Hi guys! My 3rd chapter in the past month! Whoa.

Anyways, special thanks to those who reviewed for the last chapter: Quavera Tava and Bladesniper13. Thanks for sticking with me even after the hiatus guys. It means a lot. :)

Also, I have a poll for you guys if you would like. Please tell me which narration is your favorite: Brink & Keetch, Redwall/Jolin, Greymorg/Corsair, Wolves.

Recap: After annihilating an entire wolf pack, Greymorg framed the corsairs for the heinous crime. In retaliation, some rebelling wolves acted against their leader's orders and retaliated against Captain Nyara the Hell Cat. Their attack was completely misguided, however, and now the wildcat wants revenge on Greymorg and has ordered her best assassin to murder the weasel royalty. For more refreshing please refer to Chapter 57.

This chapter is named after a track from the Fullmetal Alchemist OST.

Knives and Shadows

Fenris pressed the sopping cloth against his neck, sensing the acrid, tangy scent of blood mingle with the air and water. The wound was still pure and lacked the heat of infection. But it had been at least a moon since he had left the Sluthe pack in ashes and ruin. Surely it should have begun to mend by now. Or at the very least, it could have stopped bleeding.

He soaked the rag in the basin again, watching as the blood clouded the water in faint pink tendrils. It was not worry that filled his heart. Nor was the feeling like the fear of death that so often plagued King Ragnar. Rather, it was more of intrigue. It had been a long time since a beast had been able to draw his blood- much less scar him.

A familiar scent wafted in his nostrils. He did not need to turn around to greet his visitor.

"You know that I am here, do you not?" asked a silky smooth voice from the other side of the door.

"Your scent of smoke and herbs is overwhelming," the wolf answered flatly. "What brings you to my quarters, healer?"

"May I enter?" Sigma inquired. He did not like her voice. There was always something of honey in it- a cloying and untidy liquid that masked the true taste and deceived the tongue.

"Enter," he ordered, dabbing a dry cloth at the open wound. The vixen did as she was bid, albeit her entrance was odd. She pushed the door slightly ajar only wide enough that she could barely squeeze through, just as though she wanted to leave her own shadow outside the room. That was one of the many mannerisms about the vixen that the wolf did not care to understand.

"Now what do you want?" His voice was as gruff and as frustratingly impassive as usual.

"A chance to see that nasty cut on your neck, High Captain," the vixen said with a slight bow. "A good healer understands the mark of broken skin and a seer feels the pain of the beasts around her. Luckily, I am both."

"This is nothing painful," he growled softly.

"But it will be." He said nothing at that and she only motioned him to his bed. As usual, he refused, preferring to tower over her and faze her with his golden stare.

"The General sent you." It was not a question, but a statement.

"Yes, yes," the vixen nodded, smiling up at him with narrowed eyes. "You know him well."

"I refuse your treatment, healer."

"Do not forget that I am also a seer," she crooned. "I see a wound but I also see a curse." He tilted his head, but if he was at all curious by her words he had yet to show it.

"Are you superstitious, wolf?" The vixen gave him an ivory, toothy grin.

"You are the seer," he rumbled. "You tell me." She laughed at that response. A soft sound, that. Soft and laced with venom. The silver wolf shoved the door open to leave. It did not matter if Sigma stayed or not. He had nothing of value in his possession to begin with.

"The wolf that inflicted that wound is after your heart and soul," she called after him. Fenris halted in his tracks.

"You may think that impossible but the deadbeast is marking his vengeance with your blood. It will not stop until all your blood is spilled." A twitch of the ear, a shift in the tail, and without a word the wolf left the vixen to her prophetic nonsense. The packs were always wary of their traditions and their sights into the unknown; even Greymorg's foundations were also built upon such a dubious belief.

Countless beasts had tried to interpret the stars, claiming to have a gift for such knowledge. Wolf and vermin alike, such a claim was only a ploy for the weak to gain status and attention. While a healer held its own values, a seer only maintained some self-ordained arrogance that they found comforting. It was folly, trying to explain things that are already so simple.

The strong will live and the weak will die. That was the only truth in this world and as far as Fenris could see, Greymorg was the only strength of the north.

There.

