"Yarr nothin but a flea-bitten conniving cur! You'll suffer once my idjit brother gets smart enough t' bolt off, rabbet!"
"Shuddup ferret! If he thinks of runnin' I'll skewer his other leg, wot!"
"Don't drag poor Dronga inta yer squabbles!" Ramir stepped between the furious hare and equally irate legless ferret. Santain did his best not to slide into the ankle-deep freezing mud that made up the path he and the Steeltails were following. It was a clear and cold day. A day where your breath froze to your lungs as you exhaled and no matter how many layers you wore you couldn't stay completely warm.
"If the two o' ye don't shut up I'll knock ye both upside the 'ead!"
Captain Santain could feel the steam rising from his temples. "If that ferret makes one more quip or snide remark, I'll cut his arms off!"
Ramir looked at Smig. The striped cream and oak-colored ferret looked ridiculous tied to his brother's back with rope, non-burnt sheets, and pins to keep everything together. The short and stocky creature looked like he had crawled from the darkest pit of the earth. His dim-witted, spineless brother sopped about like a used rag he rested against the makeshift walking stick Wungle had found for him. He carried his brother along with most of what Smig could save of his vile plans and drawings, and the food and waterskins for the journey. Santain carried his vittles and water, not wanting the vermin to slip poison into them.
"Keep yer mouth shut Smig! Before I tie it closed!"
The legless ferret leaned toward the otter, an arrogant smirk plastering his face. "You haven't got the guts you softhearted fool! Besides what will yer weasel mummy think of ye, ya orphaned otter bastard!"
Ramir surged forward and grabbed the ferret by the collar. Smig gasped as his smug look disappeared in a flash.
"Shut yer mouth you vile cur!" The otter roared, smashing a fist into his face.
Dronga yelped in pain before falling to the ground, taking the skirmishing beasts with him. Wungle and Mosslyn rushed over to pull their brother off the two vermin. Santain watched with growing discontentment. They had been stomping through the snow-covered plains and groves leading to Salamandastron for the past several hours. Only now finding the well-used path that he hoped would take him home. The ferret's constraint complaining was draining to even the saintly Steeltail children. Santain's unimpressed eyes fell upon the mess of beasts trying to fight each other and others trying to escape.
Blithering idiots! At least the hedgehogs aren't here. Santain thought to himself. With two of their children sick Santain decided they were not fit enough to travel with them. They left the hedgehogs with enough food and firewood to last them a fortnight. He instructed them to travel to Redwall for shelter for the winter and left them a letter titled to Abbot Micah outlining the situation he was in.
"Get up! Get up you disgraceful fools!" Santain shouted as he unsheathed his rapier and rapped the rat and the otter with it. Wungle yelped before backing away.
"What are ye doin' hare!"
"I'm gonna straighten yew idjits out right an' proper, wot!" Santain barked as he hauled the rat to her feet. She glared daggers toward the hare and seemed to murmur something unpleasant before helping Santain pull her brother off the ferrets. The otter thrashed against them but was tossed to the side with a great effort by the hare.
"What are yew-" Ramir snapped. Mosslyn began signing something at the otter.
Santain ignored the rat and otter as he considered putting his blade through the two ferrets. The evil legless inventor was bleeding from his speckled pink and brown nose and didn't notice the furious hare standing over them. He slapped and cursed at his brother who softly whimpered pitiful apologies. Dronga wrapped his paws around his trembling lower leg, the bandage was blackened and bleeding. Santain spiked his blade into the snow in front of Dronga's face as he squatted beside the two horrid-smelling beasts. His paw closed around Smigs snout.
"I'm gettin' real close t' slittin' both o' yer throats, wot wot."
The legless ferret seethed and tried to yell muffled curses. Santain stifled a laugh, the vermin looked like a furious dibbun.
"Naw p-p-please spare us! We'll be quiet like, w-we'll stay as s-silent as a ghostie!" Dronga begged.
"Well, if I turned ye both inta ghosts then you'd surely stay silent." Santain mused as Dronga writhed on the ground for a bit longer.
"Don't you have something better to do than threaten these two defenseless vermin?" Wungle chided as he stomped up to the hare.
Santain groaned as he let go of Smig's snout and turned to the speckle-faced mole. The ferret snarled at the hare as soon as he could draw breath.
"Yer nuffin' but a lazy coward! Yew don't have the guts t' slay us!"
"Shut up ferret! I'm not stopping the hare if ye desires t' silence ye." The mole snapped with ever-growing annoyance. "I'd frankly like t' see it."
Smig laughed, before pressing an elbow into his brother's back to look at the mole. "You think you'd stand a chance against that hare if he wanned t' slay ye? You're as tall as I am an' you've got two legs. The scum's probably lookin' fer a way t' get rid o' the lot of you foul beasts!"
"I'm not that much of a fool, Smig. He's a hare of the Long Patrol. He wouldn't hurt me or my siblings. Especially since we're the children of a badgerlord!"
Smig broke into maniacal laughter before jutting his head toward the mole like a maddened beast infected with Foamfang. "I know you fancy yerself as the smartest beast here, aside from me of course. So, tell me what do you fools plan t' do once we get t' that mountain?"
"We're going to tell Lord Bromwell that our father still lives and we're gonna demand that he reinstates our father's place as Badgerlord!"
Santain smirked as Smig burst into howling laughter knocking the kneeling Dronga back into the snow.
"If your father's a badger then I can fly!" Smig bellowed as laughter overtook his senses. Mosslyn and Ramir paused their silent conversation and eyed the vermin with disgust.
"He is a badger! You're welcome t' meet him along with Lord Bromwell and everyone else who doubts our word!"
"You idiot! You're not gonna be alive long enough t' see it!" Smig snapped. "What d' ye think' the hare's gonna do wid us once we get t' the mountain?"
Wungle shot a confused glance toward Santain who kept his mouth shut. "What is he going to do you cunning fiend?"
"Yes, yes, yes I am a cunning beast." Smig quickly started as a proud look graced his evil features. Santain withheld the urge to smack some sense into the ferret.
Smig closed his eyes before opening them and narrowing his view at the mole. "Your 'sister' will be slain and the two o' yew will be tossed into the dungeon until you decide not t' act like mad or stupid beasts! They'll see your claims y' be children of a badgerlord as a sad joke!"
