The young squirrel picked his way through the forest, one that he had arrived in recently in the past three seasons that he could remember. His fur pattern was unusual for a squirrel: he was black-furred rather than red or brown.

He had but two precious possessions: the curved steel dagger in his belt, and his name.

Who am I?

Pausing in his path, Todd glanced up at the late afternoon sky. He remembered that day, three seasons ago, when he had awoken to a blood-strewn forest and no memory of who he was, where his home was, or what had driven him to kill five beasts. Did he even have parents? Family? Friends? Did they wonder where he was?

Where do I come from?

All at once, the noise of rustling reaches his ears from all sides. Stopping, he sighed. Highwaybeasts. Carry one thing of value and they swarm you. He was not particularly worried about the highwaybeasts, though.

He was more worried for the highwaybeasts.

Within seconds they had him encircled. The initial mild bother he'd felt turned to fear. There were more of them than he'd first thought; almost a half score of armed beasts surrounded him now.

Todd's mouth went dry. The most he'd fought before was five. Now here was nearly twice that number.

It was best to try polite diplomacy first. "Good morning, sirs," he greeted them cautiously, not quite keeping the trembling out of his voice. "W-what can I do for you?"

The leader, a frowsy male stoat, sneered and spat, snickering to his band. "Did ye 'ear that? Wot d'youse say, lads? Wot can this liddle snit do fer us?"

"Turn out 'is pockets an' 'and over that pretty knife," a fat ferret jeered, exposing his snaggletooth in a grin.

Todd bit his lip. "I'm afraid I can't do that," he replied, fighting to keep calm. "I don't have anything save for this knife. It's all I have." He didn't mention the medallion in his pocket; something told him that was far too valuable. For all he knew, it was the key to his lost memories.

"Then we'll jest take it," the stoat sniggered. "Either ye gimme it now or we take it an' yore life along wid it. So wot'll it be, young'un? Better 'urry up an' choose, or I'll—wot?"

Todd rushed him, swinging his knife; momentarily startled, the stoat leaped out of the way. But rather than attack him, Todd dashed past him and shot up a tree. "If you want it, come and get it!"

But the young squirrel had misjudged the readiness and speed of some of the other members of the robber band. A lean weasel that had already loaded a sling now whirled it and loosed the stone. It was a skillful throw; the stone struck Todd in the side of his head, knocking him from the branch. As the young squirrel fell, he felt the warm dribble of blood trickle down his face.

Eager to reach the knife first, the fat ferret dashed forward. He stood over him triumphantly, close enough to see the squirrel's eyes dull to an eerie shade of olive green, brightened by the light of madness.

What is this demon that lives within me?

The ferret had time for one bloodcurdling shriek as the squirrel leapt on him. The knife flashed in the sun, and the grass ran red with blood. Todd turned, maddened and excited by the insane thrill, turned on the rest of the robbers and leapt. And everything went dark.

He came to his senses as he stood over the now bloody and dying stoat, who stared back with shocked, disbelieving eyes. None of the vermin had survived.

With a strange mixture of fear, hatred, and awe in his tone, the stoat rasped out his final words. "Wot… in all 'Ellgates… are yew?"

When the light had faded from the vermin's gaze, Todd found his voice and answered in a harsh whisper.

"That's what I want to know."

With the dagger grasped in his paw, he stumbled out of the bloodstained area and managed to go about five paces before he collapsed from the ugly wounds that, until that moment, had been overlooked.

When the screaming from outside had finally ceased, Holly opened her eyes, but did not release her hold on Woodbine. It was a long time before the two rabbits ventured to make a sound.

"Is it over?" Woodbine whispered. The small rabbit pressed close to Holly, quaking in terror.

"I think so," Holly replied, carefully letting go of him. She made an attempt at a dry laugh, but it came out nervous and thin. "You'd think we'd be used to this sort of thing in the Banthwoods."

Carefully she removed a wooden pendant from around her neck and pressed it into her younger brother's trembling paws. "I'm going out to look. Don't lose that."

Woodbine nodded solemnly; he did not need to be told.

Holly picked up the only real weapon in the burrow: the thin rapier that had once belonged to her father. With the blade clutched in her paw and her rust-colored fur bristling with apprehension, she open the small wooden door inward, pushed aside the boulders that hid it from view, and crept out.

