Chapter One

A Plea For Help

Several seasons later

Western Coast, Mossflower Country

An eerie silence had settled over the dark forests near the sea, where earlier that day, the violent sounds of battle had echoed through the fire-scorched trees.

The cold light of the stars above the dead, blackened branches shone dimly on a pair of woodlanders, their fur and clothes covered with silvery frost, made their way cautiously through the ash-blackened snow. In the lead was a big gray squirrel, holding his bow aloft with a notched arrow, ready to send it flying into any vermin that crossed his path. His muscular limbs already bearing minor wounds he had sustained since the battle had started. His companion was a young water vole, his dark eyes darting back and forth nervously, clutching tightly to the hilt of his knife with both paws. Like many young creatures that volunteered to fight against the massive hordes of vermin who had invaded the western fringes of Mossflower, he was very inexperienced with war and weapons.

The squirrel stopped, his keen eyes scanning the scorched forest carefully, ears pricked for any unusual sounds. The vole stopped beside him, trembling fitfully from the cold and the terror that flooded over him.

"Looks deserted to me." The frightened vole whispered to his companion, his breath visible, rising up in the chill air.

The squirrel twitched his bushy tail and relaxed his bowstring. "That's what's got me worried. Tis too quiet for my liking."

The vole swallowed nervously. "I wish you wouldn't say that."

The squirrel smiled kindly and patted the vole reassuringly. "Come along now," he beckoned with a jerk of his head. "There's one last place I want to check before we meet up with the rest of the patrol." He continued walking, the snow crunching softly beneath his footpaws.

The vole took a shaky breath and followed, wishing he hadn't so readily volunteered for a midnight patrol.

The two woodlanders walked on, unaware that they were being watched very closely and had been for some time. Silent as shadows, the vermin patrol moved soundlessly and skillfully after them, weapons drawn with the intent to kill.

The big squirrel paused just within the shadows of the treeline, in full view of the sea. The dark waters lapped upon the now deserted shore, the sand having been churned up into mud by thousands of feet where most of the fighting had taken place. He let his thoughts wander as he surveyed the battleground. The woodlanders had done well to keep the rats out of most of Mossflower's woodlands but their numbers were dropping rapidly. What beasts they could spare, went off searching for more recruits. The squirrel had prayed fervently, that their searches would be successful.

Still uneasy with how unnaturally quiet it was, the squirrel sniffed the air but it was strong with the scents of salt and burnt wood, masking the weaker scents.

The vole shivered as an icy wind whipped through the trees. "Brr. I swear it's getting colder the longer we stay out here. Can we go now before we freeze?"

Reluctantly, the squirrel turned away from the once beautiful shoreline and nodded at his frightened companion. "Alright then." He took another quick look around. "Let's find the others and we'll head back to camp."

Sighing with relief, the vole turned to follow but was struck through the neck by an arrow, dying instantly without a sound.

In spite of the shock of the ambush, the big squirrel stood his ground bravely and strung his bow, aiming it at the advancing vermin as they materialized from the shadows.

Even though he was greatly outnumbered, the squirrel shot his arrow into an approaching ferret before leaping into the nearest tree, taking advantage of their brief moment of surprise to get away. Unfortunately, he was struck through the footpaw as he leaped into the branches. He stopped briefly to pull the arrow out of his foot before jumping into the next tree.

"Git 'im, lads!" The squirrel heard a harsh voice echo up from below. "He won't git far wit' that injured foot!"

Despite his foot wound and his size, the squirrel moved nimbly through the treetops, dodging their arrows and slingstones, inwardly cursing the vermin for burning what foliage had remained on the branches, as he had no cover to aid in an easy escape. He could have outsmarted them if there had been. He took a quick glance below his feet and saw that they were keeping up with him quite well on the ground.

The next tree was a good distance away but he took the chance and leaped across, landing on a thin branch.

Brittle from the fire, it unexpectedly snapped under his weight and he plummeted to the ground, landing so hard on his back it knocked the breath out of him.

Unable to move, he lay sprawled in the snow gasping for air, watching helplessly as the vermin surrounded him, their bows strung and ready.