"And what about you ferret? What do you think they'll do to ye?" Ramir snapped as he and Mosslyn joined the mole.
"If they're smart, they'll surrender and make me the king of the mountain!" The cream-colored beast's face lit up with the prospect of such power. "But I expect these foolish hares led by this vile Captain, t' cut me an Dronga t' bits. I'm a thinker, not a fighter and me brother is lacking in both."
Mosslyn flashed several signs with her hands to them before walking over to Dronga.
"Whadid that mute say?" Smig snarled.
"Mosslyn said that Dronga's the only beast here who hasn't acted like a fool, and I'm inclined to believe her." Ramir translated. The rat knelt and helped the injured ferret to his feet. Smig frowned and Santain scoffed.
"He is a fool," Santain responded. "And a murderer. He's the first beast I'll look t' have punished out o' the lot of ye."
Mosslyn frowned and flashed several gestures.
"She said, she hopes to have a word with your Lord about your conduct," Ramir stated for his sister.
"Ha! I'm sure Lord Bromwell would merrily listen t' yer complaints when the lot o' ye are chained in Salamandastron's dungeon, wot wot." Santain said as he sheathed his sword. "Now keep moving, we've got a long way t' go before we make it home."
Mosslyn glared at Santain before mouthing what the old hare thought was a curse. The hare was too tired to snap at her, the sooner he was home in Salamandastron the sooner he could get rid of these vile vermin and the long-dead badgers kin. The hare brushed past Ramir who hurried to help Dronga. The ferret rose to his feet heavily aided by Mosslyn before stepping onto his injured leg and collapsing to his knees.
"Here lad gimme yer arm," Ramir ordered sinking to a knee aside the ferret. Dronga clenched his teeth and tried to get to his feet. His legs shook and he fell forward, caught by the otter and rat.
"What's the matter wid ye, yew stupid oaf!" Smig snapped at his brother, smacking him on the head a few times. "We've gots a long ways t' go ye can't be quittin' now!"
"Don't hit him! He's hurt!" Ramir said as he grabbed the ferret's arms.
"Of course, he's hurt ye stupid riverdog! Didja see 'is leg? Some beast cut right through it!"
"Our kind Captain is the one t' blame fer that," Wungle responded with a sour note. Santain rolled his eyes. The vermin were evil, that was clear as a mountain's stream. Smig was admittingly the worst of the two but Dronga, that cursed beast had gotten Thimblebrand slain. Santain would happily let some foul beast of the night run off with either of them, preferably both.
Looking toward the horizon dusk was beginning to settle. Through the spindly treetops, the sunflower yellow and ember orange sky was giving way to a starry black void. His mate, Priscilla loved star gazing, it was cold, but he was certain she'd be out there tonight if the weather stayed clear. Looking back at the gaggle of fools he was leading; he reminded himself that each step they took was one step closer to her.
"Alright, bukkos get off yer lazy rumps! We've still gotta week-long march until we get yer maggot-infested hides to Death Mountain as you lovelies so affectionately call it, wot wot!"
"Do ye have any idea where yer goin'?" Wungle asked. "Because it seems ye've been leadin' us to more forest."
Santain's eye twitched as he caught his tongue. "Well if ye knew anything about yer birthright ye should at least know where it is on a map, wot!"
"West! To the coast!" Ramir responded, with an eager flash in his eyes. "I've been waitin' fer this me whole life! I've wanned t' see the mountain with me own eyes since Pa told us about it in his stories!"
Mosslyn slapped his thigh with the back of her paw and gestured to the two ferrets.
"Ah, yer right Moss, we can't get there if these two can't make it," Ramir said as he knelt and wrapped his arm around Dronga before pulling him up.
"Woah, lad. Yer a bit heavier than ye looks." Ramir chuckled as Dronga wobbled about on unsteady knees. Mosslyn yanked something off the ferret's back, it was two large satchels, filled with as much food and water as Santain could stuff them with.
"Why in splinters is he carrying these?" Wungle asked as Mosslyn brought them to the mole for closer inspection.
"Somebeasts got too," Santain responded. Wungle grabbed the worn bag with one paw it slipped out of his paw and crashed to the forest floor as bits of preserved fish and frozen carrots spilled out.
"Blast it mole! Don't drop our food an' drink, were dead beasts if we lose that!"
"It's heavier than a load o' stones! What are ye doin' giving it to Dronga t' carry?"
"I've gotta stay light in case some vermin decide t' ambush us. Yew three would walk us into a trap and the ferrets would be delighted if we ran into trouble, wot!"
"So ye give it t' the one beast who's got one working leg and is carrying his brother." Wungle hissed as he tossed the other satchel at the hare's feet with a painful thump. "You're despicable!"
Santain hurried to grab the bag and check its contents. Once he could tell everything was as it should be he thrust the bag back into the mole's arms.
"Don't tell me what t' do freak! I'm the only beast wise enough t' take our situation seriously! While the three o' ye fantasize about bein' a badger I'm leadin' you all to Salamandastron and guardin' these two murderers!"
Wungle dropped his shoulders. "I'm not a freak. I'm just like every other mole."
"No, yer not!" Santain snapped, sick and tired of playing games with these mad beasts. "You don't sound like one, you don't act like one. You speak as if you know everything so tell me this, why did your birth parents abandon you to a badger and a weasel of all beasts, wot? It wasn't because yer a normal beast!"
Wungles' lip quivered as Santain turned his attention to the rest of them.
"Yer all freaks! All of you are filthy, rotten, murderous, vile, scum who should've died long before ye wound up as my responsibility!"
Mosslyn seemed to take offense to that as she walked to the mole and led him away from the hare, slinging both satchels over her shoulder as she went. She signed something to Ramir before tenderly taking the mole's paw in her own.
"Where in blazes do you think you're going?" Santain snapped.
"Moss can see smoke rising off to our north. She's going to find it and settle down for the night." Ramir responded as he led himself and the two vermin past the hare.
"She's cracked in the 'ead if she thinks that's a good idea!"
"She can handle herself hare, far better than you can handle yours!"
