A/N: Just going to say that the next few chapters aren't necessarily in chronological order. Due to the distance between the characters it's... pretty hard to put down a timeline since I don't know how to count travel time for voles and ferrets and mice and boats made by rats and other mustelids. So yes it's not in order timeline wise, but it's in best reading order (I think). Anyways speaking of boats manned by rats...
"As I cannot find Whimper," Darkhide began for the sixth time that morning. "I have brought somebeast who greatly resembles him so that we can keep the support of the other Captains."
The one-eyed rat's gaze hardened as a tall, handsome and burly ferret, clad in silken pirate gear swaggered in. He wore a confident smirk and his paw lingered on the hilt of a cruel, curved blade. He could very well have passed for Mad-Eye Marik's son, or the son of some other warlord, but what Clogg saw was a ferret too tall, too burly, too confident and several seasons too old to be his Whimper.
"Get out!" He snapped suddenly, rising to his feet, his paws curled into fists.
The ferret was also too dumb to be Whimper. His mouth opened into a small 'o' and it took a book to the face for him to realize that he was dismissed. Clogg next turned to the smaller, dark-furred rat.
"Why did ye bring that... that... idiot here!?"
"I thought... you said we only needed him to reel in the others!"
Clogg glared viciously at her. "So?" He spat.
"So I brought somebeast that looks-"
"It looks nothin' like him!" The rat bellowed and hurled a goblet at his first mate.
Darkhide ducked the silver goblet and watched Clogg furiously tear a bread he had no intention of eating, into a hundred pieces.
"Was there no sign of him?" He asked for the eighth time since Bork had come complaining about Whimper disapperaing.
"None, as ye well know as I've already answered that." She said through gritted teeth.
Clogg glared at her. "Bork says he saw him. Yer saying Whimper just grew wings an' flew off!?"
"I never said that Captain."
"Well ye implied it addlebrain! Find that ferret! I don't want another fake! I don't care about the Manywhiskers, I want my-my my- Whimper!" He hurled the breadcrumbs at his first mate, who was quick to leave.
"Hey, marten!" The familiar sound of a cracking whip made Deathglare turn on his heel. "Where's your pet mouse?"
"Pet mouse?" The marten tried to focus his good eye on the slavemaster's pair.
"Ye know what I'm talkin' about." The stoat was spinning the whip round his paw, as if threatening him.
"I do not." The whip cracked forwards and hit him square in the bad eye.
"Don't lie. Now where's the mouse?"
"I don't know any mice." Once more the whip cracked upwards. It hurt enough to make him wince.
"Plenty more where that came from. Fine then, I'll find yer pal myself! But if I do not, you can spend the night in here!" The slavemaster stormed off.
Deathglare's pouchy face fell into a frown. In hindsight he should have expected somebeast to notice, but he had been growing desperate. It had been an opportune moment for escape, and he did not regret his decision. The mouse, if he survived, would return. Perhaps not for him, but for the other beasts held here surely.
His greatest regret now was that, until the young mouse did return, he would be lonely...
I must be invincible...
A whole winter of drinking and a near-drowning followed by the traumatic realization that one's dearly beloved nephew was now the vermin he had never wanted to grow up into would have been enough to put any creature six feet under. Yet here he was, trying to drown his sorrows in vermin ale, in a vermin castle. Jon Connington was more miserable than he had ever been in his entire life. He had failed Constance and Rowland and their children and he had failed Fret. Everybeast he loved, it seemed, was doomed to suffer from the drunk mouse, who was very much alive... Unfortunately.
"Connington... we've been through this before. Put the ale down ole chap! That's the ticket. You stop drinking and sober up and then we can search the castle again, wot."
They had been having different versions of the same conversation over the winter, and Connington highly doubted that it had gotten them anywhere. Nevertheless he still replied. "Just... let... me... drink..."
"I will not sit here and watch you die of kidney failure!"
"Then.. stand... up..." Connington swayed weakly as he stumbled towards an open cask. He dumped a borrowed drinking horn into it's contents and was about to lift it to his lips when the Captain smacked it out of his paw.
"I will box some sense into you, don'tcha know?" The hare was glaring at him. "You volunteered Connington. Think about your nephew!"