It was the sensation of walking into a veil of cobweb- when one is aware of some tangible trace but could not see it. One step too late did he realize the shift in scent. He stopped abruptly, stepping back in place with his nose raised high. He breathed deep, closing his eyes and trying to reclaim that trail. Several beasts began marching in his direction but a barking growl was enough to turn them back to where they came.

It was a thin, weak smell. It stank of brine and dust, but also with a mild, sweet aroma of firewood. The wolf wandered around a second time, and a third, lifting his nose and trying to make sense of the new challenge. But it was too late. The scent was drifting away and he could find neither hide nor hair of the creature responsible. Fenris had been a part of the ranks for nearly a decade, learning by heart the scent, sound, movements, and voice of every noteworthy beast in Greymorg. And then he had caught a whiff of that new scent several times over the span of a few moons.

It puzzled him, and for the first time in a long while he felt a gnawing hunger- a longing for the hunt.

Slyte knelt against the wooden beams, conscious of the heavy bulge in his pocket. It was not killing that bothered him. He had poisoned male and female, warlord and watchguard alike and he had never lost any sleep over the deeds. It was what was necessary in life, after all. If not them then he would be next. But what frightened him this time around were the weasels themselves.

The pine marten could not put a finger on it, but he felt terrified simply by being within ear shot of them- particularly the king. He shook his mind clear. King or not, frightening or not, he was still just one beast. Well, he and his broth'r make two.

For the past few days the assassin had tried to plan their deaths as a simultaneous event but that proved too tedious. The brothers never dined together and hardly interacted, if it all. To kill one would open the next victim to suspicion- a messy affair that he would have to work around. But no matter. He would just have to kill them both in quick succession. It was tricky business but nothing that he couldn't handle.

But who would be first? If there was one beast that he absolutely had to destroy first, he knew it was the younger brother. As far as the pine marten was aware, the king did not fill an essential role to the fortress.

It was a puzzling thing, though. From what he'd seen, siblings of power had the nasty habit of massacring each other. But what kept these two weasels at the point of toleration was beyond him. He would have liked to explore this family dynamic in a little more depth but Nyara had given her orders.

Ny. He shuddered at the last memory he had of her. Narrowed emerald eyes, fangs bared, flinging him upside down and sideways like some rag doll. Recently he had found that with each accomplished task her demands grew heavier and her compensation scarcer. In the past she was sure to give him time to rest, time to heal, time to explore.

He might have even dared to say that she was fond of him.

But those days were far behind them. They were no longer youths under her father's watchful eyes. The pine marten smiled at the hazy memory. A whelp in a wooden cage, he was so frightened then. He had never known the life of a slave before that. He was a performer in his tiny little island, proudly demonstrating flips and tricks for the visiting pirate lord. Oh how he wished that he hadn't impressed the wildcat so much.

A whisper of words and an exchange of coins was all that was needed to seal his fate. But that was so long ago. It didn't matter now.

The pine marten leaped to the next beam, silently slipping through the shadows and dodging the guards. The Demon King's quarters were simple to find. If anything, all a beast had to do was follow the path of exquisite rugs and glimmering mirrors. Considering the fact that the rest of the fortress held bare walls and an overall grim atmosphere, the adornments were like signposts that read "Here I am! Come kill me!"

But it was the general that was the target. The king would have to wait until a later time.

General Thanatos proved a bit more challenging to find than his brother. Where King Ragnar had a gaudy sense of refinery, the general had absolutely no care in decor, preferring the cold dreary walls to the prospect of wasting time. But in some ways, the Ice General was the easier of the targets. Though the king was less aware of his surroundings, the general was clearly a beast of habit. Such creatures could be read as easily as a book and the formula for a successful murder could be mapped out.

He noticed almost the same exact routine every day. Dawn brought breakfast and a plethora of war meetings, by midday he attended sparring sessions and checked the slaves' progress, the evening brought dinner with the commanding chiefs, and every night brought him to meet with his mate. That was probably the most varying part of the warlord's boring schedule. Some days he met her at their quarters, others at the nursery where the weasel pups were kept.

While Slyte had no problems with slitting a throat with his own paws, it was too much of a risk. He imagined that King Ragnar would be susceptible to such an end, but a battle-ready warrior like Thanatos was a different case altogether. For him, poison would have to do.

