"We're the Honest Bunch, A crew, not a horde! Welcome aboard! Honesty's not our best policy, but we'll stand beside ye! It's what we do! So join us, why don't ye? It's fun and games til someone kills ye! Come on matey, take a swig, take a swing and fall right in!"
Despite the band of vermin's loud, cheerful song, Fret could only feel a pressure in his chest that would not leave. As if a giant was holding him tight and would not let go.
He couldn't return to Redwall. If he returned and lied about not seeing anyone, and if anybeast even believed that, then sombeast would go searching for their young. Then if they were never found their ghosts would haunt him till his dying day. And even worse, if they were found and it was known that he had seen them... Then he was vermin and at best he would spend his days rotting in some dark tower. And if he stayed with the vermin? Then he would become vermin in turn. The last possibility was to leave and somehow take the others with him. But then what? Constance would call him a hero, Connington too maybe, but everybeast else would think he had just gotten cold feet. And what if the Guosim wanted to avenge the little shrew's wounded shoulder? Then they would descend with all their force on the vermin camp.
A grizzly image flew into his mind, of Greyclaw, gurgling blood as a rapier's handle stuck out of his throat. Fret felt himself turning green. He couldn't do that. Not to the vermin who had treated him like a friend. Another image flew into his mind. Matiya was dying from an axe buried in his skull, yelling 'traitor' at his face. He had to choose between his kin and his kind. His kin had never accepted him, his kind had, yet he had grown up with his kin, hating them, and loved the kind he had met this morning. It should have been an easy choice, but he couldn't bare to make it. If he chose kin then he would go back to being hated, and if he chose kind, then his kin had been right all along and he was just another vermin who had stolen their children. Slagar the Cruel indeed...
Yet he had to do something. And it was that knowledge that kept him so miserable. Why did he have to be the one with the difficult choice?
"Ye look miserable."
Fret turned and snapped at the one who spoke to him. "I'm freezing my tail off! Go away and let me be miserable!"
"Do ye want a hankie? Are ye gonna cry?" The other ferret mocked. She was taller than him, and better dressed, with a rapier hanging from her belt.
"No! I just need a fire is-"
"You are a horrible little liar. You want to go back to yer abbey, but yer scared they won't want ye."
It was as if she had read his mind. "No! No I hate the abbey!" It was only half a lie, the abbey meant Constance...and he loved his momma.
"If ye go back without the dibbuns, they find us, if ye come back with the dibbuns then my boys wasted their time, and what if the shrew get prickly about a shoulder cut? They blame you, don't they?"
"Leave me alone!" Fret snapped. The thoughts were bad enough in his head, to hear them thrown at him aloud was utterly painful.
"I do have a hankie if ye need it." She laughed. "I'm sure dem abbeybeast's treated you all fine and swell. Mayhaps I should let you go back to them. Tonight, but for now coz, make yerself at home." She punched his shoulder. It hurt quite a bit, probably more than she had intended. "Now come on, join the fun."
Connington was broken. He had failed her. He loved her more than life itself, yet he had lost them all. All her babes... And mayhaps even her as well.
Jon Connington loved Constance more than he should have. His father had been sickly, and his mother long since passed, when her family had taken him in. They had raised him like their own. Bloomsworth and her crinkled eyes, Corgan with his loud stories. And Constance. Small and shy and young, he had wanted to hide away and blend into the backdrop. She had taken none of it, and had dragged him (sometimes literally) everywhere with her. She was much larger, and technically his sister, but he had loved her more than that. She was his constant support, had helped him become the warrior he had dreamed of becoming. And she had chosen Rowland.
Chosen was putting it strongly, after all she had never known that he loved her. And how could he tell her, when she had not been there to drag him into place? She had married Rowland and he had tried harder than ever to be happy for her. She loved him like a brother, yet she was more than a sister ever could be.