A wiry female weasel approached and confiscated the squirrel's fallen bow and quiver as harsh laughter echoed from the trees.

The squirrel sat up painfully as a huge, bearded, black-furred rat appeared from the darkness, a younger rat resembling him, followed behind.

The bearded vermin was grinning from ear to ear, showing off a row of rotting teeth, proudly twirling a sling in his paw. "Too bad that branch broke on ye." He spat something vile from his mouth onto the ground. "We was havin' us a good chase, weren't we lads?"

There was a chorus of amused snickers.

The squirrel struggled to his feet, his bleeding foot staining the snow scarlet. Ignoring his pain-wracked body, he straightened himself and glared defiantly. "I'm surprised you were able to keep up with that big belly of yours, Caliban."

Caliban snorted in amusement. "You woodlanders," The black rat shook his head. "Always using pathetic insults to mask how afraid you really are." He drew his sword from its scabbard and stepped closer, poking the squirrel in the stomach with his sword tip, making him flinch and take a step back. "My son Aynon here," he gestured to the younger rat. "He couldn't 'elp but notice a little group of yer friends head South early this mornin'." Caliban tilted his head to the side inquiringly. "What fer?"

The squirrel refused to answer, his eyes still fixed on the big rat's.

Caliban frowned, digging the sword harder into his belly. "Yer gonna answer me straight, bushtail. Or join your small friend at Hellgates. Which do ye prefer?"

"You'll pay for his death, rat." The squirrel replied, still breathing raggedly from his hard fall.

Caliban clenched his jaw in anger but withdrew his weapon. "You stubborn fool." He snarled threateningly but the squirrel stood his ground.

Aynon stepped forward, aiming a blow at the squirrel's head with the confiscated bow, but Caliban stopped him with an outstretched arm before turning back to his injured prey and smiled maliciously. "I admire your courage to continue fighting, squirrel. Unfortunately, you woodlanders won't last much longer. I've been observin' ye pretty closely. There's only a pawful of ye that knows 'ow t'fight." Without a warning, he slammed a fist into the squirrel's face, breaking his nose, the blow causing blood to spray everywhere.

The squirrel dropped heavily to the snow, dazed by the unexpected hit and the intense pain that followed. Aynon looked on, disappointed that his own blow had been deterred.

Caliban spat on the ground again and waved a paw at his patrol. "I want this useless lump thrown into the brig on my ship. Then I want all of ye back out here again watchin' these woodlanders." Ignoring the complaints of being hungry and tired, he picked up a pawful of dirty snow and washed the squirrel's blood from his paws.

Half-conscious, the squirrel didn't fight when two ferrets grabbed him by the arms and heaved him bodily through the filthy snow. Aynon watched resentfully as they dragged their helpless prey along.

Caliban glanced at him. "Did ye find out anything from the rest of the squirrel's patrol before ye killed 'em?"

Cheering up a little, Aynon nodded. "Aye, we beat this little pipsqueak rabbit bloody until 'e finally let it slip about that group we saw leave this mornin'."

The vicious rat's yellow eyes gleamed with interest. "Well?"

"Somethin' about them goin' and gettin' some mouse warrior to help 'em out."

Caliban broke out into amused laughter, making his patrol look over their shoulders to look at him questioningly. The big rat put his arm around the younger's shoulders. "Aynon, my little demon spawn. Mossflower will be ours by the end o' the season."

Aynon grinned eagerly. "Ye think so, Father?" His smile disappeared and he frowned warily. "Even with that mouse warrior comin'?"

Caliban snorted and paused, suddenly taking hold of Aynon's tunic collar and lifting him up to his eye level. "Of course I do, ye liddle idiot! A puny mouse won't be able to stop us from takin' over! He'd have a snowball's chance at Hellgates if he did that! You'd know that already if ye used yer brains!" He dropped him to the snow and watched callously as Aynon picked himself, dusting the powdery snow off him and giving his father a nasty glare as the elder rat spat another insult at him. "That's if ye got any left t'think with!"

mmmmmmmm

Several days later...

