Author's Notes: Before I get into anything else, there's just a few things I want to make clear here. For those of you who've followed my Lilo&Stitch and Digimon fics, only to find me in a more than a year long hiatus, this time I actually have a legitimate excuse. I can't continue my other fics! A year ago, my old hard drive broke down, which carried more than a hundred pages worth of notes for the fics I worked on then. I've been continuously broke for as long as I can remember, and so I can't afford to have the old hard drive recovered! Until I can, there's going to be no more Lilo&Stich or Digimon fics from me. In the meantime, I got into Redwall, and began writing a new fanfiction called Hazard, presented here.

Special Thanks: User Jade TeaLeaf was indispensable as a beta-reader for this fanfiction. Although I couldn't quite implement all of her suggestions, without her guidance this chapter wouldn't have been nearly as good-however good it is-.

Hazard

A Redwall Fanfiction

Written by

Dave Nevius a.k.a. WatsonSword

Disclaimer:

I hold no claim of ownership of Redwall or any related characters. I hold no claim to any form of monetary profit for this or any other Redwall related story I would write. This fanfiction is strictly to be provided to the general public unconditionally and for free.

Forward:

Fate has dealt these Redwallers an easy paw. For far too long they've gotten away with fighting halfwits and braggarts. They don't know what adversity really is. It's time someone taught them the true meaning of the phrase 'abject terror'. It's time someone taught them... of Red Hazard.

Rain beat down on Mossflower, flattening the grass and soaking the trails to mud. It was mid evening, so some light still shone through the blanket of clouds, staining the land an odd blue. A beast even odder than the ambiance ran through the forest, or at least tried to. He hopped forward through the waist-high grass on his right leg, dragging his left behind him, as its kneecap bled. He held a paw to his temple, as it too bled. He did not know where he was going, only that he had to keep running away, but away from what?

Red Hazard!

But what was Red Hazard? The odd beast knew only that it was something of horrific danger, and mind-boggling power, something he needed to run from. He cried beneath his wheezes, desperately trying to remember just what it was he was running from and why. No use. His delirium deepened until he no longer knew why he ran, and the words 'Red Hazard' became meaningless. By tomorrow's light, they would be forgotten entirely.

A single yurt of sap-treated linen, large enough to comfortably bed a platoon, stood in a small clearing in the woods. Oaks surrounded the clearing, and shrubs climbed nearly to the yurt's conical roof, which was lined messily with leaf-on oak sticks. That clearing was chosen specifically for its surrounding of tall shrubs and oaks whose branches would sprawl in all directions and obscure the yurt. Some other time the giant cylindrical tent might be visible, but in this rain it couldn't be seen even from a hundred paces. It was blind luck that the odd beast happened to run into it, though he may have been unlucky to run into this yurt as opposed to some other.

The odd beast was in a daze from blood loss. He showed neither hesitation nor curiosity upon seeing the yurt suddenly in front of him. His state of mind—and body—did not allow him such luxuries. He hobbled forward, wincing, shivering, coughing, wheezing, toward the shelter until he spotted the rounded-top doorway of sap bound reed, and the flap of linen covering the doorway, tied by twine to an adjacent bronze hook. The beast sniveled as he fumbled his free paw through the knot, trying desperately to untie it before realizing he could slide the knot, as is, off the hook. The flap of linen fell to the side, opening the doorway into total darkness. The beast, his knee still bleeding, hopped into the yurt. He sounded a cross between a huff and a squeak as he fell onto his haunches.

"Help me!" the odd beast cried.

His voice was bizarre. His accent was devoid of any form of style, or at least according to most beasts in Mossflower it was. But this made his words easier to understand through the sobs.

"What was that?" a voice shouted. More followed.

"Light the lamps!"

"Grab the weapons!"

"Tackle the intruder!"