Santain's face grew red as the otter followed the rat and mole. This disrespectful pup! These fools haven't even seen the ocean, what makes them think they can boss me around like I'm some sort of lame fool!
Santain chewed on his lip as he pondered what to do with these maddened beasts. He could leave them, but he'd need to take the supplies back from that simple-minded rat. He'd survive and figure his way back to the mountain once he got his bearings, while he left the others to whatever fate awaited them. Dronga is a spineless murdering coward but everywhere he goes the legless schemer Smig is forced to tag along. The conniving ferret would be a great well of information, he's a vile beast, but he thinks like a warlord. He could build tools or weapons for the hares. He probably wouldn't like it but what option would he have if he wanted to keep his head? The problem was those Steeltails, they'd follow him about and claim something about "being kind to all beasts." What murderers deserved kindness?
"I-I-I'm cold." Dronga bemoaned as he found his way through the trees. Ramir had a surprisingly chipper attitude.
"You're gonna be fine matey! There's a fire up ahead with warm food and drink fer ye and Smig. You kin eat an' drink t yer heart's content."
"And if that fire is surrounded by vermin-hating voles then what are we gonna do?" Smig responded dryly.
"They don't hate you unless, of course, you insult them. They'll be surprised, but they'll help us. I'm sure of it!" Ramir responded.
Smig rolled his eyes and abstained from further comment. Santain shook his head as he followed the Steeltails. They were odd, mad beasts most likely, but not evil. They were too kind. Their kindness didn't extend to the hare captain, which was infuriating considering all he had done to save them. Any other otter wouldn't help carry Dronga around even if the coward had saved him, not that the ferret would put himself in danger over an otter.
Santain looked ahead at Wungle and Mosslyn. The grey rat was saying something to the mole, in their peculiar paw language. Wungle appeared to have gotten over whatever grief the hare had put him through. Mosslyn's sweet smile probably helped soothe the odd mole.
When did rats ever comfort moles? An' why does Wungle talk like a normal beast? Santain could feel like the longer he was with them the less he seemed to understand. They were fools, but not foolish. They were mean to him but not unkind to Dronga. They could handle their own yet were captured by the lizards. Santain could only conclude one of two things. Either they were mad or telling the truth about their parents. Both spelled separate horrifying outcomes for the captain.
"It's a village!" Wungle shouted back toward the hare.
"Good! See Dronga, I told ye you'd be fine!" Ramir cheered hoping to raise the exhausted ferret's spirit.
"Is it filled with vermin or goodbeasts?" Santain asked as he quickly hurried to the mole.
"Why does it matter? It's a shelter for the night, I'm sure we can find some way to repay them." Wungle said as he reached the crest of the hill
"We're gonna be lords and ladies of the mountain, we can promise them something for their troubles in the future!" Ramir responded as the group overlooked the small village that lay through the trees.
Several rough windowless wooden huts and borrows cut into the frozen ground. The snow and ice were shoveled to the side and lay in messy black and white piles next to the river that wound on the distant edge. The river was filled with flotillas of ice lazily bobbing down the slow-moving current or colliding with the dock that extended into the black water. A frozen dirt path wound its way through the houses and stopped at the entrance of a large rectangular wooden house with windows overlooking the stream. A smattering of trails from all directions led to the front door, overtop of which was a sign that Santain couldn't make out. A large coil of smoke poured from the chimney of the rectangular house, aside from that the rest of the village looked abandoned. Santain thought it odd no beast was out, even this late in the day.
Mosslyn signed something to her brothers before she started down the hill.
"Where are you going, wot?"
"Moss said we might as well try that inn by the river."
"The inn…" Santain finally realized where he was. He jumped into the air with a sudden hoot.
"Hurry up lads! Follow yer sister, I can't believe our luck, wot wot!" Santain shouted as he barreled down the hill. He brushed past Mosslyn without a word, slipping and sliding down the incline with childlike glee.
"Ye know where we are?" Wungle asked as he chased the hare down the hill. Ramir called for them to wait as he shuffled down with the two ferrets.
"Of course I do!" Santain proclaimed as he paused for the beasts to catch up at the bottom of the hill. "I can't believe I didn't recognize the inn at this distance, I really must be getting old, wot!"
"There's an inn?" Wungle and Mosslyns face lit up. They had been camping in the cold for the three days since they left the hedgehogs in Dronga and Smig's hut. Three nights in a row of sleeping in the cold snow pushed every beast to the edge of their sanity. A warm bed sounded better every second Santain thought of it.
"Aye laddie! I've known the owner since we were about your age, wot! I've been stopping by here once a season ever since he settled down. We're two days march from the Salamandastron from here, we spend the night and then we can start early the next morning, wot!"
"What are we waiting for then?" Ramir asked as he dragged the two ferrets down the hill. "Lead on captain!"
The knots in Santain's back slowly began to unwind with every step he took toward the inn. The spicy scent of piping hot hoot root soup and warm winter berry pie was strong enough to wake the dead. Santain steamed ahead of the others, stopping only when he stood beneath the sign at the main entrance. The wooden sign showed a mug of ale with a fish's tail flopping out the back and another preparing to jump into the overflowing drink. Santain remembered when he had commissioned a friend of his to carve it. It was a gift to commemorate the opening of his tavern.
"Sounds like they're busy," Ramir smiled, Santain's surprising enthusiasm having infected the sheltered otter. Santain eagerly nodded as half-drunken peals of song sounded from outside the door.
Oh, the river roars and the waters rise,
With foam and fury 'neath darkened skies,
But we're otters bold, swift and free,
The river's dance is our destiny!
Row, lads, row, hold tight and true,
Through whirl and wave and the dippin' blue!
The river's rage we'll face with pride,
For we're riverfolk, born to ride!
The rapids snarl, the waves they bite,
But our paddles flash in the silver light,
With tails a-swish and eyes set keen,
We race through waters wild and mean!
Row, lads, row, hold tight and true,
Through whirl and wave and the dippin' blue!
The river's rage we'll face with pride,
For we're riverfolk, born to ride!
With stormy peaks and currents deep,
Where river trolls and shadows creep,
We'll steer and leap o'er stones unseen,
Onward bound, bold and keen!
Row, lads, row, we fear no tide,
Through spray and mist, we'll never hide!