Upon seeing what lay outside, she slipped out and shut the door, just in case Woodbine had decided to follow her. She stuffed her free paw in her mouth to keep from screaming at the grisly scene before her.

Dead bodies littered the blood-strewn ground, Banth-Rogues by the looks of them. At least, by the looks of those with still-recognizable features, of which there were only three. The others were too marred to identify, or even count. Somebeast had attacked them—or been attacked by them—and had killed them all.

After the initial horror, Holly calmed down, and her healer training dampened her revulsion. She began to pick her way around them, careful not to step in blood puddles, as she searched vainly for any survivors. Living in the Banthwoods, Holly was all too familiar with such notions as slaughter and murder. She froze suddenly, looking around. If one of the Malobanth's creatures saw her, she may be blamed for this. She did, after all, have a sword in her paw, and they would not bother to note that there was not a single speck of blood on the polished blade. But, seeing that there was nobeast around, she glanced down again. Her stomach lurched, but she forced herself to look at them. They were all vermin, clearly, and she set about dragging the bodies to the broad stream that flowed nearby. Rolling them in, she made sure they floated downstream rather than stay in one spot and dirty the water. Some of them, however, she could not bring herself to touch. Digging with her paws as only a rabbit could, she pushed the remains in with a piece of wood and kicked earth back over them. It took about a half an hour before she straightened and looked around again. It was then that she spotted another body, not too far off. Steeling herself, she approached the still form and stopped. It was a squirrel, an oddly colored one, but a squirrel nonetheless. At first she took it to be dead, but a small puddle of blood by the beast's nose caught her eyes. Covering her nose, she bent down for a closer look to see little bubbles in the tiny pool of red. He was still breathing.

Holly had been trained by her herbalist mother from a very early age; now, her healer's instincts took over. Lifting the squirrel's head clear of the blood, so that he did not breathe it in and choke on it, she turned him over. Lifting him up halfway, she began to heave him laboriously back to the burrow entrance. Her little brother was not as used to seeing death as she was; at least, not this kind of death. Their mother had died in a harsh winter, leaving her thirteen-season-old daughter and her six-season-old son to fend for themselves. All she had left was her healer's chest, her husband's rapier, and the circular bronze pendant with a polished stone set in the center. Their burrow was hidden beneath the roots of a massive hollow snag that had once been a great oak, safe from the notice of the conqueror Malobanth and his vast army.

Upon reaching the roots, Holly opened the door, calling out, "It's all right, Woodbine, but come over here and help me. I have a wounded beast with me."

Woodbine was hiding behind the little cupboard, as he often did during moments of fright. Now, he hopped to his footpaws at the sight of his sister coming in, dragging the limp form of a young squirrel. Carefully positioning the boulders that hid the burrow, she shut the door and locked it. Opening a chest, she lifted out a white sheet and threw it over the mattress of a bed that had not been slept in for a season now. "Help me put him in Mum's bed," she told him.

With Woodbine's help, Holly carefully placed the young squirrel on the clean sheet. Quickly, she took the tinderbox from the table and set about starting a fire in the fireplace, which was positioned so that any smoke would drift up the cavity of the dead tree. Her mother had warned her never to start a fire unless it was an emergency, because the smoke could easily be spotted. "Woodbine, listen to me. Take the big copper pot out and fill it with water from the stream. Be quick and quiet, and if you see any red on the ground, don't step in it. Got it?"

Woodbine nodded and grabbed the pot. "Wha' about the squirrel? Is he gonna die, Holly?"

"Not if you hurry and get that water. Go on, now!"

The small buck hurried out as Holly lifted the lid of a large chest at the foot of the bed where her mother had always kept clean bandaging and cloth.

With gashes and bleeding wounds, the first thing you must do is staunch the flow of the blood. With her mother's instructions echoing in her mind, Holly carefully removed the squirrel's ripped and bloodstained vest and pressed a clean cloth to the worst of the his wounds. None of his wounds were fatal, thank goodness, but she would have to work fast in order to prevent infection or severe blood loss.

After about five minutes Woodbine came struggling back in, gently lugging the heavy pot of water. "Put it over the fire," she told him. "I need warm water. Then get Mum's old healer's chest and bring me the needle and thread, and some marigold and sanicle. I've managed to stop the bleeding."