Something slammed into the odd beast's chest; it knocked him over and knocked the wind out of him. Dozens of tiny paws grasped hold of his neck, arms, legs, and tail, all digging needle-like claws into his flesh that stopped just short of drawing blood. He felt the weight of three diminutive beasts on his chest and belly. He groaned in pain, wriggled his body, and pulled his arms and legs against the paws. Normally, even the lot of them would not be strong enough to hold him down, but he'd lost so much blood that he had not the strength to put up more than a paltry struggle. Another set of paws grabbed his bleeding knee.

"Somebody get the bloody ropes!"

"Somebody light the bloody lamps!"

"Somebody check out this bloody leg!"

"What?"

"His leg's bleeding!"

"How bad?

"Really bad!"

"His head's bleeding too!"

The tiny paws pulled the odd beast's legs together, and his arms up past his head. He felt some sort of scratchy twine binding his wrists and ankles. Soon as he felt himself being bound, the beast stopped struggling and began to sob, not because he lost the last of his strength, but because something deep within him, something he could not understand, urged him to surrender. The pace quickened, and soon he could hear paws tying the ends of the twine into knots. The odd beast submitted to the treatment. He heaved, sighed, and went limp. He was now their captive, whoever they were.

The captive beast flicked an ear as he heard the scraping of flint and steel. A soft orange glow illuminated the inside of the yurt as several of the tiny beasts held up square lanterns. The captive finally saw his captors, and they him. He was a mustelid with many weasely features, though his stature far exceeded any weasel's. Though not quite as tall as an otter, for his height he was much stouter than one. He was almost uniformly dark chocolate, and his only marking was a tiny patch of cream colored fur on the underside of his muzzle. They, on the other paw, were beasts only a quarter his size, with charcoal gray fur, bronze bellies, and stretched snouts that hung down. They wore plain tunics, aprons, and baggy trousers, and most wore bandannas of different colors. They were shrews, though the odd mustelid did not recognize them.

The three shrews on the mustelid's chest all drew swords from their belt-sheathes and held them to his throat, thin swords shorter than rapiers but longer than main gauches. The mustelid's breath fluttered. He couldn't speak. He closed his eyes and swallowed. He did not want to see—whatever was happening.

"Who are you?" one shrew shouted.

"What are you doing barging into our home?" another growled.

The mustelid felt the tips of the swords press harder against his throat. He titled his head back, exposing his neck, almost as if offering his life to the shrews. He did not wonder why he did that. The behavior just seemed natural to him.

The shrews stopped shouting at the mustelid and began chattering amongst each other.

"What's that smell?"

"It's just like smoked lavender."

"Is he wearing perfume?"

"What kind of beast is he?"

"He looks like a half-breed."

"Yeah! A barren, perfume wearing half-breed!"

"But what kind?"

"He looks like a half-otter, half-weasel to me."

A hush descended on the shrews. Murmurs sounded through them shortly after, with several mentions of 'half-weasel' and 'vermin'. For reasons greater than his confusion, those words were meaningless to the odd mustelid. The shrews continued their bickering, now with a trace of fear in their voices.

"Well, what do we do with him?"

"If he's half vermin, there's no telling what he'll do."

"He marched into our territory and invaded our home! He's gotta' be up to no good. I say we kill him!"

"He called for help, and he's bleeding bad. I don't think he meant no offense."

"Let's help him!"

"I ain't helping no half-vermin who woke me up right after I just fell asleep."

"Yeah! I agree with Jemmy. Let's kill him!"

"If we help him, maybe we'll get a reward."

"A reward of what? He ain't got anything!"

"Let's just kill him and go back to sleep!"

"No, let's help him!"

"Log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-log-a-looog!"

At once, the shouting stopped. The mustelid could then hear only the heavy breathing of the shrews. The three on his chest still pressed the tips of their swords into his throat, but in spite of this he dared to open one eye, and then the other. He saw a shrew standing above him, taller and stouter than the others. A round, polished black onyx at the end of a flax pendant dangled from his neck. The shrew pulled his short rapier from its wooden belt-sheath and held its tip to the mustelid's nose.

"I am Log-a-Log Garber," the shrew said. "Why've you scampered into our home?"

