Momchillo could not help but fall into depression. The chains were cold and hard, the boat rocked uncomfortably under him, and all his friends were gone. They had escaped-he had no doubts about that-and most likely they would get back to Redwall soon and nobeast knew where he was, or where he was going.

When Abbot Martin had been teaching them about Martin (the Warrior's) arrival in Mossflower, he had thought he was like Gonff, clever, resourceful and a tad bit witty... instead he was one of the unnamed helpless woodlanders in need of rescue. Rescue was inevitable-but when would it come? Would he be old and grey and hunch-backed? Would he never see the halls of Redwall ever again? It was painful. Thoughts like that cut into him like knives through ribbon.

Everything he had known and loved...gone. No more summer days, or blissful spring. No more roaring feasts or silent snows. Only chains and darkness and the cursed cold. No more mother to come home to after a day of children's mischief. No more friends to laugh with and share the food. Only other slaves to be whipped alongside. Pain where once was joy... Matiya, Grollo, Hawthorn and Roseheart, even Jack and Tibbers who he had just met. Oh and Fret. Never again would he hear their guffaws, their grumbles or their growling bellies. No more smiles, snaps or snide remarks. Only sweat, slaps and so much work.

At least he was still poetic...

He sighed longingly, and tried to make himself comfortable. If he could sleep well then mayhaps the nightmare would end...

Just as he was about to drift off there came a loud click. Deathglare rubbed at tired, aching, and freed wrists. The pine marten rose and clicked his neck. Then he stooped over and jammed his claw into the lock of his shackles. After a swift bout of wriggling, that too gave away with a click, and the pine marten could move over to his collar. Momchillo watched as he rose, now free from the chains. The others seemed to be asleep.

"Can you unlock mine as well?" Momchillo asked cautiously. He hadn't really expected a reply, and none came. But to his surprise, the marten came over, and wordlessly slid his claw in the shackles. When the chains fell off him, the mouse gave his 'saviour' and at-one-point-captor' more attention. Though the light was bad he could quite clearly make out a long gash along the vermin's face. One of Deathglare's eyelids were shut-and Momchillo thought it was because there was no eye there.

The pine marten slumped down next to him, and an awkward silence descended. What was one meant to say to another who had held them captive, only to free them when it suited them? "Well... thank you sir."

The marten let out a chuckle. "I'm no 'sir'. Now shut yer trap an' go to sleep." Words did not come easily to him-it seemed. Or maybe a wound Momchillo had not noticed prevented him from talking much.

One-Eye disliked how far he had to spread out his party to clear the whole ship. Behind him lay the corpse of a rat, who had had the misfortune to be in need of a privy just as the hare was checking out this lower deck. The cry of alarm somebeast had raised did not bother him. Let the vermin come-he had his own son to look out for, and wouldn't give in to a few foebeasts. But after searching cabin after cabin, and looking every nook and cranny he did not find hide or hair of anybeast he knew. No mouse, vole, squirrel, hedgehog, shrew, and even the ferrets were few and far between (and none of them had resembled the youth he had promised to help find. Why the Redwallers had let in another vermin was beyond him. It was not the first time this had happened.

There had been the rat Vitch, who had helped Slagar the Cruel capture the abbeybeast's children. There had been two stoats, whose names evaded him, who had been welcomed in only to kill some poor old mouse-or at least he thought it was a mouse. There had been the infamous Veil Sixclaw, who had been raised inside the walls of red bricks-and who (aside from his dying act) had been as rotten to the core as a moldy egg. Why would another one be any different?

With the discipline, and professionalism of a Long Patrol Hare, he pushed those doubts away

Still a promise was a promise, and he had vowed to reunite as many youngsters with their families as he could. But right now that vow seemed unlikely to be fulfilled. For children was what this ship sorely lacked. Dawn was not far off and time was short... he could check a few more decks...

If the cannibal had been a tad bit wiser, perhaps he wouldn't have rushed forwards with a cry of rage, that alerted the frightened children of his presence. His aim was deadly, and it was only due to Hawthorn's small stature that the vole was not slain on the spot. Forgetting any weapons he might have on him the savage grabbed Sharpfur by the scruff of the neck and tossed the young weasel as if he weighed nothing more than a rag-doll. Grollo spun on his heel and was clobbered on the head.