He had been jealous of Rowland since the first time they met. The mouse was everything he was not. Big and strong and loud, and determined to become the Abbey Warrior. Constance and him had done it all together, and he had been there the whole while. Rowland had never known of Connington's plight. How he had been wracked with shame. How could he envy his best friend?
He had failed to tell Constance how he felt. He had failed to squash the snake of envy from his heart. And he had failed to protect his nieces and nephews.
Jon, Rowland, Constance and the Skipper had destroyed a vermin horde led by the infamous Mad-Eye Marik. They had crushed his fleet at sea, with a single boat loaded with oil. Rowland had fired a single, flaming arrow at the boat, and the warlord had been forced to swim right at their waiting forces. Blood had reddened the water and the Skipper himself had sent the ferret packing in humiliation.
Then their had been the wedding, and a knot was tied between his best friend and the one he had to call sister. He had left, to travel, he had claimed, but truly to put himself away from them. They were happy together, the love was true and beautiful and he did not belong there, not when he could not bare to see them together.
But he had never been strong of will, and had returned, only to leave once more. That's when he had met them, his nephews and nieces. Blackgrin, who had loved to smile so much, Chester's, who had chewed on chestnuts, Skip, who had been half a fish in the water.
And they were all dead now. Mad-Eye Marik had returned and nobeast was spared. Chester's had died from half-a-hundred sword thrusts. Blackgrin had had his skull crushed in. And Skip had been thrown into the river. And Rowland had died, half his face had been torn off, and three arrows were buried in his back. But there was no other beast with a tail like that.
He had failed them all, and when he saw Constance, warm paws wrapped over the silent ferret-babe he had vowed to make it right. That Fret would grow old and happy. That Constance would not loose another child.
And he had failed. Constance, Rowland, Chesters, Blackgrin, Skip and now Fret. He had failed them all.
The little weasel circled the squirrel.
Matiya had yelled and shouted and called them all cowards and rogues, their songs had drowned out his yelling, for a while but eventually it had gotten on Sharpfur's nerves. The little weasel, backed by the entire crew, had volunteered to prove them not-cowardly, and had asked for single combat. Matiya had asked for raw steel, and to his surprise the weasel had agreed. Though after a while he had tried to backtrack. Tibbers was being healed by an animal that looked more like folded paper, and could have been considered warm, if not for the fact that one of her crew had injured him in the first place. Then a circle had been made, and the two circled.
The sword was straight and sharp, Threeclaw, the half-pawed stoat had lent it to him, the weasel's dirk was smaller, and jagged. The mustelid seemed fearful of the larger, better-honed blade. Indeed Matiya half-expected him to yield at any moment.
The weasel dived forwards anyway, just ducking a swing of the blade. A rat in the crowd was not looking, his paws over his eyes. Momchillo looked torn between hissing at the foebeast and cheering him on. The rest were scared out of their wits.
His smaller opponent parried the larger blade with his small one, and rolled away, snatching up a pile of snow and hitting the squirrel square in the face with it. Sharpfur seized the moment, and struck, his dirk freed the sword from the squirrel's grip, and a moment later Matiya was on his back, a blade pressed against his throat.
"Haha, coward my teeth! Chew on yer tail abbeybeast!" The weasel exclaimed. And the band of vermin laughed. Threeclaw retrieved his sword.
"I'm un poco disapointed. Non non, Redwall should be better than this!"
Sharpfur sheathed his dirk and hopped off the squirrel. Matiya got to his feet, hot with shame.
"You're a dirty great snake! Let us go! We haven't done anything to any of you!" Hawthorn yelled.
Sharpfur did not appreciate being called a 'dirty great snake' and rounded on the insolent vole. "Snake, eh? You ought to be careful, snakes eat pretty little maids ever-so-often." The vermin crowd laughed once more.
"You're so brave, taunting a lady tied by rope! Release me now, or I shall make you a lady!"
'Oooooooooh', went the Honest Bunch.
"Ye think I'm scared of the likes of you?" He probably was in all honesty. But as the song said 'honesty was not his number one policy'.
