A/N: The fight was a necessity I feel. Been too long since I wrote that kind of action (getting chased by a snake is rather different to fighting in a kitchen). Perhaps a bit brutal (usually the villains are more dislikeable before I cook them). But oh well…
One-Eye, I know it's your name but forgive me for not noticing that your wildcat shares the same name as my hare. Funny coincidence (and I figure it's a coincidence because I know another One-Eye, a dragon from the How To Train Your Dragon book series)
Sebias of Redwall, More on Longclaw later, but unfortunately I think he got the short straw in terms of villains. He was gonna be the big bad originally and I therefore have copious amounts of notes on him that shall, alas, most likely not make it here.
Abrahem, Damn, your reviews get longer and longer. Just replying to them seems to double the word count XD Not that I mind.
I don't usually write romance (but it's starting to creep it's way in nowadays…) so I'm glad you liked Silver and Sickle's little scene.
Sick-Eyes is always fun. Wish I could shoehorn in more of her (you can have a lot of fun with grannies- especially vermin ones).
Yeah Thornflame was implied to be the ferret maid in that scene. And well, you guessed it right! She was supposed to be Fret's big sister. If she ever does return then I guess she still could be, although Clogg has yet to think/mention her so that's probably an issue. Of course there is the possibility that she's born out of wedlock (ie she's a bastard) but again I didn't really think that far ahead. I don't know if this spoils the ending or not, but depending on where Fret's morality ended up going she would have had a larger role. I'd say more but that would give the final outcome away. Despite the fact that I think most of you have got a pretty good idea I'm still a bit hesitant with it.
And yeah, behind the scenes is definitely something I'm going to do. Though I don't want to think too far ahead for now, it's a bit hard to look ahead when there's this giant black and white thing in my way XD
Yeah, well spotted. Flayface was basically an expy to Slagar. The show's not bad although the proportions (never described in Redwall) kind of made it a bit weird. I liked Vitch too, Mattimeo is one of the better books in my humble opinion.
I'll consider it, but can't think of a way to write them in. Like, what were they doing all winter XD? If you've got any ideas I'd happily take those into consideration.
Your suggestion (and Berserker88's good ole advice) have settled my inner debate. Interspaced arcs it is! Which means that we'll have to leave the Northlands Rebellion behind for a little while and head back South.
I didn't quite catch the meaning of that last comment. I'm guessing you're offering your help with alternate story ideas? If you're going to reread them anyways then I guess there's nothing I can do to stop you XD
I look forwards to your thoughts on Redwall- the novel.
Author's notes btw, are these things at the top and bottom that I use to talk about story stuff and reply to reviews and whatnot. And I was considering maybe starting a forum for all the alternate story stuff but all of that's not gonna get published until… next year at best? This is a rather long story XD
Fair warning, this chapter has got something… rather squicky (is that the right word?), nothing M rated I think, but also kind of hard to stomach (you'll see why that's a pun in a bit). Now without further ado…
It was not the best disguise, but it was serviceable. He lacked about an inch or two of the fox's height, but that wasn't too noticeable from a distance. An old, yellow fox skull was jammed to the top of his head, before the former Slavemaster's mask was placed on top. The woodlander kitchen staff were dressing him in the vulpine's clothing. Awkward though it was to have his uniform unceremoniously taken off and to be dressed in corsair clothing by complete strangers it was preferable to cleaning up Connington's vommit. He'd left the drunk mouse tightly bound and barreled for his own good. In hindsight he should have done that the moment he'd started drinking.
The slaves worked quickly, but with shaking paws. His long ears were pressed flat against his back and tied round his neck so that instinctive stiffening did not give him away. A cloak was thrown round him, though he had to fasten it himself for all other paws were shaking too hard.
Poor souls, all of them. They kept staring at the door, as if expecting it to unleash bloody retribution for the punishable offence of killing a slavemaster.
The weasels were similarly hard at work, though their job was considerably less pleasant. Guided by the elderly pine marten they peeled fur from flesh and flesh from bone. What had been a fighting fox a few moments before was reduced to chopped up pieces of meat.