The hedgehog fell to the snow and could feel the warm trickling of blood slide down from his cheek. He had no time to consider the wound further, as the savage had pounced on him, and dug it's paws into his throat, where it squeezed with all the strength of an adder. Distantly, he could hear Sharpfur wailing in agony, but the hedgepig could do no more than struggle weakly, and try and push his attacker off. His vision was getting thinner, and every moment it was harder and harder to breathe. Then blood that was not his own splattered across his face and the savage fell on top of him.

He stunk of musk and rusted metal and rotten eggs, and it was only with difficulty that Hawthorn managed to push him off her friend. Grollo sat up, dabbing at his bloody cheek, and sucked in the air. Hawthorn was shaking, and was as white as the snow around them. At her feet lay the bloody saber. Sharpfur was whimpering.

With a sudden rush of energy and strength he did not know he had, the hedgehog seized Hawthorn by the paw. "Let's get out of here!" He implored. "Before the others wake up."

The vole nodded, and they set off through the forest, she stopped suddenly, and so did he.

"What is it?" He asked gently, but with a note of desperate urgency.

"Sharpfur. We can't just l-leave him." She whispered.

Grollo almost growled, and raced back quickly. He really didn't care about the weasel, but there were enough deaths on his paws for one night. He stopped next to the weasel's form just as lights were beginning to be lit in the main village.

Sharpfur whimpered, and Grollo saw now why he had been screaming. His back was singed and burnt, and bloody, where fire had melted through fur and flesh. As the cook's son he had seen many-a-burn, but this was far more serious than the small spots one got when they weren't careful with the cauldron. Lifting him swiftly, but gently, he slung the weasel over his shoulder, and set off once again. Hawthorn waited for him to level with her before they made good their escape.

Sharpfur meanwhile, was in a world of pain, and knew not where they were going, or even that he was going anywhere. All he felt was his back. And even that, he would rather not!

Somewhere to the east, the sun was rising. It was morning.

Clogg laughed in jubiliation. "Well done! Well done! I knew ye wouldn't just leave me hangin' there!"

"Of course not." The lie came easily. He hadn't meant to act... he just had. But that was good surely? But why then did he feel so horrible.

"Yer first kill. Congratulations me bucko!" The rat clasped him hard on the back. Whimper tried to smile, but the mouse's last look of bewilderment still shook him to the core. Why had he been surprised?

"Anything ye want? It's yers matey!" Clogg laughed good-naturedly, but their was something in his eye Whimper misliked.

"Anything?" The ferret asked distractedly.

"How 'bout an apple? It's what ye came here for weren't it?"

"How did you know that?" The surprising deduction had caught him by surprise and pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Whimper, Whimper, Whimper, I have been feeding ye apples since ye were no bigger than a bucket. I know what you want." Clogg handed him an apple. Bright red and hard. "Your mother loved apples too." Clogg said, sounding far-away, as if he were daydreaming.

"She did?"

"Mmmhmm. Take as many as ye like." The rat beamed at him, and though the smile did not look like it was often on the captain's lips, his eyes crinkled with genuine love-but then again so had the mouse's...

"Keep readin' Whimper. We can talk easier when ye remember things." The Captain left, merry despite his fresh wounds.

Was it guilt? Was it just surprise? Mayhaps all beasts felt like this after their first kill-but why had the mouse looked so surprised- and why had he gone and hugged him and dropped the sword and everything?

Whimper tossed the apple core into the sea. But while the doubts persisted, he couldn't help but consider the benefits. Whatever he wanted? Whenever he wanted? He watched the apple core get carried away by the raging current. Maybe he had made the right choice...