Thanatos cupped his head in his palms. It had been days since his last restful sleep. While his mind still felt sharp, his body suffered fatigue and slowness as if he were moving through water. Even his servants had begun to notice this during battle practicing, easing up on their attacks and suggesting breaks. The general wrinkled his nose in disgust at the memory.

His trusted officers had all stated that war would sharpen fighting skills and refine the mind but that seemed a far stretch from the truth. Yes, he enjoyed the prospects of victory but the effort itself was a great toll to pay. He shook these demoralizing thoughts from his head and focused more on the military pieces sprawled strategically over his map.

A noise disturbed his thoughts. He looked up from his work for a split second to verify the ferret that held his breakfast. Sensing his agitation, the serving beast placed the silver platter on the table as quietly as possible.

"Leave," the weasel commanded, though the notion was probably already on the ferret's mind. With a quick shuffling of paws and the shut of the heavy door, the Ice General was left to his thoughts once more. He scrutinized the placement of his troops, studied contours of the land, calculated the days until winter, revisited his strategy on Redwall and Salamandastron, recalled the fire on the corsairs, counted and recounted his soldiers and counted them again.

All too quickly his mind became a dizzying haze. It was as if his head was packed to the brim with cotton while some madbeast was hammering at the insides of his skull. He reached forward to his tray of food and gripped the silver goblet in his fist, taking a deep gulp. Damson wine. He recognized the bittersweet taste just as it touched his cracked lips.

He placed the chalice back down on the table. Though he was fond of the drink he would have preferred water to clear his mind.

The light from the sconces flickered and sputtered tiny sparks, throwing menacing shadows against the walls. A shape shifted in the corner of his eye and the general whirled around only to face a lifeless suit of armor. He growled to himself, shoving the antique to the ground, wincing at the audible clang of metal against stone.

He straightened his position in his chair, wincing at a strange sensation. It was not pain, but an uncomfortable tightness as though a block of lead was loaded down in his belly. Creak. The sound alerted of him of the door opening and his thoughts immediately went to the troublesome servant that was probably checking on the sound.

"Leave me alone," he growled, putting a supportive paw on his side. The door shuddered open anyways and Fenris strode in, his nose held high, audibly inhaling deep breathfuls of air.

"What are you doing?" the weasel demanded, trying to keep an impassive expression.

"Quiet," the wolf ordered, still walking around the room in circles. The weasel gaped for a moment before his pride took over.

"You don't tell me what to do." He stood up sharply, the motion bringing the chair into a colliding halt with the wall. But the wolf ignored him, jumping onto the table and stretching his nose higher and higher towards the ceiling.

"I smell it," he rumbled to himself, pacing across the stretch of table. Thanatos gripped the edge of the furniture, trying in vain to steady it while it shuddered from the strain. The little battle figurines shifted and toppled and the general cursed.

"Get down this instant!" he shouted. "Fenris, what has gotten into you?" But the wolf snarled in contempt.

"You do not sense that stench?"

"What st-" Pain cut through him like lightning and the general doubled over, a paw clamped around his stomach. Sweat beaded his forehead and he straightened his posture. His right-paw beast, however, remained on the table, still sniffling and snuffling about for whatever it was that he was searching for.

"What stench?" Thanatos asked, his tone a bit softer from the recovered pain. Though Ragnar didn't know it, Thanatos had noticed the blood smeared on his lacy handkerchief. Even more notable was the way his brother's body convulsed at times, a paw at his stomach.

If Ragnar's ailment is comparable to that shock of pain I just had, then it's impressive how he's hid his ailment from the public eye, the general thought to himself.

He gasped. Another pang blared from his stomach and he nearly fell to his knees. It was as though there were shards of glass churning in his gut. Millions and millions scraping away at his innards and spreading up to his limbs. A sensation of fire came in quick succession and he crumpled to the ground, crippled in pain.

Everything after was a blur. Shadows. Screaming. An overturning table. A whirl of chaos that nearly crushed him.

"Fenris." The plead was so weak the weasel doubted that it carried any farther than the room. His throat was like sandpaper. "Get help." And somewhere in the distance, the wolf howled- a horrible, hungry sound that echoed and nearly blew his eardrums out.

Everything faded to black.