"Chop 'is liver with the kidneys. Finely, mind. Too big an' it's hard to chew, see."
"How do ye even know all this?" Silvertongue ventured to ask, as he dumped a few fingers into a large, boiling cauldron from which spewed the most foul-smelling concoction to ever greet the hare captain's nose.
"Comes with age." She replied evasively, the smile on her wrinkled face sending shivers through all present. "Ah hare, yer ready! Lookin' very verminous indeed."
"As do you, wot."
Sick-Eyes shook her head despairingly. "Deathglare, teach 'im how to talk right." She sniffed. "An' stink 'im up a little, I can smell the flowers all over 'im." Addressing the remaining slaves she smiled widely. "Why don't ye lot go an' have a little lie down in the corner over there? Relax a little. Give each other massages an' the like. Don't worry, S'long as yer with me ye don't have to worry 'bout any other slavers."
Still shivering in fright they nodded and huddled in a corner. Some used paws and ears to cover their faces, others watched in morbid fascination as Flayface was reduced to soup.
Deathglare, who had been unsuccessful in removing his bindings, and publicly humiliated by the tale of his torture made his way over to the foxhare. At his approach, the hare stirred guiltily.
"No hard feelings ole chap, eh? Fresh start, clean slate and all that. What do you say, wot?"
"It's 'ye' here. Yerself. Ye lot. Yer face. Not you. If you want to pass for vermin you had better start sounding like one."
"Ye don't use 'ye', do ye Death? Wot? How about that?"
"Better." The pine marten muttered begrudgingly.
"Why not old cha- mate? Why don't ye use 'ye's matey? Ye had better talk right or we'll boot ye te Hellgates, wot."
"Impressive. But ditch the wots."
"Answer the bloody question ye dummy! Wo- wot's wrong with yer?"
"Does it matter?" Deathglare hissed, growing annoyed slightly. "Take the accent down a notch but be ruder. 'Dummy' is for children. You're a slavemaster. Think like one. You want to reduce me to tears. What is the most effective technique?"
"Kickin' that sorry arse of yours all the way te yer bloody mother so ye can cry yer eyes into 'er. Sorry I tortured ye, but a beast what wants to live 'ad better not trust every idiot what 'e stumbles by. Sorry I ain't sorry. Now pull that stick out yer bumhole before I shove it in even deeper!" The hare cleared his throat. "What have you got to say about that?"
Deathglare was torn between being impressed and hating the Captain for all the barreling. In the end he conceded. "You sound like a fox. But it's 'ass' not 'arse', lose the 'r'."
"Sound advice ole chap. Now shake paws and let bygones be bygones."
Deathglare frowned at the hare's outstretched paw. "I'd rather not."
"Come on me matey. Sacrifices be a necessity of livin'. Everybeast makes one or two."
Deathglare turned and walked away resolutely. "And what, pray tell, did you sacrifice, when you robbed me of all dignity?"
One-eye lifted him by the back of the collar. Nobeast turned his back on him. "I wasn't jokin' ye know? That stick can go a hellofalot deeper!"
"Our fox is ready." Deathglare declared with clear resentment. One-eye dropped him.
"Good coz the soup's nearly done too. Just need to add the stummick!"
Both hare and marten grew dizzy and uncomfortably green.
"An' another thing. He ain't ready till this is hangin' out his tush!" Sick-Eyes held up a neatly cut-off fox tail.
Deathglare recovered enough to pat the hare jovially on the back. "Let's see how deep that can go. Otter." He waved over a slave. "Help our good hare here with his tail."
Lunch was five minutes late. That was not the only anomaly Longclaw noted. Flayface was the one delivering it to him. Normally it was some unrecognisable slave he could torment merely by his presence. Fear was the most intoxicating sensation and his slaves were full to the brim with it. If he so much as stretched his claws or yawned they would shiver, most likely due to the size of his natural weaponry. There were other times however, when he got more creative. An otter had pissed himself once, after the king had commented in a low voice that the soup was cold. He'd then chopped off a finger as punishment for sullying his halls.