The strong scents of blood and charred wood overwhelmed Martin's senses as he strained to see through the thick smoke, fighting his way along the vermin-crowded battlements, swinging his sword blade and dealing death to the vermin around him without a second thought. As the smoke cleared, he leaned over the battlement wall and searched through the crowds of fighting vermin and goodbeasts until his eyes settled upon his target, slinking along the wall in a desperate attempt to escape.

Filled with rage and resentment, Martin snarled and ran for the stairs, intending to intercept his fleeing enemy as the stoat fled from the sheltering wall shadow. He shouted above the battle noise, his voice rough with fury.

"Badraaaang, I am here!"

The tyrannical stoat heard him. Martin could see him sprinting for the tunnel made by avenging goodbeasts as they fought to enter Marshank from the back wall. The crowd of vermin on the battlements seemed to increase; more bodies barred his way, slowing his progress but the warriormouse fought his way through, in time to see Rose attack Badrang with her loaded sling. He called out to her desperately, fighting his way through the crowd. He watched helplessly as Badrang grabbed the mousemaid by the neck and tossed her into the palisade wall, her head striking it heavily before she slid to the ground like a broken doll.

Enraged and powered by grief and hatred, Martin plowed through the wall of vermin, screaming and roaring, and leaped from the wall top, crashing through the damaged palisade that broke his reckless fall. Blinded by anger, the warriormouse swung his sword at Badrang's head but his blow was blocked by the stoat's own blade.

They battled ferociously around the burnt out slave compound, heedless to their surroundings and the beasts watching them, inflicting horrific wounds upon each other's bodies.

The only thing that mattered was their mutual hatred and their intent to destroy each other.

Exhausted and bleeding profusely, the two enemies locked blades, standing with their noses nearly touching, staring into each other's eyes hatefully. "I told you I would return someday and put an end to you!" Martin spat furiously. The stoat wrenched his face away and sunk his fangs deep into Martin's shoulder. The warriormouse screamed in agony and barreled into the stoat in an attempt to knock him off, falling heavily into the dirt where they rolled around, using claws and teeth, tearing viciously into each other's flesh. It was only when Martin was rolled onto his back again that he kicked Badrang in the stomach and sent him flying, landing hard on the pile of smoldering wood that used to be the south wall of the palisade.

Bleeding heavily from his shoulder, Martin rose painfully to his footpaws and picked up his sword, limping over to where Badrang lay sprawled out.

The stoat's eyes widened with fear when he saw Martin standing over him. "Don't kill me!" He sobbed. "Please don't kill me!"

Silent with fury, Martin pointed his sword downward, ignoring Badrang's desperate pleas for mercy and shoved the blade into the stoat's heart. The Tyrant let out a strangled gasp before his head lolled to the side and his eyes glazed over in death.

Leaving the sword still in his enemy's chest, Martin stepped back and sank to his knees in the blood-soaked dirt. Around him, the nightmarish images of Fort Marshank faded into obscurity, replaced only by empty blackness.

"Its over." Martin said breathlessly, blood pouring from the nasty bite in his shoulder. "Its over."

"Is it?"

Martin's head jerked up at the unfamiliar voice. He watched in shock as Badrang's limbs jerked to life and the stoat sat up with the sword still imbedded in his chest.

Except this stoat wasn't Badrang.

Malicious yellow eyes glanced down at the sword. He chuckled evilly, meeting Martin's wide-eyed gaze as he slowly pulled the sword from his bloodied chest.

He rose to his footpaws, pointing the blood-stained blade towards Martin.

Martin struggled to his own feet, suddenly realizing that he had no weapon to defend himself with. As the stoat stalked closer to him, Martin remained in place, unable to move, as if his limbs had been frozen to the spot.

The stoat raised the blade until it was level with Martin's right eye, laughing gleefully. The warriormouse willed himself to move out of the way but he couldn't.

"Its not over, Martin." The stoat shook his head, still grinning maniacally. "Oh no. It's just the beginning!" He shoved the blade into Martin's face.