"I know you're terrified!" She shot at him.
'Oooooooooooh!' In all honesty it was hard to tell who was more of a child.
"Fine then. Your turn. Get a knitting needle ready, I'm going to shove it down your throat!"
The rope was sliced free and Hawthorn was given a spear. Sharpfur circled her again, and Grey closed his eyes once more. This time however Matiya was behind him. The burly squirrel caught him from behind in a chokehold, and Hawthorn swung for the rope tying her friends. Instead, she hit the big rat Gulash, square on the knee.
He was a simple minded creature with a huge temper. Yelling in pain he freed the spear and threw it aside. He drew an axe, and charged, roaring. The young'uns shrieked, Grollo was pleading, Momchillo was crying, and Hawthorn fell backwards. Threeclaw tried to step in but was sent flying away with a vicious backhand swing. Hawthorn was on her back, the rat's axe raised above his head, ready to be brought down. When Fret's metal toy slammed into his eye, threw his aim off and the axe hit the snow. The rat turned to the ferret, who gulped audibly. Sharpfur was purple in the face from lack of air, and Greyclaw was sobbing into his paws. Hawthorn watched, transfixed, as Gulash lunged for Fret, now frozen in fear. That would have been the end of him, had another, taller and prettier ferret , not barged the younger one aside. Gulash missed his lunge, and was pinned to the snow by several vermin.
"What do ye think yer doing, eh? We're in enough trouble without you slicing her head in two! Squirrel let go of that runt or I will split your head in two!" Matiya let Sharpfur go, the weasel fell to his knees, gasping for breath, shooting a look of deepest loathing at the squirrel. Deathglare was wrapping the rope around the squirrel. Fret found his feet, and stood up, dazed by yet another close encounter. Instinct had made him lash out, he had barely registered the toy, or the force he had used.
Sharpfur was leaning on Grey Claw, shame filling him at having been beaten by the abbeybeast. "It's lucky Fret fancies you princess, else I'd be skinning yer bloody hide."
The vole looked ready to strangle him, and gave Fret a look with enough venom to make Asmodeus jealous. "I don't need the help of vermin!"
The words hurt more than a hot knife. "I just saved your life!" Fret snapped.
"You hit your friend. I'm sure people like you do it all the time." She shot back.
"People like me?" He whimpered. He didn't know whether to yell or to cry. He would get more sympathy from them if he cried, but the Honest Crew would think him weak if he did that.
"Stinky, lying, no good traitorous scum! Redwall gave you food, clothes and a fire. It gave you an education, taught you everything you know now! And you repay them by leading their young'uns to your band of pirates!"
"So what?" Sharpfur was more confident now that he could breathe. "You treated him like vermin, well vermin's what you'll get, pretty-face."
"I wonder how many shades darker your face can go." Hawthorn whispered coldly. Then Threeclaw pulled her away.
"You is needing to learn to control your tongue one day, little miss, or else it'll lead you six feet under."
"Abbeybeasts, eh Frettie?" Sharpfur commented. He did not notice the pained expression on the ferret's face.
"Frettie?" Asked Grey, uncertain.
"Leave me alone." Fret snapped, turning to leave.
But Sharpfur had had enough. "Why do you even care what everbeast thinks! Vermin are vermin, abbeybeasts are not! Evil in the skin, good from the cot!" He pointed at the ferret's frozen back. "If you spend all your life getting beast's to like you, you'll be the most popular deadbeast in Mossflower! Stop caring and grow up or go back to your bloody abbey!"
"Momchillo! Dinner's ready!" Rosebrush's voice echoed through the hall. Through the bell tower. Through the walls, through the snow-covered ground.
"Rosebrush, what is it?" Came Blind Agatha's voice. "Have you seen my son by any chance, the youngest one?"
"No, I haven't." Rosebrush replied. And soon Redwall rung with the names of missing children.
"Matiya!"
"Tibbers!"
"Jack! Wot! Jack!"
But nobeast replied.