The river's rage we'll face with pride,
For we're riverfolk, born to ride!
There was a hearty cheer and a wild pounding of tables as the song ended. The Steeltails looked giddy with excitement as Ramir joining the song during the final chorus. The ferrets looked far less enthusiastic.
"It's justa bunch o' stupid otters!" Smig snapped. "I'm not going in there! You can't make Dronga!"
"Suit yerself ferret, the two o' ye kin freeze while we warm ourselves with a good meal, wot."
"I haven't seen other otters before! D' I need t' greet them somehow 'r change the way I hold me tail?" Ramir asked.
"Naw yer a barrel-chested lad who knows how t' tie a fishing line. You'll be just fine."
"But I haven't fished since I was a dibbun…" Ramir's voice petered out. Mosslyn hurriedly threw her cowl over her head and made sure her cloak covered most of her body.
"Afraid o' bein' the center o' attention aren't ye," Santain stated with a raised brow. The rat nodded.
"Well don't be worried about that. It's me that they wanna see, wot wot!" Santain shouted as threw open the door and charged into the Fishtail Tavern.
"Roland ye salty old dog! I need a table fer four, wot wot!" Santain bellowed as he strode into the stuffy dining room.
A burly otter with gray whiskers and arms thicker than an anchor chain looked up in shock from behind the table of a long bar, before breaking into a wide smile.
"Wots this? It's the bloody Long Patrol here t' devour all me vittles!" The otter mockingly called back above the noise of the hall.
"I've got the stomach of a whale and the manners of a rat, matey!"
The otter threw his head back in a mocking laugh before gesturing to several of the empty seats at the bar.
"Hear, hear, for the Long Patrol!" The otter called out and the hall erupted with slightly slurred but rambunctious cheers. Santain beamed at the praise, silently wishing he had curled his mustache just for the occasion.
The tavern was filled with beasts, voles, otters, mice, hedgehogs, squirrels, an odd hare, and even a mole crowded around small round tables with barely enough space for a beast to squeeze by at times. To Santains left three long glass planes opened a view toward the ice-filled river and dock with several small watercraft moored to it. The walls were adorned with shields taken from defeated vermin hordes and allied heroes, beautiful paintings of mountains and seas, ornate tapestries woven from the seamstresses of Redwall telling of battles and great feasts, and a portrait made from charcoal of Roland's daughter. The hall was busy and eclectic, almost overwhelming if it weren't for the towering ceiling making voices echo and allowing the hot air to rise. Above the center of the room hung a three-tiered wrought iron chandelier Roland had made himself. Scores of candles filled the room with an overabundance of amber-colored light. It was an impressive sight if ye managed not to get hot wax lodged in yer eye.
To Santain's right, a large stone fireplace took up most of the wall. Ivy and lichen climbed from the dirt floor up the smooth stonework giving the fireplace the feeling that it outdated everything in the entire village. Above the hearth hung a round blue shield with the emblem of the tavern painted in brown and honeysuckle hues. Crossing overtop were two huge battle axes as tall as a stoat from ear tips to tail. Everything about the tavern reminded him of the warm and welcoming halls of Salamandastron.
"Captain Santain!" A female apron-wearing otter called. She stirred a bubbling and boiling cauldron of soup as large as she was next to the fireplace.
"Winifred if ye don't get more beautiful by the day, Rolland's a lucky beast, wot wot." Santain exclaimed with a courteous bow before the otter wrapped him in a warm hug.
"I've been wondering where Bromwell had you run off to." She smelled of sweat and spice, the product of toiling at the cooking pot all day.
"Just protecting the good beasts of Mossflower m'lady. Nothing new, wot wot!"
She laughed shrilly. "Well take a seat then. Suppah will be ready shortly." Santain bowed his response and continued towards the tavernkeeper. He shrugged off the pats of support and well wishes from the woodlanders. He almost missed Wungle and Mosslyn entering to much less applause. The mole found an empty table near the fireplace and sunk into it, embarrassed by all the commotion. Mosslyn covered herself in a cloak and slinked toward the bar. She settled into a seat aside a brown mouse who was slumped over the long willow slab.
"Riverwake ye ol' seadog I bally well thought ye we're pushing daisies by now with all the stress keepin' this dirty little hovel afloat, wot!" Santain said as Roland Riverwake pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"Aye, hardly a day goes by without me heart racing thinkin' a flippin' platoon o' hares 'll barge in here and eat me out o' house and home!" The two shared a much-needed laugh.
"Well I'll be bloody dashed is that little Wybert?"
Santain looked past the large otter and into the kitchen. A juvenile otter as tall as his father but lean like his mother flipped flanks of perch and pike on cooking stones circling a large fire, pausing only for a moment to smile and wave before returning to his work. Behind him, bread slowly rose in a great stone oven just beyond the cooking fire. Large assortments of dried fruits, fish, roots, spuds, fungi, and cheeses stacked upon shelves reaching for the ceiling. Across from them barrels, draughts, flagons, and skins filled ale, ciders, wines, cordials, and grog lined the shelves as Rolands's daughter hurried to and fro with tankards for the hungry and thirsty beasts that roared with the ebb and flow of their countless conversations.
If the Eli's worried about beasts starving he should send them here. They've got enough food to feed an army!
"What brings ye to our humble tavern, Captain Santain." Roland asked as he wiped the lip of a mug with a dirty rag.
"I'm stationed in Redwall for the winter when the Abbot wanted me t' send an urgent message t' Lord Bromwell, wot."
The otter frowned yet raised a brow. "Redwalls the last place I'd think need your support."
"Aye, but wise ol' Bromwell thinks its best we sit out the season in the Abbey. Abbot Micah and Eli Greyfur have been wonderful hosts, an' I can't say it's been a terrible post. Well unless ye account fer th-"
"Vermin!" A high-pitched voice shouted. Instantly the conversations ceased as steel was pulled from its sheath, and bows were pulled taut.
Ramir stood deathly still as well over a score of swords, dirks, daggers, and arrows pointed directly at him. Dronga quaked like a leaf while Smig whipped about trying to get a good look at what threatened them.
"What's yer business runnin' in here with these foul creatures!" Roland barked. He already rounded the bar and pulled one of his battle axes from the wall in preparation for a fight.