"I-I-I don't know!" the mustelid cried. "I was just running away and it-it was here and-and I just wanted someone to help me."

A shrew maiden in a dull red apron and white bandanna approached the mustelid with her paws on her hips. She licked her fore and middle fingers and ran them across the wound on the mustelid's knee. He gasped, winced, and squeezed his eyes shut in pain before she wiped her bloody fingers on her apron.

"That feels like a sword wound," she said.

Log-a-Log Garber nodded, stood up straight, and sheathed his sword. He turned to the other shrews and raised both paws. "Someone attacked this beast. Half vermin or not, he didn't come here wanting to be a threat, thief, or troublemaker. He just came here to get our help. But he is an intruder, and we can't know if he's treacherous or not. So I call the Guosim to meeting. That means no one can talk unless they have this!" Log-a-Log Garber took the onyx stone in his paw and pulled its pendant from his neck, snapping the simple knot at its rear. He turned back to the mustelid and waved his free paw. "Get off him," Log-a-Log Garber commanded.

The three shrews on the mustelid's chest stood up, sheathed their swords, and stood aside grumbling.

Log-a-Log Garber held the onyx above the mustelid's chest. "Is everything I said about you true?" he asked. He then dropped the onyx onto the mustelid.

"Yes!" the mustelid cried. "It's all true! I don't want to hurt anyone, steal anything, or cause any trouble! I just want someone to help me."

Log-a-Log Garber nodded, reached down, and swiped the onyx from the mustelid's chest. He stuffed the broken pendant into his trouser pocket and turned back toward the other shrews. "Then let's have a vote on the issue. All for killing the intruder?"

A great many shrews raised paws into the air and shouted their approval with a hardly synchronized, "Hoy!"

"All against?" Log-a-Log Garber shouted.

A great many more shrews raised paws into the air and shouted their condemnations with a hardly synchronized, "Nay!"

Log-a-Log Garber paused and blinked. For a short time he stood staring indecisive at the other shrews. Curiosity briefly seized the mustelid. He opened his eyes and looked up slightly, for the first time seeing the number of shrews occupying the yurt. There had to have been well over a hundred, many clutching their short rapiers. Others clutched bronze daggers or wooden clubs or quarterstaves, but more than half were simply startled and unarmed. There was no way Log-a-Log Garber could have tallied the votes of so many at once.

Log-a-Log Garber shook his head. "Never mind. How about this? All who want to help the beast on the left side, and all who want to kill him to the right."

With that there was a mad scrambling of shrews in all directions. Chattering of muzzles and pattering of footpaws soon blended into white noise. All shrews were sure they knew where they were going, but few actually got anywhere. It was inevitable. They began to quarrel over their destinations.

"Kill him!"

"What do you mean 'kill him'? You're on the left!"

"No, you're on the right!"

"The other left!"

"Whose other left?"

"I'm on the right!"

"No you're not. You're on the south end!"

"That's my right!"

"Left is west, right is east!"

"East is backwards!"

"According to who?"

"From the way we've got the yurt set up—"

"Shut the hell up right now!"

Again, the shouting stopped at once, and all shrews turned their gazes toward their Log-a-Log. They had pointed in all directions, and some were in the midst of struggles against other shrews, either bare pawed or with quarterstaves, and two had even puled their swords on each other. They froze in mid scramble and mid struggle. The picture nearly made Log-a-Log Garber laugh out loud, but he contained himself.

Log-a-Log Garber pointed to his own left. "All who want to help the beast, go over there," he shouted. He then pointed to his own right. "And all who want to kill him, go over there!"

The shrews stood still a few more seconds before numerous quieter conversations began and they relaxed. A short time later, the shrews started into a tad more orderly a shuffle toward opposite ends of the yurt, though the occasional mumble of accusation still sounded from a few of them. Log-a-Log Garber dropped his head into his paw and sighed. When he looked back up, his shrews had grouped together as he'd asked. Roughly a third of the shrews had bunched to the Log-a-Log's right, while the rest gathered to his left.