Martin yelped and fell out of the bed and onto the floor, his footpaws entangled and twisted up in the sheets. He sat up, his fur soaked with sweat, his breathing coming in fearful gasps. He touched his face with trembling claws and looked down at himself, then around the small bedroom in the Gatehouse where he had been sleeping since his nightmares began.

No blood. No wounds. Best of all, no sword-wielding stoat.

Shaking with relief, he lay back on the floor and closed his eyes and focused on calming himself down and evening out his breathing, still leaving his legs tangled in the sheets. He was too tired to free himself at the moment. Despite his exhaustion, his mind raced with questions.

This was the fifth time he'd had this same dream. Five sleepless nights were taking its toll on him. And worst of all, his friends were starting to notice something wasn't right again.

His journey to his birthplace in the North Lands earlier that summer had given him a lot of answers to many questions he'd had and fragments of forgotten memories had returned. He had thought this would be the end of it all and he could live out the rest of his life at Redwall peacefully.

Martin rolled his eyes at the enticing thought. "Wishful thinking." He muttered aloud to himself. As if he'd be allowed even a moment's worth! Being the Abbey Warrior, it seemed he never got any. Finally pulling his legs free from his tangled sheets, he remained on the floor and leaned his back against the bed frame, letting his mind continue to wander. Mentally making a list of all his unanswered questions.

This stoat that replaced Badrang in this recurring nightmare; he'd never seen him before. But sometimes, the fur on the back of his neck would stand up with the chilling realization that somehow... he did know him. He didn't know why or how though.

He wanted to tell Gonff and Dinny what was troubling him and causing him to lose sleep... but that would also mean telling them about his past... and Rose.

Martin sighed and rested his head back against the bed. "Not yet." He whispered wearily and closed his eyes. Even though he was exhausted, he didn't fall back asleep.

He didn't want to face the stoat again.

The next evening...

Meals at Redwall Abbey were always a grand affair, no matter how simple they were. Travelers who stopped to rest there spread the word that Redwall's kitchens were the best in Mossflower. The kitchen helpers always laid out a delicious spread of food while many of the young maidens and wives decorated the tables with beautiful floral arrangements, which being winter time now, garlands of pine and other evergreen plants now took the place of the typical spring and summer flowers brought in from the Abbey gardens, giving Cavern Hole a colorful, homey atmosphere.

Steaming pots of winter vegetable stew and fresh breads from the ovens filled the air with enticingly warm smells, accompanied by Coggs and Ferdy Stickle's best brews from the well-stocked cellars below. The perfect thing to warm one's stomach on such a cold evening.

True to Martin's observations, his friends did notice that he wasn't quite himself. The warriormouse was difficult to read most days but he was definitely deep in thought and visibly exhausted.

Sitting across from him at the supper table, Gonff watched Martin's movements carefully, trying to discern without having to ask, as he knew that Martin would adamantly reply he was just fine. The warriormouse was stirring his spoon into his hardly touched soup. Next to Martin, Trimp shared concerned looks with Gonff across the way. The hogmaid had grown quite close to Martin in the weeks following their return from the North Lands, their relationship almost like siblings. It was like she'd been at Redwall all her life instead of just a few seasons.

Giving Trimp a crafty wink, Gonff turned to Martin. "You gonna eat that or stare at it all night?"

Martin didn't answer, obviously not hearing him. Trimp cleared her throat and elbowed Martin in the side, making him jerk in surprise. "What?" He snapped, staring at Trimp in confusion. Surprised by his show of temper, the hogmaid pointed at Gonff, her brown eyes wide. Usually Martin was pretty even tempered so it shocked her he was a little short with her. Martin looked over at Gonff, his pale gray eyes annoyed.

Gonff grinned. "I asked if you were going to eat your soup or just stare at it all night long?"

Martin pushed his bowl towards the Mousethief and stood up. "Its all yours." He left the table without another word, leaving his friends behind, stunned by his irritable behavior.

Gonff stood up from his seat between Columbine and Dinny. "I'll be right back." He gave the group a reassuring wink.

Trimp followed his lead, staring at the seven steps leading to the main level of the Abbey where Martin had gone. "What could possibly be wrong this time?" She asked as they headed for the stairs.