"Will he be all right?" Woodbine asked worriedly, hanging the pot over the flames.

Holly bit her lip. "The wounds weren't serious to begin with, but he must have been fighting vigorously enough to open them further. He lost a lot of blood, but we got to him before infection set in. After these injuries he'll be fine, but…"

"But what?" Woodbine pressed.

"If Malobanth finds out, I don't know how long he'll last," Holly murmured as she dipped a clean cloth in the now bubbling water and began cleaning her patient's blood-caked fur and gashes. "Slaying nine creatures is all very well, but against Malobanth's army… he won't stand a chance."

Opening the healer's chest, Woodbine selected the herbs that Holly indicated, deposited them into a wooden bowl, and began grinding them into a mash with a pestle. The older rabbit carefully threaded a needle and set to work on the worst of the squirrel's wounds, a jagged gash down his leg.

Three hours passed before Holly knotted the last bandage in place and covered the unconscious squirrel with a thick cotton blanket.

"Now we wait," she said simply.

Woodbine stood by the prone squirrel, his nose twitching at the strong smell of herbs. "What a warrior," he murmured in awe, reaching out with a small paw to touch the black fur. "He's kinda funny-colored, but he's a real warrior. I bet the Renegades could use a fighter like him."

Holly's fur prickled with eagerness at the sound of the resistance force's name. "I wonder who the poor beast is."

Deep in the realm of his subconscious, Todd half-heard the rabbit's remark.

So do I.

The young squirrel's eyes flickered and opened. Surprised at the lack of trees and forest around him, he attempted to sit up. His effort was arrested by a small paw, which pressed him down gently but firmly. The high voice of a young one sounded in his ear nearby.

"Try not to move, sir. You don't want to go reopening those wounds."

Todd turned his head and found himself staring into the face of a young rabbit, light brown in color, who was staring at him with bright, excited eyes.

"You're awake finally! You've been asleep for two days now."

Blinking groggily, Todd found his voice. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"My name's Woodbine," the rabbit replied. "You're in a burrow, in the Banthwoods. What's your name?"

"I'm Todd," the squirrel replied softly. "Do you live here by yourself, Woodbine?"

"Nah, I live here with my big sister, Holly. She's out getting food right now. We can't grow our own food, 'cause we have to hide. So we have to forage. But that's okay. Food's pretty easy to find. So where are you from?"

Todd shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "Oh… around…"

The small rabbit blinked up at him understandingly. "I get it. You haven't got a home, have you? D'you have a family?"

"I don't know," Todd answered quietly. "I have no memories… I can't remember where I'm from or who I am… all I know about myself is my name."

Woodbine was about to reply when a scuffling noise nearby alerted him. "That'll be my sister," he explained. "Holly! The squirrel woke up!"

Another rabbit, with reddish brown fur, padded in. "Oh, finally some good news. Hello, I'm Holly. I wish I could say 'Welcome to the Banthwoods', but the Banthwoods aren't exactly welcoming."

"Your brother tells me I've been out for four days," said Todd, licking his dry lips. "My name's Todd. Er… do you have any water?"

The young doe helped him sit up before giving him a cup of water. "Don't drink too fast. Are you from near the Banthwoods, Todd?"

"Dunno," Todd replied, sipping carefully. "I've been wandering for a couple seasons now."

"No offense, but aren't you a bit young?" Holly placed a plate of plain food before the squirrel.

"I s'pose so," the squirrel conceded, accepting the victuals. "But I don't know if I have any family, or a home, for that matter. I don't even know who I am. I just… woke up one day and…" The memory of the grisly scene rose in his mind's eye, and he shook his head to clear it. "…And I couldn't remember who I was."

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Aye," Todd admitted hesitantly, unable to bring himself to lie to this benevolent, honest rabbit. The words in his mouth made the food taste bitter. "Five beasts… all dead. The terrible thing is, I can remember… you know… being the one who did it. And two days ago, it happened again, only this time I didn't lose my memory again. But I was attacked by that robber band, and one of 'em hit me." Todd bit his lip; didn't want to burden these beasts with his grisly story, but now that he'd started telling it, he was unable to stop. "I tasted blood and… after that, it's only little bits and pieces. But I remember the feel of killing." He shuddered.

"Well… maybe you have the Bloodwrath?" Woodbine suggested. "You know what that is, right?"