"Right then, we help him," Log-a-Log Garber commanded. "Cut the beast's binds. Dress those wounds. And somebody get him something to eat."

The shrews were on the move again, now in a far more orderly fashion than their previous efforts. A shrew approached the mustelid, drew a bronze dagger, and cut his binds. His limbs now free, he bent his knees up, brought his hands down to rub his raw wrists, but oddly made no attempt to stand. One shrew rummaged through a dusty old burlap bag, pulling out unwashed gray and green scarves while another unstrapped the leather buckles of a small reed chest to retrieve a terracotta pot full of grog, with a wax-fastened lid, from inside it. The two shrews approached and sat down by the mustelid. One used a dagger to unfasten the lid of the pot while the other haphazardly dunked balled up scarves into it, splashing grog onto the ground. The mustelid winced and squealed as the shrews wrapped the grog-soaked scarves tightly around his knee and head. A last shrew retrieved a large, ovoid object wrapped in gray linen from a reed hamper. She trotted to the mustelid and dangled the object by a corner of the linen, allowing it to unwrap itself and for the honey and pine-nut cake inside to fall out. The mustelid yelped in surprise as the cake struck his belly, but with nods of encouragement from the shrewmaid who brought it, he began eating.

The shrews were generally, and unusually, quiet as the mustelid ate. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as he gingerly held the shrew cake in both paws. His bleeding began to subside, but his wounds still ground into his mind. His vision was blurred and warped, and his ears heard sound as if he were underwater. His delirium was so great that he didn't have the sense to wonder why he was in such a state, and for the moment accepted it as normal. How did he come to be in this dwelling, surrounded by these stunted beasts? All he could remember was running in fear, but he couldn't remember why.

The mustelid ate the last bite of cake, larger than any other, and barely chewed before trying to swallow. The cake lodged itself in his throat and pained his chest. He gagged aloud until a shrew shoved the spout of a waterskin to his lips and poured a diluted ale into his muzzle. He swallowed eagerly and cleared the obstruction in his throat. He gasped as the shrew removed the spout.

Log-a-Log Garber sat cross-legged next to two other shrews, including the maid who felt the mustelid's wound. They conversed.

"He needs more help than we can give him," Log-a-Log Garber said.

The shrewmaid nodded. "Maybe we should point him toward Redwall."

The third shrew shook his head. "In the state he's in? He'll get lost in the rain and freeze to death. He needs a guide."

Log-a-Log Garber and the shrewmaid both smirked at the third shrew, who sighed and slumped his shoulders, regretting what he just said. "But as I'm the one who suggested it, I suppose it must be me."

The shrew stood up and turned toward the mustelid, who stared unfocused and blank-minded into space. He wrapped a paw around the intruder's arm and pulled at it, prompting the mustelid to stand.

"Come on," the shrew said. "There's a sandstone fortress not too far from here. I'll take you to it. They'll see you to health."

The mustelid nodded. He hobbled out of the yurt by the shrew's guiding paw, not noticing that the rain had worsened, nor that darkness was approaching, nor than he couldn't remember where the shrew said it was taking him. The shrew led him downhill to a riverbank lined with bulrush and fallen poplar, which they followed southward, upstream. The mustelid couldn't tell where he was, where he was being pulled to, or why. But he didn't resist. Again, something urged him to surrender to whatever guided him.

Plodding through the muddy riverbank, the squashing made by his feet, and the rushing and whooshing of the river and rain, all made the mustelid imagine he was walking through jam. He laughed at the thought. He soon convinced himself he was walking through jam. He reached down to scoop up a finger of bank-mud, and swallowed it, too delirious to realize it tasted nothing like what he imagined it was. The shrew pulling him along looked forward, not noticing the event.

More than an hour passed. The rain became a deluge, drenching the mustelid and slipping the scarf off of his leg, which his shrew guide had to tie back on. His knee began to bleed once more, and this time the swath could not stop it. The poor creature was so cold and drained of blood he could not feel his legs or tail. In his state he merely assumed he had none, and imagined himself sliding along the ground like a snail.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, showing the shrew that he'd come out of the forest and into the grassland. He looked up in time to see the flash outline the familiar stone buildings and towers surrounded by a wall two stories high. He pulled the mustelid up the riverbank and across the field toward the abbey.