The fox strolled forwards with a spring in his step- as if excited by something, yet his tail was dragged along the ground behind him as if sad. A large bowl of steaming hot soup was precariously balanced in his paws. That same fox had the audacity to come within five feet of him. The King's bodyguard, a pale white fox with a scarred eye who went by Spitteeth caught him by the tunic.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Te deliver lunch you uncultered- ye ugly white-faced son of a cow!"
"What'd you call me?"
"Spitteeth. Be still. Let him go. Flayface has been loyal to me for a long time now."
Grudgingly, the bodyguard let go of the masked fox.
"Now Flayface. I am honoured that you brought me lunch personally."
"No honor yer majesty, just doin' my civic duty wo- wot my mother told me te."
He must be planning something. Poison in the soup no doubt. Flayface had tried it before. It had killed a mutual friend Longclaw no longer remembered the name of.
"Such a hard worker. You must be famished. Please, help yourself." He pointed at the soup and ignoring the impatient grumble of his belly, silenced the fox's protests. "You are my oldest friend. Of course it is good enough for you. Spitteeth, ensure that he eats his fill."
The soup had been poisoned. Flayface tried to squirm away but was unable to- the pale fox was stronger. A spoonful of soup was shoved into his mouth and the fox's jaw clamped shut.
"Now chew." Commanded Longclaw.
Flayface did as he was bid, his one good eye bulging.
I'll need a new slavemaster. Clogg took the best one south...
"And swallow."
This last order took forever to be carried out, but in the end Flayface did as he was bid and with a gulp that echoed throughout the hall, swallowed.
Spitteeth dropped the fox to the ground, where he coughed heavily. But to Longclaw's surprise he stood up straight, apparently no worse for wear.
"Hot, that soup is your highness. Too rich for my stomach I'm afraid wo- wot did you think I put in?"
The wolverine nodded at his bodyguard, who took a spoonful of soup for himself. This was to make sure Flayface had not taken an antidote before coming. Spitteeth was a good fighter and loyal, but he was expendable.
"Anything wrong with it?"
"No your grace. It is good soup, with an unusual meat." The white-furred one turned to the masked one. "Pike?"
"Nope. Haha. I'd need a good strong beast like ye to catch one of those."
Longclaw slurped up the soup greedily. Being King was hard and required patience- something he had yet to master. The soup was exquisite. Whole and salty, yet not overly so. Hot enough to make his blood shiver, but not enough to burn. Lightly spiced and topped with tiny herbs. And the meat. A flavour he had never encountered before yet could not get enough off.
"The slaves have outdone themselves." He decided. "Spitteeth shall bring me plenty more. And my compliments to the chef. Pray, what meat is this? Not a foul or fish it's- well what is it?"
Flayface paused for a while but spoke before Longclaw got the chance to guess. "The chef's already here te hear ye sah- yer high an' mightiness. Nasty weasel kept tryin' te stir trouble in the ranks. Figured 'e was fat enough to be put te good use. Plenty more where 'e came from too! Lots of troublemakers need to be dealt with." Flayface devolved into nervous chuckling.
Another pause followed his words, wherein Spitteeth stared at his King, unsure if feeding him another beast was considered poison or not. But then Longclaw smacked his paws together and gave a great booming laugh that echoed throughout the halls and made the skulls shake in their place.
"Flayface, forgive me. I should have known you to be the wise beast you are. You have the right of it. Clean up the trouble-makers, a few less slaves won't hurt anybeast." The wolverine belched rather loudly and then burst into more laughter, looking very much like a more-sadistic, grown up version of his resented fifth son. "I daresay they'll be put to better use here." He slapped his stomach, showing off many long, sharp claws.
"Of course you-yer majesty."
Fleetfoot was glad to be out of the King's company, both so that he could empty his stomach out the nearest window, and because Longclaw was a frightening beast. Brave though the hare was he'd seen badgers reduce creatures to mincemeat. And badgers were creatures of peace. The wolverine was larger than him, and larger even, Fleetfoot was certain, than Lord Umber. His teeth were large enough to make daggers- perhaps not for a hare, but certainly for mice or shrews, and his claws, the few unsheathed inches he'd seen of them anyways, were sharper than the quills on a hedgehog. Any one of them would have found slitting a throat easy, trivial even! Standing against a creature like that was not brave so much as it was foolish.