"Bloodwrath… Bloodwrath… what's that?"

"It happened with a squirrel once," replied Holly. "A black squirrel like yourself. Well, Bloodwrath, in detail, is when the heat of battle becomes so strong that a warrior will kill any enemy it sees, regardless of injury or pain. It's dangerous to be around a berserker, though."

"I see," Todd said quietly. "But Bloodwrath… you say they only succumb when the battle-rage overcomes them. What I have is different; it only happens when I'm hit in the head, or if I taste blood. And then I kill everything I see, and I don't stop until everything around me is dead or I'm dead."

"Well how do you know that if it's only happened twice, to your knowledge?" Holly asked, wanting to lessen the squirrel's fears.

"When it first happened, I was trying to find clues among them… to help me figure out who I am. I found a bird. A dead bird, a thrush. The wounds on it matched my knife." Tears welled up in Todd's eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. "I remember bits and pieces, Holly. I remember feeling… joy. Exhilaration. I wanted to kill, not out of hate or vengeance, but for my own enjoyment." Ashamed, he turned his face away.

Woodbine darted around the bed to face him. "But it's not you that's enjoying it, is it?" he asked. "You don't like killing, do you? At least, not now? Isn't that important?"

"It is to us," Holly insisted, sensing what the squirrel was afraid of. "We're not going to turn you out, if that's what's worrying you. Try to get some rest. You'll feel better."
Sighing, Todd lay back on the pillows. "Thank you, Holly. And you too, Woodbine."

Holly and Woodbine left Todd sleeping soundly in the bed. Holly twitched her nose "It doesn't matter whether it's Bloodwrath or anything else. A berserker's a berserker, and he's one. But he's a good beast, and I'd like to get to know him a bit. What do you think, Woodbine?"

"He could help us," the young rabbit replied. "Can't he, Holly?"

"Yes, of course," Holly agreed. "And maybe—hello, what's this?" A scratching at the blocked entrance startled her.

Her momentary fear was soothed when a young female voice whispered urgently through the door. "Holly, Woodbine, open up! It's me, Mitz!"

"Thank goodness!" Holly breathed, crossing the burrow floor. She opened the little door to admit a young gray fox, who padded in cautiously.

"My father sent me ahead to tell you he'd be here soon," Mitz explained. "He sent me with this message: Long live—"

"Don't say it!" Holly hissed. "In these woods, the trees have ears and the leaves whisper secrets!"

Mitz grinned. "You sound like an old healer vixen, Holly," she teased. "But whatever you say, mate. Do you know when the next meeting is with the Renegades?"

"Aye, it's next full moon, three days from now," Holly replied in a hushed voice. Thorn and Rangfar will be there?"

"Wouldn't miss it," the vixen replied with a furtive smile, tapping a paw to the side of her muzzle. "I'm to stay with you two while Dad and Thorn come." For the first time, the young fox looked up and saw the sleeping squirrel. "Who's the newcomer?

"His name's Todd," Woodbine explained in a low voice. "He can help us."

"Hm, looks like he's the one who needs the most help right now," Mitz said sympathetically. "What happened to him?"

"Nine beasts," Holly replied in a low voice. "Nine beasts, dead. By his paw. He didn't get clean away with it, though."

Mitz's eyes widened with hope. "Bloodwrath?"

"I've spoken with him, and he thinks it's something different," the reddish-brown rabbit replied. "It sounds different from Bloodwrath, too."

"Oh, what's in a name?" the vixen snorted. "Either way, he may give us some hope against Malobanth. Wait a tick, is that his vest there?"

Holly glanced at the ragged, dirty garment that was spread over the closed chest. "Oh, that? Yes. I was going to wash it and mend it for him, but between tending to him and taking care of things around here, I haven't had the time.

"Hmph!" The sprightly vixen lifted it up distastefully with her clawtips. "Is it really worth the trouble to mend and wash? It's a bit—whoops!" A weight in one of the pockets caused the vest to slip from her hold. It hit the dirt floor, and whatever was in the pocket clattered.

Curious, Holly came forward. Mitz reached into the pocket.

"Hello, what's this? Oh my—Holly, look at this!" The vixen held up the contents of the squirrel's pocket, a paw-sized wooden medallion, decorated with distinctive carved designs. "It's a recognition medal of the Renegades!"