The rain sounded like the rattling of stones against the windows of Redwall Abbey's gatehouse. The inside was a cozy delight. Old stone floors, stacks of dusty old books long overdue for re-shelving—as they always were—, and a haggard old trestle table by the roaring fireplace cluttered with day old bread loaves, cheese slices, and half-drunk tankards of ale all coalesced with the sound of rain beating against the stained glass windows to form something so homey, but that neither of its residents could quite put their paws on.

The two middle-aged mice in their green habits propped their footpaws up on a round table and leaned their chairs back onto their rear legs. Recorder Zane, the mouse in square glasses, twitched his nose and rearranged the cards in his paws over and over again, a tell-tale sign he could neither control nor fathom that he'd been dealt a bad paw. Chuck, the mouse in round glasses, smirked and licked the front of his teeth.

"Let's make this the last deal, and the only one that counts too," Chuck said. "All other bets are washed up. Only this one's still good."

Recorder Zane looked up from his cards and began rearranging them a bit faster. Chuck squinted, grinned as wide as possible, and twitched the end of his tail, trying to make himself look as absurdly confident as possible. Zane may have been a genius at books, but he was a dunce among dunces when it came to reading people—and he didn't even know it.

The nervous mouse twitched his nose and cocked his head, staring deep into Chuck's eyes. He had to be bluffing! No beast at the card table could be that pleased with himself. No, he didn't have anything.

"What'cha have in mind?" Recorder Zane asked.

"How about this year's rations of October Ale, aye?" Chuck answered.

Recorder Zane twitched his nose more and rearranged his cards even faster. Now he knew Chuck was bluffing! A year's ration of October Ale? No beast in his right mind would ever make such a lavish bet in all seriousness, no matter how good their paw was. Zane didn't have much, but it was better than the nothing he was sure Chuck had. He looked down at his cards and back up at Chuck, who faked suppressing a fake chuckle. Yes, no one acted this absurd if they actually had a good paw.

"How about it then?" Recorder Zane asked. "What'cha got?"

His adversary grinned even wider and tossed his cards onto the table. Recorder Zane's eyes widened and his ears drooped. Chuck's paw was over twice the value of his own. He grit his teeth, crushed his cards in his paw, and threw them into the air behind him. He'd never beaten Chuck at Highest Paw before; he was a fool for thinking he could do so this time.

Chuck laughed aloud. "I'll be getting pissed every night passed Tap's Morn this year!"

Something struck the gatehouse door. The wham startled both mice, making them fall over in their tipped back chairs. They both soon righted themselves and stood up, staring at the door and adjusting their glasses.

"What was that?" Recorder Zane asked.

"One way to find out," Chuck answered.

Chuck trotted to the door, slid open the iron bolt latch, and pushed the gate open. Chuck and Recorder Zane both gasped as they saw a tall, stout beast amble and sway into the gatehouse, and collapse onto his chest. The stranger's eyes rolled back into his skull, and his dried tongue stuck out the side of his muzzle. He was drenched and covered in mud, and his knee bled onto the gatehouse floor.

A shrew ran into the gatehouse shortly after and stomped his footpaws to shake the water lose from his fur. He struggled to pull the gate closed and then fell onto his haunches, heaving, with his back against it. The mice were too shocked to do anything but stare wide eyed and jaws agape.

"He needs Redwall's medical care," the shrew huffed. "He's lost so much blood he's completely daft."

"What is he?" Chuck asked.

The shrew shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. He looks like some sort of half-breed."

Recorder Zane turned to Chuck. "Go get Brother Bartley immediately. Tell him to prepare a gavage bag full of strawberry cordial, uh... the old stuff that's gone flat. He can't take anything fizzy in his condition. And salt too!"

"Aye!" Chuck answered.