He'd been so wracked with nerves that his accent had slipped several times, but luckily the savage hadn't noticed. He'd been a bit distracted by the potential for poisoning as well as the apparently delicious flavour of his slavemaster- the one who's clothes One-Eye now wore. A shiver passed through the hare's spine. No doubt the King would find hare to be just as delicious if it ever came to that. Hopefully it didn't.
He reached the kitchens now, and although bound, his long, sensitive ears picked up the distinct sound of scurrying and desperate scrambling. Fleetfoot entered and a huge sigh of relief spread through the slaves, who dropped back to the ground.
"So…" Silvertongue began, his face splitting into a pointed grin. "Did his highness like the soup?"
"Very much." Replied the Captain, shutting the door behind him.
"Weasel?"
"He asked about the meat. I said it was a troublesome slave. He thought it was a great idea. Says weasel's exquisite, wot. I can't say I share his sentiments." He pulled at the fake tail and breathed a sigh of relief as it came loose from where the young otter had tied it to his own. Removing the skull and mask was just as euphoric, but nothing compared to the relief that came with stretching his cramped ears.
"Ye weren't meant te eat it hare."
"Y-yes w-well cir-c-cumstances-"
Sickletail chuckled, until she noticed the pality of his face. Then she exploded into laughter. "Oh my seasons!"
Others laughed as well, though Deathglare did not. The pine marten picked up the skull and tail where Fleetfoot had dropped them. He patted the hare almost consolingly. "Sometimes sacrifices are necessary, wouldn't you agree… old chap?"
"Most certainly." Was the hare's stiff reply.
"Well good job hare!" Sick-Eyes declared. "Well done ye lot! Ye've gotten away with murder. Have a cookie! Go on have a cookie." She pointed at a large jar of freshly baked delights. Hesitantly the kitchen slaves made their way over to it. "An' Silver hand me yer paw. I'll have it right as thunder 'fore next season."
"So... How're we escaping?" Asked the missing-fingers otter as he nibbled at a sweet biscuit.
"Simple. We die." Sick-Eyes stuffed her mouth with dried leaves and chewed to build up excitement. The old creature spat the paste directly onto Silvertongue's paw hard enough to make the weasel wince. "Flayface 'ere is slavemaster. What's stoppin' him from puttin' all the slaves in one ship an' sailin' away? Well Longclaw'd come after 'im, wouldn't he? Unless all them other boats don't work. So how do we break all the boats?"
"Cut the sails?"
"Break the rudders?"
"Burn 'em?"
Sick-Eyes shook her head ruefully. "Kids these days." She muttered, ignoring Silvertongue's pathetic squirming as she tightened a piece of cloth round his paw. "We can't break 'em if we're stuck here, all accounted for. So we preten' ter die, hide out in the ships and break all but the biggest 'un. Then somebeast causes a diversion an' we all sail away. King Stupid keeps 'is castle and we get all his slaves."
"We liberate all his slaves." Fleetfoot corrected icily. "It's an ambitious plan."
"But ye like it?" The old marten patted Silvertongue's bandaged paw, ignoring the weasel's whines.
"Well… better then leaving so many poor souls behind but…"
"Details come later hare! Now yer with us, ain't ye?" She spat on her paw and stretched it towards him. Hesitantly he took it in his own. They shook paws once.
She spun on her heels, satisfied with the day's work. "Now who wants a story?"
One-Eye found Deathglare nudging him gently.
"We should check on your mouse."
"Huh, didn't think you'd get so attached to us, wot. Weren't you all serious-faced and angry a short while ago?"
The pine marten scowled. "Do not fool yourself hare. I still loathe you just as much as ever." He glanced at Sick-Eyes, who now began to weave a tale of woe and treachery and waves as high as mountains for her enraptured audience, most of whom hadn't heard a good story in years. "But I hate her stories more."