but I can't. See if you can figure out my song, that should give you enough clues for the moment."
Boar felt as though he could kiss Rose.
Gonff furrowed his brow, and then relaxed it. "If you say so, Rose. Come on, it's almost time for the feast. An hour before sunset. The kitchens are always one of the best places to be."
Rose laughed. "Yes, Mousethief. Of course they are, for you."
Looking at the setting sun, she stayed quiet for a little bit. "Gonff, it's about half-way to dark. Not another three hours until the feast."
"That's alright!" Gonff had regained his cheery mood. "A couple of pinched pies, and you'll feel better! Remember, you were going to sing tonight?"
"I was?" It was evident that Rose had no clue about this.
"Oh. Erm, I kind of…"
"You liddle fiend!"
Rose leapt at Gonff, who rolled to the side as quick as he could, and ran out of the door, 'Teralose' in full pursuit.
Boar sat back and pondered a bit. Three hours…
That should leave him enough time to check on that strange vermin lad, who seemed important…
The Fate-Strand of all-beasts rarely changed.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Безмолвие crouched in the snow, white fur easily cloaking him from sight.
Stealth.
Quietly, carefully, he crept forward, thick fur protecting him from the cold for the most part. On his belt, there was a flask with a sleeping drought in it.
Caution.
His job was to slip the sleeping drought in Tent Eighteen. His tent. Or, more specifically, the tent he shared with Гнев, Ненависть, and Лед.
Darkness.
He had to stay in the shadows. Ever since the Master-or, as he permitted Безмолвие to call him- Кров-Глаза had shown them their place, shown them that he wasn't all that much lower than him, and very close to being a Highbeast, they had been after his blood. He had to be careful. Last night, he barely avoided a knife that was being plunged down at his throat.
Shadow.
He approached the tent, and, without the use of the black cloak used by most spies, who infiltrated as well as spied, and slipped inside. They were having dinner. As usual, his plate was empty by now.
Silence.
He hid underneath one of the bunks. They had no clue of his infiltration.
"So, where do you think the scumbag's gone to, Гнев?" The silver weasel asked a tan rat.
"No clue, Ice."
Безмолвие nearly growled. The Master didn't want most speaking their names in Lower Tounge. No, that wouldn't do.
Distraction.
Slowly, Безмолвие drew a small stone-one of the few he had- and threw it out of one of the ice-panes. Slivers of ice were everywhere.
Suddenly, as the three tyrants were turned, Безмолвие nearly cursed out loud. By the flames of Ад! He had forgotten-they were stupid, yes, but even a Lowerbeast, a Toil-beast, would have noticed that there was no stone, had it been thrown from the inside.
Quickly, without a sound, he placed a stone out of place near another bunk, and slipped over to their dinners.
As fast as he could manage without making a ruckus, while the others were examining the window, and swearing loudly, he dipped a few drops into each drink, and a drop or so on each plate.
Escape.
He would go now, before they noticed him. Like he was a shadow, albeit a white one, he slid out of the tent and a safe place, far away. Perhaps there was some food to be found.
He counted the essential steps.
Stealth, Caution, Darkness. Shadow, Silence, Distraction. Escape.
He had gotten all of them.
But as he began picking some wild Billberry, which had just ripened, a rich red, and like a blackberry, he remembered something.
The ice.
It had flown, most of it, outwards.
Война, give him strength.
Ад, give him the fury to be able to withstand the taunts of those larger than him.
Солнце, give him the warmth to stand before the blizzard.
Судьба, give him extra time on his fate-strand.
Here, the young ferret paused. You usually didn't ask this goddess for help-she was the only one, and the meaning of her name went against all rules of the tribes of Кровопролитие.
But still he did.
Мир, give him the wild tranquility of a forest.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Boar waved a paw, and the stone went dark.
He drummed a few claws on the wooden surface in front of him, deep in thought. Where next?
Sitting up straighter than before, he snapped his claws. Of course! He thought, and said a couple of words to the darkened stone, where shadows prowled silently.
"Noonvale, Brom.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Brom carefully harvested poppy seeds from the dried head, crumbling them into a small bag. Only a few dropped to the ground, and most were picked up by the healer, experienced beyond his years.
Straightening up to stretch, he looked around. Everywhere, there was a sign of war.
Once-abandoned forges now were inhabited by smiths who traveled here in search of a life where they would not be forced to create weapons of war. Smoke spilled lazily into the sky, creating a willy-nilly pathway into the clouds, thinning out to invisible vapor against the shining sun.
Some mothers were sitting on stones around a huge heap of thin bark, weaving tight, but flexible slings for the dark horizon steadily approaching. Children were gathering feathers molted from birds on high, for the fletching of arrows. The straight sticks were shaves, sharpened, and heated by fire over the course of many days, and the feathers were carefully applied properly. The clan of otters from nearby were also there, practicing with many others of Noonvale, with an assortment of weapons.
Ballaw was with Rowanoak, instructing youngsters on how to make and throw javalins, while Grumm, nearby, was teaching some moles how to throw pebbles into the air correctly with a sling, or, a ladle.
Brom was saddened by the sight, the sight that he had to endure before. Before, the only time before, was when Badrang threatened all whom were good. And that was too soon ago to be going to war. Again.