As the trio made their way through Great Hall, Gonff couldn't help but voice his thoughts aloud. "You know, there's more to Martin's story than he's letting on. I could sense it ever since the night Tsarmina nearly killed him after the battle with the Kotir army."

"Hurr, loike wut?" Dinny asked, perplexed.

"What else would he be hiding?" Trimp wondered, tugging at the quills behind her ear. "I thought we learned everything about him from Vurg and Beau?"

But Gonff didn't reply to her question; he quickened his pace in order to catch up with Martin before he left the Abbey.

Martin had his paws on the heavy main doors leading to the grounds outside when he heard Gonff call his name and three pairs of footpaws crossing the stone floor. Groaning inwardly, he rolled his eyes and turned about slowly, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched his friends approach.

"Going to bed early again?" Gonff asked with a cheery smile.

Martin forced his own smile but it was a sarcastic one. "I'm hoping I'll get a little bit of sleep tonight."

"I'm surprised you've admitted you're not sleeping." Gonff raised a brow. "Usually you're more evasive."

Martin ignored him and turned to Trimp. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier." He told her sincerely. He looked over at Gonff and Dinny, his eyes shifting from one to the other. "I'm just a little... preoccupied tonight."

The warriormouse noticed the wink Gonff gave the other two before replying. "You wanna tell us about it?"

The guarded look Martin usually had when he was questioned appeared and he shook his head. "You three go back to supper. I'll be fine." He pushed through the main doors and vanished into the night.

Trimp sighed. "Well, that's a start in the right direction. He admitted he's got a problem." She noted as she and Gonff closed the doors against the icy night air.

"Oi say we heed Marthen's advice an' go on back t'supper then." Dinny turned away and started walking down the hall. "Oi'm sure 'eel be up to talk in the morn."

"Is that really Martin's advice or your stomach's?" Gonff teased as they followed the mole back to Cavern Hole and their waiting friends.

Martin stomped through the powdery snow towards the Gatehouse, hardly feeling the chilling wind as it whipped over the battlements and swirled around the Abbey grounds. Deep down, he knew that his troubled past would rise up and interfere with the present eventually. The crushing guilt he still felt was nearly overwhelming and he knew it would only lessen if he did something about it. But this conflicted with the seasons' long promise he made to never reveal Noonvale's location once he left it behind. The only thing that didn't make sense about this recurring dream was the yellow-eyed stoat who taunted him. He stopped, almost knee deep in the snow drifts and turned back to the Abbey as an idea popped into his head.

Abbess Germaine would know what to do, he reasoned with himself. She had become a close confidant to him in the seasons since the end of Tsarmina's reign as they collaborated ideas and decisions to make Redwall Abbey the reality it was now. Maybe he could catch her alone once most everyone had gone off to their beds for the night? Maybe she could help him make more sense of his inner turmoil. Anything to help him regain the ability to sleep normally.

He was about to consider this idea when unexpected heavy pounding on the main gates made him spin around in surprise, the fur along his spine standing on end.

Kicking himself for not having his sword with him, the warriormouse hurried over to the bolted gates. His desire to protect the Abbey, sword or no sword, nearly overwhelmed his other senses as his warrior blood roused within him, ready to defend his friends with his life, no matter what.

"Who's there?" He challenged dangerously, pricking his ears to listen for a reply.

A great booming laugh that he was very familiar with rang out from the other side of the gates. "Easy now, Warrior. You wouldn't begrudge a weary traveler some of that famous Redwall fare now, would ye?"

Martin grinned and fought back laughter as he unbolted the gates and pulled them open, allowing the small, bedraggled group entry into the Abbey grounds. He shook Logalog Furmo's paw heartily, barely recognizing Tungro, Folgrim's brother and a few other faces in the near-darkness. "No I wouldn't." Martin replied to Furmo's question. "But you can't blame me for being suspicious either." He looked them over, finally noticing that despite their grins, they were exhausted and battleworn. Some were wearing bandages and others had healing scars. His smile fading, he met Furmo's eyes questioningly. "What's going on?"