The mouse gave a dry, joyless chuckle. He had been thinking a lot about Fret. Fret who had always been foul-tempered and rude and... in hindsight had been a lot like him. Two helpless whelps taken in by caring beasts, or beast singular, in Fret's case. Both were bad-tempered to a degree and both were failures.
He had tried his best to help raise him. Difficult when he banished himself on some senseless quest ever-so-often. Still, he always came back with some gift or another... the last had been a Southwards toy. The invention of some clever squirrel. Of course... the ferret had rarely liked them. The last time he'd seen Fret he'd... he'd pushed him off the boat and left him to drown.
"There is nothing funny about your condition, wot! You- you're going to die! And- and your nephew is probably locked in some cage because you're too cowardly t-to go looking for him!"
Connington shook his head, laughing more and more. "Don't... talk... You don't... hehehehe... understand."
"I will - make me understand you infernal creature!"
Connington once more shook his head, a silly, childish grin on his face. "I can't." He sounded pained beyond measure. If he told anybeast then there was the possibility that somehow or other the news would get to Constance... and he would go to his grave before he let her know he'd failed her.
The hare's face went as red as a tomato, and One-Eye stormed off, fuming.
He'll be back... in an hour, or two, after he's done searching the castle for somebeast that's not there. Oh well... back to drinking...
"Marten!" The slavemaster's voice cracked like a whip.
Deathglare turned to the stoat. "Yes?"
"Where's the mouse?" Momentarily, the pine marten was surprised by the ferocity in his voice. But considering all the stoat had done over the winter was whip the mouse into submission, or try to, it came as only a small surprise that he would notice his absence.
"I know no mi-" The whip shot upwards and caught his bad eye again.
"Where are ye hidin' him?" The slavemaster demanded, spit flying out his mouth and spraying across the pine marten's face.
Deathglare wiped his face free of saliva. "Hiding who?"
The stoat punched him hard across the face. Deathglare gave no reply, beyond rubbing his nose free of stinging pain. "Fine then... mouse escaped, has he?" The slavemaster gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Pity ye couldn't get out, too, eh? Yer going to suffer for it!"
"At the moment, I'm enjoying myself greatly." The taunt earned him a few more fists to the face. Deathglare felt a paw tighten round his throat.
"Laugh while ye still can!" Another blow to the face made Deathglare's vision black out temporarily. His head spun with pain.
The next thing he knew was that his paw was chained to the wall of the mine. Dimly he heard the slavemaster speaking.
"Whichever beast gets here first, on the morrow, gets to chew his frozen corpse!" The stoat pointed a vicious claw at him. "An' if there's even a bit of flesh left on his bones, ye can join him!"
Most woodlanders and a few vermin shuddered. But Deathglare could see the guilty, greedy gleam in the eyes of an otter and several foxes licking their lips. His stomach seemed to turn to lead and his ears miserably behind him.
The slavemaster smiled cruelly at the pine marten. "Sleep well."
Fleetfoot's feetpaws made barely a sound against the cold, hard floor of the castle. It was a desolate place, wherever it is they were. Somewhere far to the North. He stopped and swivelled his ears, checking for guards.
There had been many close calls over the winter, yet somehow or other he and Connington had managed to avoid detection. Well... A few guards probably thought the cellar was haunted by the ghosts of an old married couple but deception was key when it came to staying alive right, bang splat in vermin territory.
He darted past the horribly familiar halls, decorated with the skulls and bones of long-dead beasts. Luckily none of them looked new, or like they belonged to a child. Warrior instinct prevented him from heaving at the sight of a badger's bones. Badgers were rare creatures, noble and wise and kind. To see one's corpse reduced to a wall decoration was eerie in ways he could not quite describe, even with his large and impressive vocabulary.
He did not even know why he continued to look. The children were not there. He had watched the slaves being taken out to work in the kitchens, or in the mines, or in construction. He had been surprised by the fact that here vermin enslaved each other, but the Northern territories were harsher, he supposed. Amongst the woodland species there were no children, not anybeast from Redwall.
There was a young ferret that seemed to match the description he'd been given. Only he was not a slave and the son of a mighty warlord. Both ruled out the missing nephew.