Matiya yawned weakly as the first golden rays of sunshine washed over him like a warm bath. The squirrel stretched in the snow and shivered slightly. He rolled over, intent on a few more minutes of blissful sleep. It had been a wonderful dream. They had come back to Redwall, and everyone had been happy to see them. Then a feast was made, and because he had been such a brave squirrel, willing to do whatever it took to bring all of the dibbuns home, he had been made Abbey Warrior. He had held the shining sword, it's starlight blade gleaming like the comet it had been made from. He had been so happy, and everyone had been happy. Jack was making a joke, and juggling a turnip, which landed in a large bowl of soup, and Tibbers and Fret had been drenched and then-

Matiya lurched away from the thought. Dreams of Redwall did not crush his spirit; no it enlivened him! But memories took that spirit and crushed it between their cruel paws. He shook his head and got to his feet.

It was a good thing he had, for Threeclaw, wide-eyed as if in panic, was getting to his own, looking both desperate and deadly at once. Those eyes that had begged for help only the day before, now glinted with a cruelty Matiya had never known, yet there also lay a note of panic, as clear as the snow around them. Neither moved, then quick as a striking snake, Threeclaw pounced.

"I checked the lowest deck, sah, no sign of anybeast. Vittles and the like."

"Aye, the upper deck had a bunch of sleeping hordebeasts, but no littluns, sah." This particular hare paused before adding that 'there were no lil' hordebeasts either, sah'.

One Eye paced round, the Log-a-Log following in his footsteps. They had let themselves drift behind, both to let their men rest and to think of what to do next while safely out of sight and reach of the vermin. Something was amiss, he could feel it in his bones. And it was only when the Log-a-Log had done a swift headcount that he realized what it was.

"Where is Jon Connington?" He called out. There was a babble among the shrews and hares, who turned and twisted in search of the mouse, but found no trace of him among their number.

The old hare captain felt his years creeping up on him. How many would they loose before they got what they came for? Then he let out a growl. "Follow that ship." Even if there were no young'uns within, Connington's disappearance and the mere size of it set off every nerve in his body. Something was amiss and he was going to find out what.

"But sah... we already checked it and there was no trace of-"

"Our quest is to find the children, wot. If they are not there, and not on the first boat then they must be scattered in Mossflower. Somewhere. But, at the same time one of our number has gone unaccounted for." He paused for a while. "I will stow away on the ship." He said finally. "Log-a-Log, scour this country. Look under every nook and cranny if you must. This boat though, if it can even be called that... well... it's not here to make us merry."

The group were solemn for a long while. So the old hare, one-eyed and deadly, threw off his long coat, clicked his neck and fastened his axe tighter around his belt. Then he went for a quick salute, which the other hares returned. Then he hopped off the boat, squeezed his nose shut between two fingers, and landed in the icy water. He rose again, turned back and pointed. "If I don't come back anybeast can keep me medals, but if I do and there's a single speck of dust on any one of them... why I'll make you wish you had knickers to twist!"

The shrews laughed heartily, but the hares did not, for they knew that that was an order-and it was a mighty big risk to disobey one's Captain.

When the other vermin had awoken Deathglare freed them as well. The pine marten then huddled in a corner with the two weasels, and began talking in low voices. It sounded like he was trying to comfort them, but here and now was the occasional, harsh hissing of an unkindly phrase.

Momchillo payed them no mind. Eavesdropping was rude, and anyhow he didn't care He tried to curl up and rest, but before he could, he could see dimly the old vermin healer making her way towards him. She sat down at his side. Bent and stooped by age she was no bigger than he was.

"Ye got any wounds?" She asked with ruthlessness he had never faced from the Abbey's nurse.

He shook his head. She harrumphed in... approval?

"I like it when you youngsters don't respond in words. More polite, see."

He nodded.

She sighed deeply. "Ever been on a slaveship before?"

He shook his head.

"I have. Though never as a slave, mind you. No, no. When I was a young'un, older than you, mind, oh I was a real killer."

Momchillo tried to imagine this old, old granny, with as many wrinkles as there were stars in the sky, being a 'real killer.' It took a lot of imagining.

"And I was a beauty too." She added with a chuckle.

This he found, even more unlikely.

"Aye, I was a cruel ol' seadog. Anybeast that got in my way soon knew what it felt like to have a dagger in their whiskers. But I was fair too, never whipped a slave more than they deserved."

Momchillo frowned but did not say a word. She noticed anyways.