The jovial supper noise in Cavern Hole was now in hushed silence as nearly all of Redwall's inhabitants gathered to hear Furmo and Tungro's story. A few of them had taken the young ones off to bed and had returned quickly to hear what was being said. His own problems and sleepless nights completely forgotten in his concern for his friends, Martin sat across from Furmo and Tungro at the middle table, listening intently as the group ate their fill of winter vegetable soup. It was clear that they hadn't eaten well in a long time. Their appetites were almost ravenous. Abbess Germaine, propped up by cushions in her chair, held the spiral seashell she used as a hearing tool to her ear in order to hear what was being said. Bella stood beside her, ready to repeat if needed.

"We decided if anybeast could help us, it would be you." Furmo finished after describing Caliban and his hordes of vermin and the destructive battle that had gone on since the start of winter. "Most of us just aren't equipped for battle. Many just volunteered bravely with hardly any knowledge in the fighting arts. Mossflower is their home, ye know."

"You should've come gotten us sooner, matey." Gonff spoke up from where he had been standing behind Martin. He leaned forward against the table.

"I agree," Bella added gravely.

Tungro sighed wearily. "We would have, marm, but that Caliban is a crafty rodent. It just wasn't a good idea to leave at that time."

"You're here, Tungro." Martin pointed out gently. "Let's focus on what we need to do now instead of what couldn't be done before. I know you need more fighters but what else do you need and we'll provide it?"

"Clearly food and medical attention." Columbine observed, her words were met with a murmur of agreement from the listening Redwallers.

"That will take too long." Furmo replied stubbornly. "They need us back as soon as we can. This winter weather has already delayed us several days."

Martin rose to his feet. "No it won't. We'll make sure to get everything prepared while you rest and we'll leave at first light."

Tungro shook his head and rubbed the side of his head. "I don't think I could sleep."

"I'll bet ye could, matey." Gonff gave the otter a small smile. "Now that yer stomach's full, you look like yer about to nod off any second."

Though Abbess Germaine was frail and her voice shaky, everyone listened to what she had to say. The wise leader of Redwall addressed her beloved friends with firm conviction. "I know you both hold different levels of authority in your respective groups but rest is the best thing for you to do right now. Martin, Bella and myself will organize everything we need to offer aid to Mossflower's army. Sister Fern has graciously offered to attend your wounds before you retire for the remainder of the night."

Furmo met Martin's gaze briefly before turning back to the Abbess. He nodded respectfully and choked out his appreciation. "Thank you, Mother Abbess." His voice shook with emotion at Redwall's willingness to help their fellow beasts.

Despite the somber seriousness of the situation at hand, Gonff was grinning ear to ear. "The Abbess has spoken." He glanced around at the Abbey dwellers. "Let's get to work."

The Abbey rang with noise and chatter as supper dishes were cleared away and preparations to aid in the war were begun. Trimp grabbed Martin by the sleeve as he walked past and pulled him aside. "I'd like to go with you."

Martin shook his head regretfully. "Not this time, Trimp."

The hogmaid narrowed her eyes. "Why not? How is it any different than the journey to the North Lands?"

"Its very different." Martin put his paws on his hips, his gray-blue eyes serious. "You're staying here where it's safe."

"But-

"I mean it, Trimp." Martin cut her off, his voice in a tone that told her he was not in a mood to argue with her. "You're not going." He walked around her, joining Dinny and Gonff on the stairs.

Trimp clenched her fists in determination. She was going, whether he liked it or not. In the meantime, she figured she could help out in the infirmary before making another attempt. Maybe by the end of the night, Martin would be more reasonable.

It was some time before midnight, as Martin headed down the stairs to the armory below the main hall that Sister Fern joined him as he began to descend the steps. She was a trained healer, head of the Abbey infirmary. "I just wanted to let you know that our friends have been treated and are finally resting."

Martin nodded. "Good, I was hoping they would be."

"I also wanted to ask if you're taking any beast with you that has the knowledge needed to treat battle injuries."

Martin paused on the stairs, suddenly knowing what she was about to ask. She didn't just come to tell him their weary friends were alright. There was an ulterior motive. "Sister Fern-

"I know what you're thinking, but I would be happy to come along and organize a... well, a field infirmary if you will."