Slyte held back a squeal. The wolf could smell him. The wolf could find him. The thought of being in that creature's mercy was enough to make bile rise in his throat. He stayed still as he could, his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum gone mad. He had hidden from scrutinizing eyes before, but he simply melted into the shadows and escaped with only a break of sweat.

But this beast was persistent. The pine marten stayed up in the rafters, fixed with horror as the high-captain circled the room with his snout in the air. He can't get me here. He can never reach me all th' way up here.

And then the wolf got onto the table. The weasel was making so much noise, ordering the wolf to get off back on the ground but he fell silent as the poison began to take effect. Slyte flicked his eyes across the room. There were three windows to choose from but they were all seemed shuttered tight. He cursed himself inwardly. He should have known better. Always make sure there are at least two exits at all times.

In that moment that monster locked eyes with him.

Golden, impenetrable, hungry eyes.

The assassin felt his insides quiver and turn to liquid.

That's when he knew to run.

The pine marten leaped from the ceiling beams, aiming his landing as far from the wolf as possible. But the creature expected that. Slyte yelped, dodging the swipe of a fist as the wolf nearly fell upon him. Jaws snapped at empty air and the marten found himself scrabbling away at all fours, foolishly turning his back to the savage as he raced to the door. He only tugged at the latch before the beast lunged at him, slamming its paws against the door. Slyte whirled backwards, falling onto his elbows and back, dodging the crushing impact by just a fraction of a second.

The marten was on his stomach in an instant, stumbling on all fours before planting his footpaws against the ground and springing himself for the opposite wall. He thrust himself past the chairs, shoving them towards his pursuant, leaped over the dying weasel on the floor, and jumped onto the table, feeling it shudder under his landing.

He ducked his head. The marten vaulted himself skywards and felt the window against his back break like an eggshell. He gasped at the impact, watching the world jilt and twist before his eyes. His climber's instinct took over and an arm shot out at the sensation of a fall to latch onto the windowsill. His full weight came down after, jerking his precarious hold. For a second he thought to rest for a while- that once he was out of that horrible room he was free as a bird.

But the wolf was coming.

He looked down, checking on a stony ledge that gilded the castle walls. He chanced a glance up only to scream at the monstrous snarling face.

He let go.

His heart plummeted and he caught himself expertly on the perilous ridge, feeling the edges scrape against the soles of his footpaws. Clutching at the rough rocky surface, he threw his weight forward, pressing his chest against the wall while his heels peeked over the precipice. Slowly, deliberately, he dared himself to look up once more and saw jaws snapping at his direction in a savage snarl.

The wolf was well out of arms reach now and Slyte breathed a sigh of relief for that. But he was not out of the woods yet.

Slyte took another glance around, hugging the wall as he registered the dizzying height. The soldiers and slave alike were far below, milling about with their duties and oblivious to his hapless position. The pine marten was no stranger to heights. Usually he welcomed it, but this time was an exception. He edged himself sideways, claws trying to catch hold of the grooves in the stone bricks. But where there should have been more ledges were only crumbled dead ends and marks where the ridge used to continue on. He turned his head, checking the other side.

It was a similar situation. A gap of ruined masonry stood between him and another foothold but he could never clear that leap. With nothing below, hopeless obstacles at his sides, and a fearsome predator awaiting above, the once undefeated spy was finally cornered.

"You have nowhere to run." The gravelly voice of the wolf echoed his thoughts. Regardless, Slyte edged himself as far to the left as he possibly could. In that moment the creature turned its massive head.

"Sir, I- m'lord!" Clearly somebeast had stumbled in to the horrific scene. "Somebeast get help! Lord Thanatos is unconscious."

"Fetch the healer," the wolf ordered, his fangs beginning to recede back beneath his lips. But Slyte could still see the red around the rims of its eyes as it watched the new prisoner with a fierce intensity. With barely a warning the feral beast emitted a chilling, deafening howl that must have conjured the attention of every beast in all the North. Slyte had never felt so exposed as hundreds of heads turned in his direction.

"Archers," Fenris bellowed. "Gather and train your arrows on this creature." In his mind, Slyte thought that he heard the sound of thousands and thousands of bowstrings stretching under tension. He glimpsed downwards and saw a score of arrows trained on his hide.

"It is your choice," said the high-captain in a suddenly calm tone. "You can let them kill you or you can surrender to me for questioning."