Once or twice he thought he saw a mouse, but it always stood next to a pine marten. One-eyed as he was he had little doubt that it was really a rat.
There were no familiar-looking squirrels, albino voles, hedgehogs, shrews or his own son who he had no doubt he would have recognized by now.
He took a right down a deserted corridor and stomped down a flight of stairs he had already checked.
"Captain's gone soft." Darkhide finally said. She sat with Scringewhiskers, the ferret and Fleaback, the rat. Both were important officers like her, under Clogg's command. And both had noticed that something was wrong with the way he had been behaving. Yes, he was still a cold-blooded killer, yes he was still their Captain, and yes talking like this within earshot of him would earn at best derisive laughter and some humiliation and at worst a slow and painful death. But they had all noticed. And it was especially clear now when Clogg was refusing full stop to listen to reason and let the damn kit go! Nobeast had gotten that good a look at him, they'd all been drunk at the feast! Yet, no matter how many candidates were put before him, all he did was demand that they find Whimper.
"Took him long enough. But... I expected no less, didn't I?" Fleaback had been forecasting doom and gloom since the kit had first been found. He said it was ill luck to take in an unwanted child. Clogg had reminded him that at one point he had been an unwanted child and that had been the end of the discussion.
Scringewhiskers... who had no whiskers... gave a derisive snort. "So what if he liked the kit? Ferrets are likeable and ye both know it. He'll move on and we'll be better for it."
Darkhide chuckled. "Do ye really think he'll move on?" Then she snapped back into serious-mode. "I've never seen him like this before, not even with Marik. He's worried sick and it worries me! We are surrounded by enemies and instead of showin' off and scarin' them away he's locked up fretting about some dumb pup. We're in the middle of a darn invasion!"
Scringewhiskers rolled his eyes. "Now ye're going to start spouting yer dumb theory again. 'He ain't Marik's son an' looks nothin' like him', so what? Captain says the boy takes after his mother an' that's enough fer me an' the other Captains. So what if he ain't Marik's son? It's not like bein' somebeast's son makes ye a greatbeast. Like I said, Whimper'll turn up, an' if he doesn't Captain ain't stupid and'll use a replacement. Hellgates, I might be part warlord!"
This earned him a hearty chuckle from Fleaback, who promptly smacked him on the back. Darkhide merely glared and muttered incoherently under her breath.
Unbeknownst to them, Clogg had heard every word. At first, he had been sorely tempted to go in, slaughter them all, and leave. But thought better of it. Three pairs of paws were hard to replace on short notice. Besides, a far better opportunity presented itself in the form of the Slavemaster. The stoat was whistling through the halls, spinning his whip idly round in one paw, looking far too cheerful than any slavemaster had a right to be. He spotted the rat and saluted smartly.
"Best of luck with yer raidin' Captain."
Clogg grinned. "I won't be needing luck. Never use it anyways." He said with a casual shrug. "I could use a first mate though... murdered the last one fer a bet, need a replacement. Hey, here's an idea... ye look like a strong, able-bodied beast with a good mind for leadership. How'd ye like to be first mate?"
The stoat looked hesitant. "Er... well... the slaves..." Then Clogg was throwing his paw round his shoulder, a wide, winning grin plastered to his one-eyed face.
"Ah, to Hellgates with the slaves! Ye deserve some glory mate! Follow me an' ye'll get more gold and silver than ever before! C'mon, what do ye say? Clogg and Browneye, Scum of the World!"
The slavemaster couldn't suppress a small smile. "H-how did... How'd ye know I was called Browneye?"
Coz yer eyes are brown and yer parents unoriginal. "Truth be told... I've had my eye on ye for a while."
Now Browneye grinned completely. "Ah well... Course I'll come! Wouldn't want to let down a mate, eh?"
"Course not!" Now Clogg burst through the doors, guiding the slavemaster in by the shoulders. Scringewhiskers coughed, Fleaback's eyes widened and Darkhide's paw went to where she kept her knives. "Oh, hello my buckos! Just thought ye ought to meet my new first mate! Say hi Browneye!"
The stoat raised a paw nervously. "Hullo."