Chuck ran to the opposite door, grabbed a felt hat from the nearby coat rack, and ran out into the abbey grounds with one paw on his head to keep the hat on.

The large wooden door to the infirmary rattled at first, and then slowly creaked open. A mouse pushed it open with his rear while holding the end of the oaken dowels of the jute stretcher that held the mustelid. It took two mice, two squirrels, a vole, and a hedgehog to haul the wounded beast all the way from the gatehouse to the infirmary. Their footpaws puttered over the dusty ash-wood floor while they carried the stretcher to a wrought iron and jute cot and laid him down. Even with the six beasts carrying the mustelid, they sat on their haunches and heaved in fatigue after setting him down on the cot.

"Clear out!" a voice shouted.

The tired beasts groaned and stood up, some rubbing their backs, and shuffled one by one out of the infirmary. A tall hedgehog with a stern square face and the white habit of medicine entered the infirmary's sickbay from the saloon door to his office, followed by his nurse, a gray bank vole in a similar white habit. The nurse carried in both arms a hefty waterskin with a spout longer than the bag itself.

"Give me the gavage bag," the hedgehog ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," the vole squeaked and lifted the long spouted waterskin up above his head

Brother Bartley grabbed the spout of the gavage bag and took in with one paw. "D'you have the salt Abe?"

"Yes Brother Bartley," the vole squeaked, and produced a small linen pouch full of salt from his habit pocket.

The healer swiped the pouch from nurse Abe's hand and pulled the string that tied the bag loose with his teeth, spilling some salt on the floor in the process. He fit the opening of the pouch into the gavage bag spout and poured the salt into the flattened strawberry cordial within.

"Hold his muzzle open," Brother Bartley ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," nurse Abe squeaked, and pried open the unconscious mustelid's jaw.

The hedgehog roughly shoved the long spout down the mustelid's throat and then upended it, pouring the salted, flat cordial straight into his patient's stomach until the gavage bag was empty, and then pulled it out. The mustelid gurgled a little of the salted cordial back up, but that was no concern to Brother Bartley.

"Get my dressings and medicine containers, and a cauldron of soapy water with a comb," Brother Bartley ordered.

"Yes Brother Bartley," nurse Abe squeaked, and ran off toward the infirmary pantry.

The main door to the infirmary opened again, this time more slowly. Abbess Audra entered. She was a stout little mouse, on occasion mistaken for a vole. Her arms were crossed and her paws hidden in the sleeves of her black habit. She wore thick glasses, and her muzzle had turned white with age. But she still walked smooth and erect like a youth. Her face was even sterner than Brother Bartley's.

"What kind of beast is this?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley glanced at the abbess before looking back down and wrapping a paw around the mustelid's throat to feel his temperature and pulse. "A shrew brought him here, said he was a half-breed. Prob'ly of otter and weasel—that's what he said."

"How could such a union have come about?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not sure, and I'd rather not speculate."

The door to the infirmary pantry opened. Nurse Abe dragged a tiny wagon behind him, filled with wide rolls of linen bandages, bottles of various potions, mason jars filled with pastes and herbs of many colors, and the cauldron Bartley asked for. He brought more that wasn't asked for, but knew were needed: several ladles, a wooden bowel, and a large copper flask filled with whiskey distilled from the leftovers of last year's October Ale.

"Thank you Abe," Brother Bartley said.

Brother Bartley and Nurse Abe went back to work as Abbess Audra watched. Abe ladled hot soapy water onto the mustelid's legs while Bartley combed it away, washing the mud from his fur. They continued up the mustelid's belly, chest, neck, and finally finished washing the last bits of mud from the underside of the beast's muzzle. Bartley then took a jar of grainy black powder and dumped it into the wooden bowel where he poured the flask of whiskey into it and stirred the concoction by paw into a paste. Abe removed the makeshift bandages from the mustelid's leg and head, and the wounds began to bleed again. Bartley slathered the new paste over both of the mustelid's wounds, who cringed and grit his teeth in pain as he slept. Abe began to re-bandage the wounds with the abbey's clean linen.