"N-n-no." The response was so quiet that even Fenris seemed to have trouble hearing it.

"Would you rather fall to your demise?"

"Please don't," he begged. In a pathetic gesture of cowardice he bent his quaking knees, trying to crouch and huddle against the cold stone. "I'm s'rry 'bout poisonin' the general."

"Death by the fall, death by arrows, or you can climb up yourself." His captor's voice was as chilled as the air itself. No worry or malice for his fallen commander, no mirth from his apparent victory. For some reason, the dangerous calm was more frightening than actual anger. But then again, anything was preferable to that blood-thirsty monster that had nearly mauled him with his bare fangs.

Jump. Slyte shut his eyes, trying to dislodge his claws but they were frozen in place. Jump. It would be a quicker death. But his muscles would not obey him.

"We want you alive, creature," Fenris reminded him. "Now climb."

"But please!"

"Climb!" The intensity of the command shook the marten to the core. He willed himself to let go- to just simply fall away into the darkness. He would never have to wake up to torture. Never would he have to enter Greymorg again. Nyara could never command her slave to do her bidding. Only peace awaited him in the Dark Forest.

But he was a coward at heart. He could never do what it was that his mind willed him.

Slowly, painfully, the marten raised a shaky arm towards the windowsill and the wolf grabbed eagerly at it. So strong was his grip that the spy lost his foothold and Slyte found himself dangling helplessly by the arm. Regardless, Fenris reeled up his little prisoner with almost no effort.

"Here." With a simple flick of the wrist he unceremoniously tossed the marten into the guards' waiting paws. "Search him." Slyte didn't bother to struggle in this lost battle. The rough paws practically tore his cloak off with such force that he feared that his entire hide would rip off with it. They wasted no time emptying every pocket. Several pocketknives, a few pawned jewelry, a fork, and a pawful of vials. Nobeast needed to inspect Thanatos's uneaten food to know its contents.

"Now..." The captain rounded on him, narrowing his golden eyes. The pine marten felt an uncomfortable wetness spread over his breeches. "You come bearing the smell of the ocean. No doubt one of the Hell Cat's."

"Yessir." He nodded so fast that his vision blurred. "But I'm jis' her slave. I's only doin' what she tol' me to!"

"Your orders were to kill the general." It was a statement, not a question but Slyte answered anyways.

"Th' king too." He licked his lips nervously. "I-I c'n tell ya which poison I used fer the general." A stoat held the vials up to his nose.

"That would be wise," the wolf stated, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The wretched creature nodded again, pointing his snout at the smallest vial.

"That one. Ars'nic, it's called."

"What is the cure?" the wolf demanded.

"I d- I dunno," he whimpered. "I dunno if there even is 'un." The wolf looked away at that, turning his attention to a rat guard that stood to the side.

"Give this to Sigma. She might know of this thing." No matter how calm or civil his tone was, the wolf's speech always seemed a growl. Slyte looked away from the fearsome beast and onto the mess at the table. It seemed that the weasel had been carried away- in a coffin or a stretcher- for his own sake, the marten hoped it was the latter.

"He din't drink much o' it," he said quietly, hoping to curry favor. "Only drank a gulp o' wine."

"Then you had better pray he lives." The response was quiet and icy, but that fierce intensity had dimmed and it was apparent that the wolf had grown bored of his quarry. "Now take him to the dungeon. I will be down there shortly for further questioning."

Slyte had been to the dungeons before and he was not keen on setting paw in it again- especially as an actual prisoner. It was dark down there even with the rows of sconces that lit their path. Numerous as they were, those flames seemed dull and weak as if the darkness itself was devouring the warmth of the glow. And beyond their path was a curtain of shadows. However, the marten was used to the lack of lighting and his eyes quickly adjusted. His advantage became a disadvantage as he recognized the familiar shapes of shackles, axes, skeletons, and a plethora of blood-smeared torture devices. And by the way it stank like the seven hells, the spy was sure that he did not need his eyes to know the death and horrors that lay in the tenebrous gloom.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of keys echoed around them with each clumsy pawstep of the rat. Clink. Clink. Clink. Slyte was almost sure that the jailbeast was jerking his leg just to make the sound more obvious. Clink. Clink. Clink.