"My apologies I didn't know you were full," Ramir responded, looking between Santain and the old otter. "My friends here are hurt, and we were looking fer a place t' rest fer the night. Captain Santain, me siblings, and I are on a journey to Salamandastron!"
This empty-headed dolt should've kept his mouth shut.
Roland glanced at Santain before returning his glare to Ramir.
"Ye kin stay but those two need t' leave! As long as this is my tavern, I'll have no vermin, under my roof, ye hear!"
Ramir looked at Santain. The hare cleared his throat.
"They're with me, Roland. We bumped into them on our way here an' I'm takin' the brutes t' Lord Bromwell."
"You know my rules on vermin Tommok. I'm not gonna bend them just for you or your Lord!" The otter hissed.
"They're hurt and couldn't hurt a fly even if they tried," Wungle called from his table. "Just let them sit with me and I promise you won't have to worry about them all night."
"Woi ar' 'ee talkin loik zat?" A mole called from across the room. Many of the woodlanders glanced between the mole and the vermin not knowing who to pay more attention to. Santain could feel Wungle crack under the pressure and he looked to the hare for help.
"What did he say?"
Santain sighed and got up from his seat. "He asked why you talk like that. I told ye that you were an odd beast, wot."
The hare looked back at his old friend. "They're with me Roland and I need t' bring them back t' Salamandastron alive so they can face justice. Giv'em a job so they can be useful and give Briar a rest fer the night."
Roland looked at his daughter as she balanced half a score of mugs in her paws her eyes begged for a break.
"Put yer weapons away." Roland grumbled. There was a pause as the woodlanders registered what he said, they hesitated for a moment too long.
"Now! Else I'll throw you all out!" Quickly weapons were hidden from view.
With a sigh, Roland turned to the fireplace and returned the axe to its hanging hooks on the wall. He pressed against the stone as if he wanted to topple it over.
"Do you see that chandelier above you?" Roland said as he turned his head toward Ramir and the ferrets
"I made that about a season after I built this tavern. A vermin pirate ship found its way into our peaceful little stream. We asked them to leave but they refused," he turned toward Ramir and slowly paced toward the trio of beasts.
"That day I slaughtered those pirates and tore apart that ship to build the homes you see along the riverbank and the cots in my tavern. I also took the iron from their weapons and cast them together to make that chandelier. I put two scores of candles on the chandelier for each one of those vermin that I slew. In the seasons since, I've added a candle to that chandelier each time a vermin band or thief has tried to take this tavern from me." He stopped a whisker from Ramir and the ferrets and leaned towards them. His voice was a deadly whisper.
"I have almost five score candles on that chandelier. I am more than happy to add two more tonight." He let his words hang in the air like a lead weight.
Dronga looked like he was about to pass into the Dark Forest, Smig sneered but avoided eye contact.
"I'll make sure they stay out of trouble sir," Ramir responded.
"Of course you will." Roland flashed a malevolent smile and slapped the young otter on the shoulder. He turned to the rest of the woodlanders and addressed them as he returned to his bar.
"We've got a special night for everybeast in the Fishtail Tavern! For one night only we will have vermin rightfully serving us! Feel free t' let 'em know what ye think o' them while they're at it!" Roland swiped a mug of ale from his daughter and raised it. "Now who wants another drink!"
A wall of noise greeted him as everyone raised their mug in response. Without much thought the tavern patrons returned to their conversation and drink. Santain breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Roland. I need these two alive for Lord Bromwell." The otter said nothing but slammed his mug on the bar table awakening the sleeping mouse.
"Wha- what I miss. There-" The mouse's head leaped from the table startled by the sudden noise. After taking a long second to his wits, his mouth dropped in shock. "Wha… R-Rolan there's an angel at your bar."
Mosslyn slowly turned her head to eye the drunk mouse.
"You've already had your fill of ale Orsen. Try not to vomit on my bar or my guests." Rolan responded without looking at either the mouse or the rat. He was busy watching his daughter shout something at Smig and hand the ferret several mugs filled with ale. Dronga's lip quivered as he looked between her and the score of hostile woodlanders calling for more drink. Ramir pulled Smig from his brother's back before grabbing the ferret's shoulder saying a few words and walking towards the bar.
"Where d'ye want Smig?"
"Outside or in the middle of the river," Roland responded with a dark expression. "But since that's not an option toss 'im in the back with Wybert t' wash the dishes."
"Do I look like a cleaning maid riverdog!" Smig snapped. He looked childish being held from under his armpits by the young otter.
"You look like ye want me t' cut both yer arms off!" Roland snapped. "Now get yer hide inta' the kitchen before I regret letting you in my home!"
Smig snarled and grumbled a few choice words under his breath as Ramir walked him to the kitchen. Roland watched him go before shaking his head.
"Vermin are worse every season."
"Aye, old friend. Or perhaps it's because we're getting older, wot?"
"Vermin 'll never change, each season I've got t' slay a few who try an' steal from me larder or take the inn," Roland said putting the mug he had been cleaning down before pouring a drink from a barrel beneath the table.
"Tis the sad reality of this land me old friend. They're looking for beasts t' bully fer some reason." Santain sighed as he sunk into a tall stool. "It's shocking how vile they can be."
"I don't like t' hurt beasts, ye know that, but with vermin… it's almost always inevitable." He handed the drink to Santain who nodded his thanks and raised the mug to his lips. The ale was cool and tart with a distinct aftertaste of a crisp fall day.
"Nothin' 'll ever stop until we stop all of them." Roland continued. He watched Dronga shuffle through the mess of chairs, tables, and beasts. His arms overflowing with empty mugs, he did his best to avoid the careless elbows and inconspicuous legs and tails laid out for him to trip on. He accidentally bumped a hare who grabbed him by the collar and shouted profanities into his face. Dronga's face scrunched in pain, and he nodded before being pushed back towards the kitchen. He didn't make it far before a foot found his rear and he crashed to the ground to the amusement of the hare and his buddies.
"I don't know what t' tell ye lad. Vermin can't and won't change. You can beat 'em back, crush their spirits, and take their weapons but they'll only come back with a vengeance the next season, wot wot."