"I respect your willingness to help, but I can't let you come. It's too dangerous."

Sister Fern crossed her arms. "Are you saying I can't defend myself?"

Martin's eyes widened. "Well no, but-

She reached out her paw. "Hand me that knife on your belt."

Martin blinked and glanced down at the weapon in question before meeting the abbey sister's determined gaze. He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh for heaven's sake, give it to me and I'll show you!" She implored.

Perplexed, Martin pulled the knife from his belt and handed it to her hilt first. Beckoning him to follow her, the two mice descended the last of the steps until they stood in the corridor where the armory door stood at the other end.

"Sister Fern, I'm gonna tell you what I told Trimp earlier this evening, I'm not-

The mouse sister aimed the point of the knife and threw it skillfully where it embedded itself in the doorjam leading into the armory.

Martin stared wide-eyed at the knife still quivering from the impact.

Grinning, Sister Fern walked past him and pulled the weapon from the wall. "Not everyone knows this, but..." She walked back over to a still surprised Martin and offered the knife back to him, hilt first. "Before I arrived at Loamhedge seasons ago, my father was a sword thrower in a traveling circus troupe." She explained calmly as the stunned warriormouse wrapped his fingers around the knife and carefully took it from her. She batted her eyelashes up at him, as if that would make a difference in his decision. "I picked up a few tricks from him."

Before Martin could open his mouth to attempt a reply, Trimp appeared from the steps and stood on the last one, twisting her claws together. Martin sighed heavily and sheathed the knife back in his belt. "I'll think about it." He turned away and walked into the armory. As Sister Fern passed Trimp on the stairs, she gave the hogmaiden a wink. "I buttered him up a little for you." She whispered, earning a small giggle of appreciation from Trimp.

"I don't see any reason why I can't go." Trimp stood in the doorway of the Abbey armory, arms wrapped around herself against the chill. Even dressed in her thick habit, she shivered. The armory was below the main floor and it stayed cold down here, even more so now that it was winter.

Martin didn't look at her when he replied. "And I told you earlier. It's too dangerous." He was gathering pieces of leather armor for those volunteering to go with him.

The hogmaid rubbed her cold paws together to bring some warmth into them. "I've been in dangerous situations before. With you, I might add." Trimp argued, still bound and determined to persuade the stubborn warrior somehow. "Besides, you're letting Sister Fern go."

Martin looked up at her. "No, I didn't. I said I'd think about it."

The young hogmaiden rolled her eyes. "But she just proved to you that she can take care of herself! So can I!"

Martin stared severely at her over the pile of leather in his arms, his pale eyes piercing. "Trimp, this isn't some adventure or important quest. Don't you realize?" He paused, his voice grave. "Beasts are dying."

"I know that," Trimp replied softly, feeling slightly guilty. "But I just want to help. I don't want to stay behind and constantly wonder if any of you will come back alive."

Martin's face softened and he sighed. "Well I'd feel better knowing you're here and safe. And that goes for Sister Fern too."

Trimp wrinkled her nose in disappointment and huffed. "Why are you so hard to convince, Martin?"

The warriormouse grinned teasingly. "Are you finally giving up?" He stepped around her in the doorway and started down the hall to the stairs. Trimp followed right behind him.

"It's not like I'm wanting to fight."

Martin rolled his eyes and stopped in the middle of the corridor, causing her to nearly run into him. He raised an eyebrow. "Trimp-

"I can help Sister Fern treat injuries and... and help with the cooking." She cut him off. "They need all the help they can get."

Before Martin could reply, Gonff suddenly appeared beside them, having come from the stairwell. "Where's that armor, matey- OOF!"

Martin shoved the pile into Gonff's arms, almost knocking him over backwards, before turning back to Trimp, arms crossed. "Alright, Trimp, you win. If you promise to stay away from the fighting and follow orders, I'll let you go. But put a paw wrong and I'll send you home." He frowned, still not liking the arrangement. "And that's a promise."

