Author's note:
I've been tracking the traffic of my stories and I know at least a few people have read this, right? I'm kinda sad at the lack of reviews, however. Please, guys! Just one tiny little review. You have no idea how much that would motivate me.
Also. In a far more serious and mournful tone, I announce the death of dear Brian Jacques on February 5th of this year, 2011. Brian, the rest of this story is for you, and I pray that I will never forget the magic and whimsy and voice you have created, deep within my soul and the souls of your true readers.
Welcome, Brian, to the realm of your creation.
And may you ever enjoy your time here.
And here we go with chapter three. I hope that you enjoy it. All of you. And whether you do or not...please tell me what you think!
There was, however unlikely it may seem, one group of creatures in the vicinity of Redwall who was not laughing that night.
Camped not a mile upstream of the lovely Abbey, an older female fox clad in a cloak of raven's feathers waited quietly outside a red silk tent in the middle of a bustling camp. She pushed back her hood tiredly and leaned against the flimsy material of her leader's shelter, fully exhausted from the scouting she had done the previous night. Gray was shot through her once-rich, now-ragged red fur. She caught a little of her reflection in a small puddle near her and looked away. She was growing old, and she disliked it.
Slowly the old fox turned her head so one ragged ear-the one that worked best-was pressed to the smooth fabric. Her back was to the pens of the slaves they had captured on the journey as of yet. She did not want to think of the many creatures that, if all went well, would soon be joining them in that pen, and then on the harsh march back to the Lynx Palace, so very far away. She was-though she did not like to face it-growing old, and her work was growing tiresome. But she had no doubt that someday soon-once her mistress, the Lynx Quinn, had passed away-the alternative would be much worse. She was determined to put that off as long as possible.
She closed her eyes and listened. A soft "...You're quite sure?" drifted through to her. It sounded like the voice of her friend, the much younger lady fox Mairon.
"Quite sure, unfortunately," rasped another voice. It was the doctor to the officers (the only ones who deserved doctors), a quiet old owl called Ramson.
"Well then, that's that," came another voice, briskly, a voice the old fox knew far too well as the voice of Isla, the power-hungry daughter of Quinn. "Mairon, is Jespice back yet?"
"I don't know, m'lady," said Mairon.
"Go and check, then," growled Isla. The old fox heard the sound of Mairon's pawsteps approaching the tent flap and quickly sat up straight, pretending to be watching the sun creep up slowly over the trees.
"Jespice!" said Mairon as she lifted the tent flap, her own cloak of dusky sparrow's feathers fluttering slightly round her shoulders. "Back already, dear?"
The old fox nodded. "Yes. The scouting was quite successful, if I do say so myself."
"Glad to hear it," said Mairon, not meeting Jespice's eyes.
"She's here?" Isla's head poked out of the tent. "Oh, excellent." Her eyes had that predatory gleam that made even the two foxes shudder inwardly. "Come in, Jespice dear, come in." She beckoned them inside and the pair followed, Jespice glancing nervously at Mairon, who refused to look at her. A nervous feeling began to crawl around in Jespice's stomach as Isla motioned for her to sit down on the luxurious pillows blanketing the floor of the tent.
"My lady, I am here to make my report-" began the old fox, struggling to keep all the nervousness she felt from her voice. Isla was not her favorite of the Lynxes who held her in their service. Isla wasn't as eccentric as her mother, but she was far more cold and calculating. That made her dangerous, and that meant that she was a threat. Jespice did not like threats she was not used to dealing with, and she was not used to dealing with Isla, who abruptly cut her off.
"My dear Jespice, I'm afraid I don't take reports from you anymore. You see-" here she sighed heavily, her voice laden with regret-"My dear old mum, the Lynx Quinn, passed away shortly before dawn on this very day. And Jespice, darling...well, I'm afraid that you're growing old like her...a little old to be wearing the raven's feathers, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps it's time to let someone younger have a shot at the higher ranks."
Jespice's heart beat faster. "My lady, if only you would let me finish my report...I can assure that you would find it quite interesting..." She wrung her paws nervously.
"I apologize, Jespice," said her new Mistress. "Hand the raven's feathers to Mairon, please." Jespice, trembling a little, unfastened her shining black cloak and passed it to her friend, who looked almost guilty and even apologetic, but still refused to meet Jespice's frightened gaze.
"My lady, if I may...perhaps I could wear the sparrow's feathers?" the old fox ventured in an almost desperate manner.
"Dear, dear," sighed Isla. "Your old age has made you naive. You have seen what happens when a creature is stripped of its cloak, do you not?" Jespice, trembling all over by now, did know.
A pair of weasels entered the tent with a set of slave's shackles. Jespice raised her paws over her head and they clamped them onto her wrists as tears ran down her gray-streaked muzzle. The weasels hauled her to her feet and began marching her towards the tent flap. They exited and Jespice blinked away the tears quickly. She would not let the slaves or soldiers think she was weak.
And thus, Jespice, one of the Lynxes' oldest and proudest servants lifted her head with as much frightened dignity as she could muster and marched in step with her escorts to the slave pens.
Okay, so another note. PLEASE don't forget to review. I beg of you. And also, can you think of a better name for the stronghold of the Lynxes and their army? My name is stupid. I promise you'll get full credit and if you ever want to use it yourself, you can. Whether you have a name for me or not, please review.