"My god, who dressed those wounds last?" Brother Bartley asked no one in particular. "He had no idea what he was doing."

Nurse Abe finished redressing the mustelid's head-wound and began dressing the leg-wound. After a time, he fished that as well. "It's getting late Brother Bartley. May I check out?" nurse Abe asked.

Brother Bartley nodded. "Go right ahead."

Nurse Abe bowed slightly and trotted to the main infirmary door, where his little body had some trouble pushing it open. The door slid shut behind the nurse, creaking the whole way.

"What's that stuff you put on 'im?"

"Whiskey and tea grounds," Brother Bartley answered. "The tea grounds stop the bleeding while the whiskey prevents putrefying. Hmm?"

Brother Bartley blinked. That voice wasn't Abbess Audra's. He looked up to see a familiar, defiant young river otter maiden in her sleeveless gray tunic. She sat on another small stool across the cot and stared quizzically down at the odd mustelid. Sure enough, the bookshelf behind her had been pushed forward, revealing the cobblestone lined tunnel behind it that she crawled through to reach the sickbay.

"Wiomi!" Abbess Audra shouted. "What did I tell you about wandering willy nilly through the old tunnels?"

The ottermaid bared a fang on one side of her muzzle in a dismissive gesture. Beyond that, she ignored the abbess. She addressed Brother Bartley again. "What is he? Do you need any help?"

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. Unlike Abbess Audra, he was unconcerned with strict obedience to rules and regulations. So long as they weren't getting in the way of his work, breaking anything, or making a general nuisance, Bartley didn't care who else was around. Wiomi knew this, and her second question was more to win his favor against Audra rather than of any actual desire to help.

"No Wiomi!" Abbess Audra shouted again. "You will go back to your dorm room right away. And you'll use the halls, not the tunnels."

"Actually, if you could keep watch over him as I get to my paperwork, that'd be dandy," Brother Bartley said.

Wiomi briefly looked up at Abbess Audra and grinned before returning her attention to the odd mustelid. Audra sighed and slumped her shoulders forward. Her control of the situation was lost. The infirmary keeper was the only Redwaller the abbess had no authority to command. Wiomi was only at the middle of adolescence, but already she knew exactly how to gain the approval of almost every major abbey leader from the infirmary keeper to the recorder to the cellarhog to the tower watchbeast. She was one of the few beasts at Redwall who was even more of a headache as a stripling than she was as a Dibbun. But Audra could still stay until she was satisfied with the circumstances, and she wasn't going to give up that last bit of power for anything.

"As for... our guest, I don't know what he is," Brother Bartley said. "The beast who brought him here thought he was a half-breed of weasel and otter, but I don't know."

"In other words, he could be dangerous," Abbess Audra said. "So I'll not allow you to be alone with him until more is learned of his nature."

Wiomi nodded, but didn't look up at Abbess Audra. Instead she blinked and cocked her head at the odd mustelid. The jute cot dripped soapy water onto the floor long after it should have stopped. Only the parts where the beast's body lay dripped. Add two and two, Wiomi thought. She ran her paw through the fur of the mustelid's neck and confirmed it: he was drenched in soapy water. More than that though, even wet the mustelid's fur was softer than the softest silk. What would it feel like when it was dry? Wiomi had difficulty removing her paw from that fur. She looked up at Brother Bartley.

Wiomi spoke aloud. "I don't think he's a half-breed."

Bartley turned back to the cot, nearly toppling over the jumble of scrolls and inkwells cluttering his roll-top desk. "What do you mean?"

"He's soaked to the bone in soapy water," Wiomi said. "He can't be half otter 'cause otter fur dries on its own. And he can't be half weasel 'cause weasel fur's s'pose to be all rough and scratchy. But this beast's got the softest fur I ever felt in me life."