The hogmaid grinned widely. "Oh thank you, Martin!" She embraced him, accidentally sticking him with her quills. He flinched as the sharp spines dug into his side. She leaned away quickly, biting her lip when Martin shot her a look. "Sorry." She reached over and pulled a quill out of him.

Martin rubbed the sore spot, still frowning worriedly. "I'm holding you to it, Trimp."

"Don't worry!" Trimp shouted over her shoulder as she ran to the stairs. "You'll be glad to have me!" She hurried up the stairwell to the main level, but stopped when Martin called her back. She stared at him inquiringly. Martin paced forward. "You might as well let Sister Fern know so she can be ready."

Trimp grinned and hurried up the stairs, the sound of her excited foot paws echoed down the hall and then faded into silence.

Martin breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head. "I don't see why she wants to help so bad." He looked down, pulling another quill out of his side that Trimp had missed, hissing in pain as he tossed the barb away.

Gonff's voice sounded strained when he replied. "Uh... a little help from you would be nice."

Martin turned and took the heavy pile of armor from him.

Gonff dusted himself off and shot Martin a teasing grin. "Aw. Did she finally manage to melt that icy heart of yours?"

Martin narrowed his eyes. "If this Caliban is as dangerous as Tungro described, I don't feel comfortable taking her along."

"She's not a dibbun, Martin. She'll be fine. Here," He reached out his arms. "'I'll take this up so you can get the rest out of there."

Martin raised a brow. "You sure you got it this time?" He was trying hard not to smile.

Gonff huffed. "Of course, noble britches. I'm just as strong as you, now give me that armor or I'll stick one of her spines in yer-

Martin dropped the leather on him again before he could complete his threat, adjusting it so Gonff could walk up the stairs easier.

Gonff chuckled as he struggled down the hall with his burden. "You'll probably beat me to the top before I can even set a footpaw on 'em."

"I'll give you a headstart, Mousethief." Martin shot back, earning a sarcastic laugh from Gonff. "Harhar. That's funny, Warrior."

Martin watched him go, smiling to himself before turning around and going back into the small room again.

But his worries about the upcoming battle with Caliban's horde came flooding back into his mind.

Usually he wasn't this worked-up about a war but something about this one had him on edge. He had voiced his concerns to Gonff and Dinny before Sister Fern accosted him on the stairs, but both reassured him it was nothing they couldn't handle; they had dealt with villainous vermin before. Martin wished he could believe that himself but some instinct deep within him had him thinking otherwise.

Pulling the knife that Sister Fern had tossed out of his belt again, he sat down on a wooden bench, leaning his back against the wall, turning the blade side to side, watching the reflected torchlight change colors in the steel. He needed a few moments to himself to think about all this. Trimp hadn't let him alone most of the evening and there was the preparations for the journey to the coast that had kept him busy.

He kept turning the knife blade mindlessly, completely absorbed in his thoughts.

He stared at his warped reflection in the blade.

It flickered.

Martin blinked and held the knife still, not sure if he imagined it or if it was the garish light of the torch. He waited to see if it would do it again.

A face appeared... but it wasn't his own. Startled, he dropped the knife like something had bit him and leaped to his feet. The blade hit the stone floor with a loud clatter.

"Martin?" Gonff's voice echoed from the hall. He appeared in the doorway, taking in the shocked expression on Martin's face. Martin turned his head and met his friend's concerned gaze. "Are you alright?" Gonff asked, perplexed by his friend's strange behavior. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Paws trembling, Martin bent down and picked up the knife. "I'm fine. Just... scared myself, I guess." He glanced down warily at the weapon in his shaking paw.

"Sure looks that way." Gonff replied dryly before clearing his throat. "Tungro's awake and pacing a rut into the floor. I figured you can argue with him about not sleeping since you're practically doing the same."

Because he was so startled by what he had seen, Martin didn't pick up on the last part of Gonff's sentence. He could only nod and chastise himself for sitting down to think when they were limited on time. "Right. Let's get the rest of this stuff upstairs."

Gonff didn't notice, but Martin left the knife behind in the armory.

Even though he was awake, the stoat's face had appeared in the reflective knife blade, taunting him once more.