"Aye. I've had far too much trouble with them this winter. Just about a fortnight ago, I had a small band of vermin knocking on my door."
Santain whistled. "Oh brother, I feel that didn't end well for them."
Roland pressed both his palms against the smooth willow and looked directly into Santains eyes. "You know what I told them. I said we haven't got the food, nor do we want t' give ye anything aside from a sore head if ye don't scram. Well, they left after a few choice words, but later that night I found those same vermin breaking into the kitchen."
"Of course what more would ye expect from these vile savages," Santain responded as he brought his mug to his lips for a drink.
"Well, I slay two o' them before they could make it out o' the tavern then I let the last one run off and think that he's escaped. He makes it back to their camp and I charge in with me axe and cut 'em t' pieces. When I'm done, I'm standin' in front of a stoat kit."
Santain lowered his drink and swallowed what was left in his mouth. He didn't think he had the stomach now to hear the rest of Roland's story.
"The fool didn't have a clue where he was or what was happening. He was askin' fer his mother, but I had split her down the middle a few moments ago."
"What did ye do wid him, wot?"
"I knew I had t' slay 'im but I couldn't raise me axe. Could ye imagine it?" Roland laughed bitterly. "I've fought in as many battles as ye have, yet I was afraid o' that pathetic snot-nosed kit!" Roland slammed his palm into the wood before looking at the chandelier. Orsen and Mosslyn looked at him with concern. Santain raised his mug to his lips and drank another pensive mouthful.
"Sounds like ye froze, wot wot. Don't fret over it, happens t' all o' us at least once."
Roland looked back at the hare; blinking as if he were clearing something from his eye. "I suppose yer right, but I couldn't leave him there. So, I threw a bag over 'im and tossed 'im int' the river. I figure the water would finish him off quicker than starvin' would."
Santain nodded solemnly as he finished off his mug. Life outside Redwall and Salamandastron was hard. Beasts had to make challenging decisions just to survive. Santain didn't like what he had done but he couldn't completely fault him for it. Mosslyn looked between the hare and the otter with a pained expression. She tugged Santain's jacket and signaled several things to the hare.
"I don't know what that means fool!" Santain brushed her off with overbearing annoyance.
"Whoa, you can do signin' too?" Orsen slurred loudly from his seat before signing something to the rat.
Mosslyn turned about and nodded eagerly.
"Ah, well, me mum—er, the beast who raised me like she were me mum—she taught me, y'see. Lost her voice when she were my age. I can understand the signs just fine, but, I ain't much good at speakin' 'em back!"
Santain saw Mosslyn perk up and furiously begin to speak in her strange language. Orsen nodded as he swayed back and forth on his seat, perspiration growing on his brow. His eyes appeared to bulge from his head.
"If yer mouth stays open fer any longer I think a sparrow might make its nest in it." Roland ribbed.
"How could I not? I found a beautiful mountain flower in this desert. Tell me my sweet what is your name?"
Santain caught the rat blush from beneath her cloak as she responded in her noiseless voice.
"Moss-, Mosslid? Mosslyn is it?" The mouse asked.
Mosslyn smiled as she nodded.
"What a beautiful name for a beautiful creature." The mouse blinked several times as if he were trying to stop himself from crying. "Forgive me my sweet I think my eyes are in shock."
"She's far bloody worse than ye think fool." Santain groaned while Roland laughed.
"Nah lad I think she like's ye. I haven't seen a beast get that red since I asked me mate t' marry me."
True enough the rat was flush in the face. A cocky smile plastered across the drunk mouse's expression.
"Well, marriage is a step too far! For now at least!" Orsen leaned in with a cheeky wink. "I haven't introduced myself yet, for I am Orsen Swiftleaf. I'm sure you have heard o' me. The brave rogue taking from the vermin an' returning it to the good beasts of Mossflower, hmm?"
Mosslyn shook her head no.
"What?" The mouse's shoulders drooped. "I stole food straight from the mouth of a pirate captain! I made those fools think I walked on water and swam through the land! Everyone here's heard of me!"
Mosslyn shook her head as she gestured toward herself and the floor.
"So where are ye from then?"
Mosslyn paused, looked about, and pointed towards the fireplace.
"Well, lass I figure ye mean that direction not from the fire." The chestnut-colored mouse said before stifling a hiccup.
"Sorry, about me case ov the hiccups. Ye caught me celebratin' yet another successful day plunderin' from the plunderers. I just stole a bag o' goods from a bunch o' vermin camped a distance from here. One of Asheye's cousins got robbed by 'em an' I, bein' the noble beast I am, answered the call."
The mouse rogue waited with an aloof smile for the rat to respond. When she did he laughed as if he were lost in a dream.
"Well, m'lady it was quite a simple task for a beast of such skill and prowess as meself. They should call me Cheesetheif the way I snatched their goods from under their noses!" Orsen paused, hearing the words coming from his mouth for the first time. Realizing he had likened himself to a vermin from Cluny's horde he backtracked.
"Not that I like that foul rat, no! I'd never liken myself to that thieving vermin, nor would I ever let myself steal from good beasts of any kind. I swear to you my good lady that I would never harm a beast unless threatened nor steal anything that wasn't stolen in the first place. I, Orsen Swiftleaf, was born with nothing, yet I still was raised with honor!"
Santain saw Roland shake his head before leaving the mouse and wandering away to find his daughter Briar. Mosslyn signaled another question for the mouse who was all too eager to respond.
"Well, it was quite easy when you're a master of the shadows!" Orsen said loud enough to be heard through the rowdy tavern. "They left tracks too an' from their camp so findin' them wasn't a problem. The fools didn't set up any guards or have any beast on watch, so I walked into their camp. Some loud-mouthed ferret was barking orders and such at a drunk stoat. I managed t' grab the stolen goods and pilfered a flagon of wine fer meself. I was just about t' make a clean escape when the most hideous rat I've ever seen barged inna the tent."
Santain saw the rat's ears perk as Orsen finished. This mouse is gonna dig his own grave. The hare thought. It'll be fun to watch at least.
"He was as round as a tree and had a nose that drooped like a wet sock, and the stench!" The mouse gagged. "I knew rats smelled foul, but he smelt like he crawled out o' the dark forest."