Brother Bartley stood up from his desk chair and sat back down on the little stool next to the cot. He eyed the mustelid with a combination of curiosity and frustration. He ran a paw through the fur on the beast's arm, a paw that came back dripping soapy water. He dried his paw on his habit and then ran two fingers down either side of the beast's muzzle. He tugged at the his ear, and pulled up his lips exposing his teeth. He took the mustelid's paw in his own and pulled its fingers apart. Bartley stood up and looked to Abbes Audra.

"She's right," Brother Bartley said. "And his fur isn't the only thing. The shapes of his ears, muzzle, teeth and paws... I'm none good familiar with any of them."

"Meaning?" Abbess Audra asked.

"Meaning, I can't imagine any kind of half-breed that'd have his features," Brother Bartley answered. "I have to agree with Wiomi on this one. I don't think he's a half-breed at all."

"What is he then?" Abbess Audra asked.

Brother Bartley shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. All I know for sure is, whatever beast he is, I don't think there's any in Mossflower who's ever seen one before."

As Brother Bartley and Abbess Audra conversed, Wiomi rested her muzzle in her damp paw and breathed deep. A curious scent hit the ottermaid's nostrils and made her squint. It came from her paw! She held it close her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled. It was a wonderful smell, like lavender, maple oil, and liquid smoke. It must have come from the odd mustelid. She knelt over and smelled his neck. Up close, the scent was strong enough to make the fur on the back of Wiomi's neck stand on end. Words distracted Wiomi. She looked back up.

"Then we know nothing of him, nothing at all," Abbess Audra told Brother Bartley. "Dry him. In the meantime I'll call a guard to watch the beast until we can conduct a proper interview with him." Audra turned toward Wiomi. "And I would like you to return to your dorm."

"Well, there's no else here." Wiomi said. "I can dry him off no problem aye. No sense makin' the healer do it all his-self."

"I'd appreciate it," Brother Bartley said.

Abbess Audra sighed and closed her eyes. Second attempt and she still couldn't control the stubborn child. But there was one way to regain that control. "Fine then! I expect the beast to be dry as bone by morning, and I'm still calling the guard to watch him. And by the way Wiomi, this is the last time I tolerate you jaunting through the old tunnels. That means you're on report."

That got Wiomi's attention. She threw her head up, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Report?" she shouted.

"That's right," Abbess Audra replied. "You probably won't get much more than a stern talking to this time. But next time I catch you in those tunnels, it will be much worse."

Before Wiomi could respond, Abbess Audra was out the door, which creaked shut behind her. Wiomi sat still, mouth open and paw raised as she was about to talk back to Audra, but it was too late now. Wiomi crossed her arms and grumbled. "I can't believe I'm gettin' on report just fer crawlin' through the tunnels."

"I suggest you do a real good job drying off our guest," Brother Bartley said. "If you don't, you might get more than just a stern talking to."

Wiomi stood up, stretched backwards, and yawned. She walked to a cupboard across from the roll-top desk and retrieved an armful of undyed wool towels. She brought them back to the cot and dropped them onto the floor. As she began to dry the unconscious beast, she stared off into space and unfocused her eyes. Her mind began to wander. Abbess Audra thought Wiomi could always get her own way, but she was wrong. Wiomi was smart enough to realize when she could or couldn't get her way. When she couldn't, she wouldn't even try. It was a long shot to think she could do so now, and report or no, she was amazed she'd been allowed to stay. Though she was willing to help in any way asked, that was not her intent. She'd come out of mere curiosity, but now wanted to stay because she wanted more of that amazing smell that wafted from the mysterious mustelid.

The main infirmary door opened and creaked shut. A yellow-necked mouse walking with a quarterstaff tipped with iron bands entered the sickbay and sat down in a wooden rocking chair next to the door. He would eventually fall asleep in that chair. Brother Bartley still sat at the roll-top desk and worked by candlelight, drawing an anatomical representation of the odd mustelid and highlighting his wounds. After an hour or so, Wiomi finished drying the odd mustelid and folded the towels into a pile on the cot. She folded her arms on the towels an lay her head in them. That wonderful smell permeated the towels. With that, and the sound of the pouring rain outside, Wiomi soon fell asleep.