Nevertheless, Brom reached down to another poppy head, and crumbled the seeds into the pouch. Nearby, there were some others who wished to be healers, gathering dock leaves and other herbs for healing.
A paw tapped him on the shoulder as he was gathering another poppy head-goodness knows how many they would need-and he slipped, scattering seeds all over the place.
"Erm...Brom?"
The mousemaid was tan, a bow strapped to her back and a quiver of arrows suspended by her belt, at her hip.
"Yes, Dahlia?" the mousemaid had arrived only a season or so ago, and was a roaming beast-her weapons rarely left her side.
"Your mother wants to see you."
He nodded in thanks, and stood from his crouching position. He carefully shook the poppy seeds clinging to his paws into the bag. Who knew how many they would need for this war?
He padded softly down a memorized path to the house in which he and his mother resided, and pushed open the wooden door.
"Mother?" he called hesitantly, tiptoeing inside of the doorway.
"In the living room!"
Brom walked in, pausing at the doorway to the living room. "You called?"
"Yes." She turned to him, and again he noted the rapidly graying fur, heavy around the muzzle. It astounded him at how old she had gotten within the last few seasons.
He sat down without her asking and straightened his back, ready to listen with rapt attention.
"Why must we go?"
He sighed in his mind, but made no such gesture. The mouse knew how much his mother had turned against war in grief for Rose's dead life, and saw no reason to go. "Mother, we must. Martin is there, Rose is there…" he trailed off, turning his head to look out the window, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye in the meantime.
She looked at him with careful curiosity, and he knew in his heart that she wasn't sure, even now, if Rose was truly alive; the sight of her body, the spine cracked and broken, head cracked slightly, wrenched her heart so much that she stayed in silence for five seasons, speaking only when her husband died of sorrow. And even then, she still mourned for her lost daughter, her Laterose.
"I do not believe that any could come back from the dead. What about her body?"
Brom shook his head. "She did not return from the dead; as far as I know, she is only staying in the land of the living for a short period of time."
"Then why save her again, for her to die anyways?"
"It would be better to save her from the fate of dying in battle than let her be skewered on a spear."
Brom's mother sighed, echoing his own thoughts. "For why should she die in battle twice?"
He nodded. "Exactly."
"But what about the young'uns?" she gestured outside to the smaller, not yet matured creatures outside, eagerly helping to prepare for battle. "They have no need to die, but why are they helping? I can see in their eyes that they wish to go to battle and prove themselves."
Brom gulped mentally. This was why Rose died. He wanted away from his father, he wanted to prove himself-and ended up being captured by Badrang. "They will not go if I can help it. If they go, it will be only the eldest, and they will stay in a medical tent caring for those brought back from the battlefield, wounded."
"I have no want to lose you."
Brom now sighed out in the open. "Mother, I will not be fighting, only trying to care for the injured. I will try not to fight with sword or weapon, only the skills with herb and healing I possess to keep death from taking over will I fight with."
His mother stood from her chair, and paced around in a circle. Finally, she stopped, and looked at him.
"As much as I wish not to let you be harmed, to keep you away from battle, I will let you go, but on one condition."
"Yes, Mother?"
She looked him, straight in the eye, and, even before she spoke, he knew what it was.
"I want to come and help to heal."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Boar quickly darkened the stone yet again. An internal clock told him that it was time to get the message to Rose.
He shrunk the stone and pocketed it, moving to the mirror.
"Rose."
It showed her singing, near the end of a beautiful song. She had sung it once, he remembered, and it was very pretty. Morbid at the beginning, but all turned out all right at the end.
She hit the last note, and, when she was seated, he spoke again.
"Message to Rose of Noonvale, currently at Redwall Abbey."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Martin applauded loudly with the rest as Rose sat down again. He had almost forgotten what it was like for her to sing…
He glanced at Gonff, who caught his eye and winked. Gonff knew and wouldn't tell any but Rose herself, he was sure. Their friendship was far too strong for anything else to happen.
Suddenly, there were gasps, as Rose collapsed, but then, as though she were a puppet on strings, she ascended the stairs again in small, jerky steps. Martin furrowed her brow, and it deepened as she spoke in a voice that was not her own.
"A danger coming
From the north,
A cold wind blowing,
From the north,
A help is coming,
From the south,
But still not enough,
From the south.
Among the north,
There may be one,
To help the ones of Red Sandstone.
Among the south,
A betrayer be,
One who will sell,
Lives to the north.
A flower come,
To help you here,
A flower shining,
To guide you safely,
Through maze of swords,
Gauntlet of spears,
So trust the flower,
Trust a Northerner,
And pity the betrayer.
Become ready,
For war,
So soon,
From Tsarmina,
Of thousand eyes.
A north wind blows south,
Cold and bitter,
Ruthless,
Destroying in its wake.
So cry out now,
Gather allies,
For war,
For war,
For war."
Rose collapsed again, and all stood up as one.
Martin was horrified as they dragged her off to the wine cellar, suspicious and angry. Gonff was at his side, nodding at his dagger, and, understanding, he nodded back.
He would prepare for war.
A/N: I finished this just for you guys...if any of you are left hanging around for this installment.
I deserve no less to have no reviews, but I would like some.
Thank you.