Darkhide's eyes narrowed in dislike. "First mate? Ye already have... a first mate."
"Killed her for a bet. Ah well, she thought I was goin' soft! Could ye believe that!" He gave a hearty laugh, which was joined by the nervous chuckles of Browneye, Scringewhiskers and Fleaback. "Anywho, sorry for the delay, we start on the morrow for the Southern Lands. Now come Browneye, we gotta tell Longclaw about yer new appointment. An' find a fittin' replacement for ye here as Slavemaster. Bye me buckoes!"
It was an excellent punishment for helping somebeast escape. Tie them in a mine and leave them to freeze to death overnight. If they were not dead by morning then they would be eaten alive by a bunch of rabid slaves. It would have been quite a desperate situation, if he couldn't pick a lock.
Now Deathglare slunk along the silent corridors of the vast, empty castle, searching for a place to hide until the mouse and his rescue returned. His chances of surviving that long were extremely slim. Silvertongue and Sickletail worked in the kitchens... it would be possible for them to sneak him some food surely. Sleep would be rough, and life would be difficult, but when was it not so?
Though he already had a very good idea of where to hide. The cellars of course! Wines and fizzes and ales and rums, all had to be stored within a cool, dry place. And all had to be aged... if he could just find the ones still aging amongst this pile of barrels and kegs.
A faint noise made him freeze in place. It was... Singing.
"I was a... Hic... Failure... Hic... Since I was... Hic... Born... No... Thing... Hic... Rhymes... With... Fail... Hic... Ure... Except... Hic... Mehihihihihihihihihihihi!"
It was a drunkard mouse, Deathglare realized, upon reaching the sound. The mouse must have been doing this for some time, for he was so intent on his ale that he could not see the pine marten standing before him.
"There was a... Hic... Mouse... From... Not... Hic..." The mouse stumbled forwards, and swayed heavily. The drinking horn fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The mouse bent over to pick it up, swayed like a tree in the monsoon, and finally collapsed upon the floor.
Deathglare shook his head in disbelief. He marched forwards and flipped the mouse onto his back. There was no risk in saving somebeast that had clearly already escaped captivity. Besides... In his own strange way he was becoming fond of mice. His footpaw came down heavily on the rodent's stomach.
The mouse heaved and released a large amount of ale. His fur was already filthy and stunk of half-fermented drinks. Now he had a fresh pool of commit to snore in.
Deathglare pulled away in disgust, wrinkling his nose as he did so. "And you woodlanders call us scum..."
"We do... For entirely different reasons of course." The new voice made him freeze. They were not alone...
Before Deathglare could whirl around he felt his feetpaws leave the ground. A rope was holding him up by the neck. The pine marten tried desperately to free himself. His claws dug into the rope, his legs kicked helplessly under him and his throat was crushed under the force of the rope.
"Sorry ole chap, but we can't have you ratting us out, wot, wot."
Damn... hare...
The only noise he could make was a desperate wheezing. His lungs were burning. The air fading. Black spots covered his vision. Just when it seemed like the world was about to go black, the rope snapped.
Footnote: The Art of the Repeating Cliffhanger. The nature of this story is such that whenever I resolve one, I create at least two more. So now you no longer have to worry about Captain Fleetfoot's or Connington's fates since we left them near the end of Book I. Now you just have to worry about Deathglare.
Speaking of which, Connington's not dead. Surprise!
Sorry for fooling you, that wasn't really the intention. You see, he was never dead but there never was a place to show that. It felt kinda silly to dump him off the boat and then be like 'he's not dead' . But there never really was a time to introduce him after that either. I didn't want to leave y'all thinking he was dead but it would also feel kinda random to be like 'yeah Fret didn't really kill his Nuncle'. Which it probably feels like now. But I kinda need him now and if I hadn't introduced him now I'd have to introduce him later by which time you may have forgotten his existence... And it would rob us of a fun little side-plot.
Though I don't think I ever said he was dead? It's really just Fret who said/thought that.
Then again if it surprised YOU then just think about poor Fret's reaction... Coming in Book III... Which is probably not gonna come for a while since Book II is quite long. So if you're expecting a big reunion... Not coming super-soon.
But there should be a massive pay-off to all this waiting.