The marten slinked between the guards, his head tucked between his shoulders. In his acceptance of defeat, his adrenaline had run its course and the biting pain of his wounds burned whenever he so much as moved a finger. It was mostly his paws, elbows, and knees, though. At the very least, he had to be grateful that he did not break a bone after his quick brush with death. With a wince the captive recalled how he caught his fall over the windowsill of glass shards. He was almost sure that blood was still steadily flowing from that gash but with the way that his entire arm was growing numb, he couldn't tell.

"You're lucky, y'know that?" It took a moment before the captive realized that the comment was aimed at him.

"Lucky?" he repeated, staring at the destitute faces of prisoners that looked back at him, slaves and soldiers alike. No doubt these creatures had done something either stupid or treacherous to fall out of favor, most likely the former. Whatever punishment those creatures were to suffer, Slyte was sure that he would receive worse. "I'm 'bout t'be tortured t'death."

"Just lucky that you're even 'live," a stoat finished gruffly. "You stayed out on th' ledge long 'nuff for High-Captain Fenris to cool down his thirst for blood."

"So what 'appens now?" the captive gulped. He caught his four guards pass looks over their shoulders before a sudden stop. The ugly rat finally held up a ring of keys large enough to pass as a badger's bracelet.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. Slyte winced every time a key ran across the surface of the metal ring. Slowly, deliberately, the rat flipped through the options until he came to one in particular and unlocked the heavy prison door with a heavy click. The captive didn't even make so much as a sound when they shoved him into a cell, forcing him to sit against the grimy wall as they fastened the manacles around his wrists.

He waited in anxious silence as the mindless soldiers restrained him, leaving him well out of range of escape. Or so they thought. From the slack of the chains, Slyte could tell that he would not be able to reach either limb. But if he was able to just reach the walls even that would be enough... If worse came to worse, the marten was willing to offer his services to Greymorg. He was more useful than in holding secrets, after all. He was an avid climber, a master of stealth, and not to mention his other gift.

But he doubted that the forces of Greymorg would trust him at all. Not after he had nearly killed their commanding officer. More than likely they would simply gut him like a trout after they had their fill of Nyara's secrets and plans.

Their work done, the guards seemed eager to be out of the drafty, moldy atmosphere and headed out the door.

"G'night," one of them snickered. "Don't let the 'roaches bite." The marten didn't bother replying with a retort or even a glare. Instead he closed his eyes, trying to hone his attention to the jangling of keys. They were strong at first, but as the pawsteps of free beasts started to echo into the distance, so did that irritating, cheerful sound. Blast! They took it with 'em.

He breathed slowly, trying to fight back the despair welling up in his chest. While it was inconvenient that the keys were nowhere within reach, it was not crucial either. The marten squirmed backwards, keeping his back flattened upon the wall. Slowly, he pressed his right paw against the bricks, gritting his teeth as he applied pressure to the joint of his thumb.

Pop. The sudden sensation was just a twinge of pain but it left an uncomfortable feeling in his entire arm. With the slight modification, the contortionist was able to slip his paw through the manacle before placing his paw flat against the ground, applying the right pressure to snap his joint back in its proper place. He administered the same treatment for his left paw, biting his lip. The pain was nothing compared to dislocating his shoulder or knees, but it was a sickening sensation all the same. While it was something that had saved his life time and time again, to willingly engage in his own torture was something that Slyte had never truly gotten used to.

He dropped on all fours, searching for a nail or twig or bone or anything that could be of use. But whenever his paws came to something it was either moldy straw or something unsavory.

Without anything to pick the lock he would never be able to escape the cell alone. The spy groaned to himself and dislocated his thumbs again before slipping his limp paws back into the manacle. He let his wrists rest against the shackles as comfortably as they would allow. Sooner or later some unsuspecting beast would come to check on him or give him food. And in that time, they wouldn't know what hit them when their prisoner leaps for the door.

Wait, he told himself. Jis' wait.

"Thanatos!" Reun rushed to his bedside. His face was twisted in agony and his breathing slow and laborious. "M'lord." She knelt on her knees and clasped his paw in hers.

"He is between the world of the living and the Dark Forest, m'lady." She looked up at the healer as she laid a cloth over his feverish brow.