Mosslyn didn't react as Orsen continued. "Yet I held firm and slid into the shadows. I thought he saw me in the darkness, with his vile eyes and bulbous nose. But this brute merely spat on the floor and rushed off, leaving a trail of stench in his wake."
Mosslyn quickly responded, still engrossed in his story.
"No, they didn't follow me. I returned the stolen goods and treated myself t' the wine before I stumbled upon your lovely presence."
Mosslyn continued to sign Orsen as he knocked back an already dry mug.
"Hmmm. I can't say I've had any other run-ins with beasts. Usually, I'd 'ave run into plenty of friends as well as my fair share of foes by this time of winter, but I'd have to say the weather's been bad enough to warrant beasts sheltering in for the remainder of the season. Those who haven't already are looking to freeze."
Santain watched the rat signal something to the mouse.
"Well it's not the most flattering story. Roland wouldn't be too pleased t' hear me tell it because I lost me coat and a few days o' food in the process. I've been drinking and complaining about it all night."
"What happened lad?" Santain asked, his interest overcoming his desire to stay undetected while he eavesdropped.
"I came across a vermin," Orsen said with great effort. "I didn't end up getting defeated by this vixen, she didn't even know I was there. She looked like she had just escaped from a dungeon. Dirty, covered in welts, with no cloak t' cover her shoulder er boots o'er her feet." Orsen stopped as if he was pulling the memory from the groggy cobwebs of his mind. "She was tearing up a tree, I thought she was sawing at it but no she was ripping the bark off an oak -err ash er somethin' an' she was tearin' her claws out as she did it too."
Santain cringed at the thought. "Poor mad beast."
"She was eating the bark as it fell too! I know it's a fox but I couldn't help but feel downright horrible fer her. She wasn't hurtin' anyone but herself an' I figure she didn't have much of a chance fer livin' if I didn't do anythin'."
"Don't tell me ye helped the stupid creature! That's the last thing she needed!" Santain complained. Orsen threw up his paws in defense.
"I'm not as strong as ye er Roland, an' I didn't want her t' see me. I just left her me cloak, a scarf, and a couple days o' vittles. Nothing I thought would be too missed, but now I'm cold all the time an' I realize that scarf was a gift from me ol' granny."
Santain shook his head in disappointment. "Ye might be a brave mouse but yer not a very wise one aren't ye."
Mosslyn whipped her head about. Her eyes blazed with fury as she pushed the hare away from the two of them before quickly turning back to Orsen.
"Naw lass the hare's right it was probably pretty stupid of me t' do that. At best I prolonged her sufferin'..."
Santain left the bar as Mosslyn dove into some long conversation, more than likely defending the drunk rogue's actions. Santain looked rather to see how the other Steeltails were faring. Ramir seemed to have found his way back to Briar Riverwake and recently knocked back a pint of some ale Dronga had given him. The ferret limped about the tavern carrying enough empty mugs to bury a small dibbun under. With every insult or aptly timed kick, the ferret cringed and shied away. He was headed back to the kitchen when a claw grabbed his arm.
"Wots the mattah, vermin! Afraid ov' a wee little vole?"
"P-Please s-s-stop."
"Hurry up an' bring me summore ale an' I moight not break yer other leg." The haughty vole snapped before letting go of the petrified beast. Dronga rushed away, brushing into Santain. The hare glared at the ferret who yelped and fled into the kitchen. The table of voles erupted into laughter.
"I ask that ye refrain from hurting that one. I need him alive by the time Lord Bromwell sees 'im." Santain said with a sigh.
One of the voles guffawed before finishing off his drink. "Don't worry about it Cap'n. Cuthbert's just enactin' a bit o' revenge t' that scourge, we were! We won't damage the goods too much."
Santain chuckled softly, he understood the vole's attitudes. Vermin tended to pick on the smaller and more seemingly defenseless beasts like voles. "He's a bit slow but he's got tables t' serve. I don't want beasts t' break his spirit before we've gotten through with 'im, wot wot."
"Aye sah!" The six voles sitting around the small circular table responded.
"If ye don't mind me diggin' me nose in where it shouldn't," Cuthbert asked as he leaned across the table to be heard by the hare. "But why are ye goin' through all the trouble of taking that one t' Salamandastron? If he's that much of a troublemaker don't ye think its best t' ye know…" Cuthbert nodded at Santain's rapier.
"I would 'ave got rid of that murderin' bastard if I didn't need his brother! Figures the vermin ain't got no legs t' walk with and I don't want to drag the scum along behind me like a bloody slave, wot wot."
The voles nodded their understanding. Cuthbert pressed the hare for more information. "An' what did that murderin' bastard do t' keep ye from sendin' him t' the Dark Forest?"
"That's official Long Patrol business," Santain responded immediately. The vole didn't seem too pleased by that answer, so the hare continued. "I can assure you there's nothing to be concerned about. He has information that the Long Patrol would find useful to protect the good beasts of Mossflower and we plan on ripping it from him, wot wot."
Cuthbert still seemed unhappy with the hare's answer but refrained from asking any further questions. "Vermin 'ave been gettin' desperate this past moon. Ye'd think they'd be smart t' leave us be but instead, they've been getting bolder."
"I hope this ferret's knowledge can be used t' give us an upper paw in our endless war against these beasts. As soon as Lord Bromwell gets the information we need from this scum, I'll make sure ye and yer homes can arm yourselves with knowledge, wot."
"Sounds good t' me, Captain." The vole held his tankard up and Santain tapped his drink against the smaller beasts. Santain turned from the small table to find Roland lecturing Ramir in the far corner of the room while several more inebriated beasts tried to butt in. Briar waited at a table a few paces from her father watching the two with an uncanny interest. Her mother must've noticed as she left her cooking pot to speak with her. He thought it was right to check on the smallest Steeltail.
"What's with all of ye'. D' ye want me t' start talking like a fool?" Wungle snapped at an otter, a squirrel, and a mole who had joined him at his table.
"Yes," The squirrel responded plainly. "It's quite creepy that a mole is speaking like other beasts."
"An' why is that?"
"Tis loike yer poissed boi a ghosty err summat!" The mole responded with a noticeable slur.