"Humph, we can't all be as righteous as you abbeybeasts." She said mockingly. "Ye've got the fields and the forests, and the fruit and the grain. When I was growin' up all I had was snow and sleet as far as me eyes could see. There was plague, and famine. Our kind breed. Ye know what breeding is?"

He nodded. He was old enough to know.

"Well, we ain't all like those weasels over there who get their babes one by one. No, no. In the north there were litter after litter. And if we couldn't look after ourselves, then we'd die. Ye can't farm in the Northlands. Too cold, see. All yer crops would die. If ye can even get yer paws on seeds. And then one day yer hungry and starvin' and somebeast comes and says he's got food aplenty on his boat. He just needs yer help to plunder some fat ol' mouse with so much food he throws it around like it's dung. What would ye say?"

"I would... no, if I were hungry, and I knew the mouse... I'd ask him for food." At Redwall anybeast could come and ask for food and shelter. At anytime. And it would be given.

"Hehehe, maybe fer you. But I'm a varmint, boy. We can't walk up to yer castles and ask for food. Noone trusts us see."

"It's a bit hard to trust someone who kidnaps children." Momchillo said flatly. "And we raised Fret." He added, then felt a familiar anger rising within him.

"I didn't say it was without reason. Ye see, it's all fine an' good if we could just say we've had enough-but it's never enough. Vittles don't last forever, and then yer crew will get bigger, and ye'll need more food. We got no lack of hungry vermin. Where do you think all them hordes that raid yer abbey come from?"

"Well..."

"Exactly, my boy. The North, Islands far off somewhere. Sometimes we got no choice, and then when you're in... you're in. So don't you judge me now!" She snapped. Then she shrugged. "Ye woodlanders think we're rotten to the core... not far off really. But I'd say we're just lookin' out fer ourselves. But enough about me. My voice ain't what it used to be. Now tell me, what's yer abbey like?"

"Well... it's big and red, and... there's a pond. There's always fruit and food, and well..." Redwall hurt to think of, especially when he had been so close to coming back...

"Hmm, idealic. How comes you woodlanders let in a ferret?"

"Oh... Fret... well he, was... I don't know we grew up together."

"So he was a babe when he came in?"

Momchillo shrugged. "Well, yeah, we were all babes-"

"Who looked after him?"

"Constance, she used to beat up anyone that said anything bad about him." He remembered that she had almost beaten Abbot Martin once.

"Cute." The old vermin said flatly. She lost interest in Fret's history and moved on to another subject. "Is the abbey truly haunted?"

"Haunted? Oh you mean Martin the Warrior?" She flinched from his name. "Well, I've never seen him. But everybeast always used to say his spirit guides them."

"Humph." That was from Deathglare, who sat at his other side. "Load of bullocks. I heard that that mouse went and killed every varmint that set foot in the abbey. But youbeasts managed to raise one."

"Fret's not vermin though." Momchillo did not know why he was defending Fret-the very ferret that had tried to put a knife in him... "Well... he's not like you."

Deathglare shrugged. "Nobeasts' like me."

"But Martin the Warrior saved Redwall before. Many times."

"Sure he di-"

"Shut it Death before I poke out yer other eye! Now, child, tell us one of your Martin stories. And Silvertongue can make it into a song, see, you'd like that wouldn't you, ye undersized bag of fur." Silvertongue did not seem to notice the insult. "It's a long way from here to the Northlands, and seems to me we might as well do something with that time."

"How do you know we're going north?" Momchillo asked incredulously. The Northlands... they were so far away from Mossflower. he felt a familiar sinking feeling... he'd never get back home.

"Me old bones never lie. Now go on mouse, tell us a story. Make sure there's lots of blood and guts and death and gore-can't sleep without it, see."

Momchillo blinked. "Er... right." He cleared his throat. He had to be strong... there was hope... he would be rescued. He just needed to stay cheerful. He chose his favorite story, one Abbot Martin had read to them in class. "Once upon a time, in a winter just like this many seasons ago, Martin came to Mossflower-"

Footnote: I'd say two more chapters till Book I is over. Then there will be a short timeskip to end the travelling portion of this story (though actually a lot of this story is the characters traveling).

Enjoy, Update soon!