"Will he live?" Reun found her voice quivering with grief. Her mate and father of her cubs lay before her, more helpless than she dared to admit.

"He may and he may not," Sigma answered. "I have done all in my power. The rest is up to fate to decide." The she-weasel slammed a fist against the cushions.

"That's not good enough. Nowhere good enough. You stand by his side at all times and you make sure he survives. I don't care what rituals you do or what sorcery you use- just do it." She burdened the last two words with the heaviness of a command. Clutching at the bed, Reun battled the tears that welled up in her eyes. Should he pass there were few and far between that would protect the remnants of her family. She would be thrust back into the ranks of soldiers and her poor cubs would fall into the tender mercies of...

"Ragnar did this, didn't he?" She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

"The corsairs, m'lady," Sigma corrected. "High-Captain Fenris captured and questioned the assassin himself. He awaits further questioning in the dungeons." Reun nodded solemnly at that.

"You didn't foresee this happening."

"No, that I did not," admitted the vixen. "I fear that even my visions are limited in some manners."

"How convenient." Sigma bowed her head as Reun rose back to her full height. "Then use your vision to tell me if he lives or dies."

"Such a thing requires preparation, m'lady," the seer reminded her. "Such efforts should be for healing at such a turbulent time."

"Then get your useless apprentice to do the task." She jerked a chin at the hapless snow fox in the back room.

"He is not prepared yet, m'lady." The vixen's answer was hasty and nervous. Reun narrowed her eyes at them. Her mate had trusted them whole-heartedly. Some might even say fool-heartedly. It made her blood boil to see the way they treated his condition with such cool indifference. She looked back at him and pushed down that storm of emotions rising within her. So much hope, so many promises that he might never keep. He would not watch his armies conquer and flourish, nor would he see his daughter grow or his son wield a sword.

"Your visions told of Greymorg's victory. Was he not part of that prophecy?"

"I cannot say, m'lady." The vixen turned her back to mash herbs against a mortar. The she-weasel licked her lips and readied herself for another question.

"Is your allegiance with my Prince Thanatos or King Ragnar?"

The vixen stopped and turned to the weasel and dipped her head. "My allegiance is with Greymorg, m'lady. But you must remember that it was I who stood by Queen Narsca's bedside on the prince's day of birth. And yes, it was I who kept his illnesses at bay as a child and treated his wounds in his younger seasons." She cast a glance that seemed, for a moment, soft; but the expression was short-lived as a mask of apathy quickly took its place.

"There is nothing for Greymorg to gain with the loss of our great general," Sigma finished. Reun stood there for a moment, contemplating her next move. Though Sigma's words soothed her spirit, her intuition whispered treachery on Ragnar's part. But to face the Demon King alone would do little to comfort her. She spun at her heel, gripping her sword as she exited the door.

"M'lady?"

"If there's any news about my lord I'll be in the dungeons," she said curtly. There was yet one other beast that she could consult.

Down, down, down, the spiral steps led. Reun held the lamp in one paw while the other traced the stone walls. Further still, she descended and she felt as if she was going straight to Hell's pits itself. Either that, or the Basilisk's domain. She swallowed at the very notion of that.

She had never seen the beast, but if Thanatos hardly liked to talk about it then it had to be something too vile for words. Such a thing could only be expected of Ragnar's creature. The weasel pushed the thought away and continued on until she reached the long hall of sconces and cells. Something moved in the corner of her eye and her paw shot down to her sword hilt.

"Halt! Who goes there?" She sighed at the familiar phrase.

"Lady Reun, mate of General Thanatos." She was sure to speak with a high note of confidence as she drew herself higher. The weasel and rat guards gave a snappish salute at her introduction. "I am here to see the prisoner." The weasel guard was the first to speak.

"M'lady, would'ya need an escort?"

"Yes," she replied coldly. It had to be the fifth time a beast had offered her assistance at this simple task and she had refused them all; however, she needed somebeast to show her to the cell. "Take me to him."

"Yes, m'lady." The weasel left his post, eager to break out of the boredom of his duty. The beggared faces of the prisoners were easy to ignore, but the lack of lighting left her with an anxiety that pinched at her throat. More than anything she hoped that this beast was suffering greatly for what Thanatos had to endure.