"What?" Wungle looked between the three beasts. "You can't seriously understand what he's saying?"
"You seriously can't tell what he's saying, lad?" The squirrel asked before leaning back and whistling.
"No, I can't!" Wungle snapped back. He looked at the mug of cider in front of him but decided against it.
"He says it seems like you're some ghost posin' as a mole!" The otter responded with a laugh.
"I'm not a ghost! I'm a mole who learned how to talk right!"
"Nothin' right about that for a mole!" The squirrel responded. "Where'd ya even come from anyway? You sure don't sound like yer from here."
"I'm from a glen to the south. My family lives next to a village with no name."
"An' were all themz molers in yer vill'ge as queer loike as ye?"
"Our father never let us go to the village, but he said there weren't any moles."
"Like, other than him, right?" The squirrel asked.
"No, he was a badger! An me mother was a weasel." Wungle proclaimed with a proud smile. The table burst into raucous laughter, and his smile faded.
"That's a good one mate!" The otter said as he slapped Wungle on the back. "What, is yer sister a ferret as well?"
"Two of them are," Wungle responded as the trio continued to laugh. "One o' thems a babe but Blueberry's a sweet little thing an' as cute as a button too. We just adopted a litter o' three foxes our father found abandoned just off the road inta the village."
"Alright, now I know yer pullin' our tail." Another beast, a hare said as he walked to the table and stood next to Santain.
"Maybe yer fathers a badger. But you sure yer mom ain't just a scraggly otter-like Heath's is, wot?" The hare said as he shook the otter's shoulder. The otter turned and punched the hare's leg eliciting a pained cry of laughter.
"No, she's a weasel," Wungle responded with a tad of annoyance. "She says she is an' me father agrees with her. Plus she looks similar t' me younger brother, just with a lighter coat."
"Oh! An' what was your father like, hmm?" The squirrel asked leaning forward with a smug grin. "Lemme guess he's a former badgerlord, eh?"
"Yep!" Wungle responded with a smile as the beasts burst into peals of laughter. "Me an' me siblings are on our way to Salamandastron t' claim our birthright! We'll be Lords and Ladies of the Mountain!"
"Yer not even drunk yet! Yet yer tails are taller than Orsens!" The otter cried as he almost fell from his seat.
"I think I can handle me drink just fine!"
"Prove it mole!" The squirrel egged as he slammed a full mug of cider in front of the mole. Wungle looked down at the mug a bit apprehensive at the prospect.
"I don't think I wanna-" Wungle started.
"Yurr bain't a proper mole if'n you don't quaff that ale in one gurt swig, hurr aye!" The drunk mole said. Santain could see Wungle crack.
"It's only a bit of cider how much harm can it do?" Wungle said before lifting the mug to his lips and drinking. The beasts at the table cheered as the amber-colored liquid spilled from the edges of his mouth. Finally, after an anticipated moment, Wungle slammed the mug back to the table, its bottom completely dry.
"There now ye kin talk like a fool and nobeast 'll think less of ye for it." Heath said amongst cheers and congratulations.
"I'm not a fool ye cad. Everything I told ye was the truth!"
"What weasel is gonna willing live with a badger? Queerer still is that she'd raise a bunch 'a kits that ain't hers, let alone good woodland ones, wot wot!" The hare chortled.
"Me mother," Wungle said before hiccupping. "Is one of the sweetest beasts I know! She'd raise any bird that's fallen out of its nest or beast that's lost its way. She raised me, Ramir, and Mosslyn far better than yer mother seemed t' raise ye!"
"Of course, yer mother loves ye." The squirrel said with a sarcastic tone. "It's not that a badger would crush the wench without a passing glance and a weasel would slit yer throat fer fun. But I'm sure your weasel mummy loves ye as long as her badger mate is there to set her straight!"
"My father loves my mother, and they'd never dream of hurting each other! Fleeing from their hordes was the greatest thing they ever did!"
"Their hordes? Badger's don't run in hordes, fool!" Santain barked.
"My father said the Long Patrol acted no better than a horde when they found me mother! Tortured her for no reason and tried t' have her slain!" Wungle snapped, pointing accusingly at the hare Captain.
"The Long Patrol would never act like a horde, wot! 'cept fer maybe Philemon..." The hare mused as he watched the mole begin to shake with rage as the other beasts laughed.
"Well, they did t' me mother!"
"Yeah, so whadid yer mother steal, or who'd she kill, eh?" Heath asked.
"She didn't 'steal' anything. She saved me father's life and was treated like a murderer because of it."
"An' then they got married and adopted a bunch a little wretched vermin whelps. Seasons, yer a riot!"
"I'd ask ye t' refrain from callin' me siblings whelps! Mossyln wouldn't be very happy t' hear it!" Wungle snapped.
"Who's Mosslyn?" The squirrel asked.
"She's me, sister. She's a rat an' I think she'd back what I said about me siblings." Wungle responded with a smug grin.
"Hah!" The squirrel laughed. "Mole's eyesight. She's just a large mouse and she's never told 'im otherwise!"
Heath turned to Orsen who was in the middle of another one of his grand stories.
"Oi, Swiftleaf! How's that rat you've been making eyes with?"
Orsen stopped midsentence, his mouth open in disgusted shock. "She's not a rat! She's the most beautiful beast in the land! Laterose doesn't hold a candle to her sweetly charm!"
The woodlanders broke into laughter, Wungle wasn't amused. "Mosslyns a rat! I've lived with her all me life so I should know!"
"Settle down mole, she's just a large mouse! Otherwise, Orsen wouldn't be trying to woo her with all his might!"
"No, she's a rat! Are you all too drunk to see all o' that!" Wungle snapped as he rose from his seat and stormed to the bar.
The mouse rogue lazily turned his head to eye the short beast. "Whatcha doin' their mole?"
Santain choked on his drink realizing far too late what the mole was about to do as Wungle pulled the cowl off his sister's head. Mosslyn's eyes lit up in surprise as Orsen turned as pale as a ghost and the room gasped. Wungle turned to the group of beasts at his table and shouted.
"See I told ye she was a rat!"
This is a little over half of a chapter I had to split. The follow-up to this should be coming shortly.
As always please let me know what you think and what can be improved upon. Any and all feedback is appreciated!