"This 'un is it." The key twisted into the lock and gave a rusty shudder. Inside was an unusual, skinny beast in rags. Its bloodied arms were raised and stretched in opposite directions and the creature sank back as far as the shackles would allow. Typical of a cowardly weakling to use poison as a weapon.

"Leave us." The weasel paused at the door before she shot him a glare that sent him off with a curt "Yes, m'lady." The door closed behind them and she approached the prisoner. With each and every step she felt her fury triple in size.

"You wretched cur." A quick kick across the face knocked its head against the stone. A swift backpaw followed after that and its chains jerked at the impact. "You deserve that and more for what you did to my mate." The creature was still conscious and drooped its head to let blood spill out of his muzzle. Slowing her breathing, Reun placed the lamp on the ground and knelt down to his level, hooking her claws over the skin of his snout.

"Now you tell me what creature you are and who sent you." Its eyes had a bleary, dazed look to them and he shifted his lips as though he meant to talk. She released him, drawing herself back to her full height as she stood over the pitiful beast.

"Pine marten." Though his speech was slurred and sluggish, she could tell it was a male from the pitch of his voice. "Sent by Cap'n Nyara."

"To assassinate Thanatos," she finished. She had heard of such beasts before, but they were a rare thing to encounter- particularly in the icy north. "Tell me the cure for the poison."

"I- I don't know," he said piteously. "I jis' do as I'm ordered and I'm no healer." She slammed a heel into his tail and he screamed in pain. A delicious sound.

"You are going to feel a lot more than that if you don't answer carefully. What are the Hell Cat's next plans?"

"I dunno," he insisted. "I'm jis' a slave." The answer infuriated her even more and she dealt him another harsh backpaw. Thanatos killed by a mere slave. Disgusting.

"Even the lowest slave knows something."

"Then what'ja wanna know?" His chest heaved as he struggled weakly with the shackles.

"I want to know her exact numbers and her future plans," she replied sharply. And then a thought dawned on her. "If you don't answer, I'm sure that the Basilisk would enjoy crunching at your skinny little bones."

"The B-Basilisk?" His ears twitched with interest and he licked his lips nervously. Perhaps if Nyara did not know of that abomination within their keep then they still had the upper paw. The weasel smiled to herself. At least Thanatos would know this if he wakes up... when he wakes up.

"You should see him," she said, relishing the blanching look on his face. Perhaps he had heard rumors, but the shock on his face verified his ignorance. "A spy should see its enemy's greatest weapon, after all." Reun turned to the door to call the guards when she heard a weak clatter of chains. She glimpsed movement from the corner of her vision and her eyes went wide as the assassin smashed the lamp. Darkness seized the cell and she instinctively sheathed her sword, stumbling back until her back hit the door. She would die before she let him escape.

"Guards!" she called. "Guards!" She narrowed her eyes against the pitch black nothingness. All of her training was of little use to her now. Something stirred in the darkness and she swung her blade in a wide arc. There was a cry of pain as the tip of the sharp steel met resistance. But he was still alive. A firm grip clamped over her sword arm and she made a move to wrench it free.

"M'lady?" The useless soldiers were approaching. Something struck her throat and the back of her head slammed at the back of her head. Stars and lightning exploded in her vision and she thought to drive a punch into the creature. She roared with anger but a snaggled rasp leaped out of her throat instead. Pain seared in her neck and blood slicked her palms as her paw grazed over the lamp's shard of glass embedded in her throat.

She inhaled and found bubbles of liquid instead of air. The weasel choked, stumbling into a confused bundle and grappling on the ground as the syrupy liquid pooled onto the floor.

She couldn't breathe. She wouldn't live.

A rectangle of dampened light traveled over the walls as the door opened.

She could only helplessly watch as the assassin slipped away into the darkness leaving the fortress with one less weasel.

This chapter was a pretty fun one to write. Next chapter deals with Brink, Keetch, and Sarrow as well as some Jolin. :)

By the way, I've been thinking about rewriting the story. I chanced a glance back at my humble beginnings and I shudder at the glaring flaws. I also noticed that I tried too hard to incorporate a bunch of backstories for practically everyone when I should have focused on 10 characters at most. It's a stupid rookie mistake. Well, that would have to wait until I finish this thing! :D

Thank you for reading and please review. Any comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. :D

~Jade TeaLeaf