2

Out on the flatlands to the far north of Mossflower, thunder rolled across an ashen night sky, rumbling ominously at the edge of the horizon like the pawsteps of an approaching army. The normally bright full moon was only a dull brown circle glowing weakly through a smoky blanket of clouds. Crouched on the edge of a rocky outcropping, a lean and muscular fox stared out from beneath a dark cloak, watching the settlement a few bowshots away as it burned slowly to the ground. One of its inhabitants, a small vole with an ugly whine in his voice, had led the fox and his band to the village, having first been promised safety from its destruction. His body lay at the base of the rocks, blood seeping from his expertly slit throat onto the bodies of his family and the village leaders piled below him. The fox had killed him last; watching the others die had been his special punishment for disloyalty. He would have been killed anyway, of course, but the least he could have done was shown some pluck and sacrifice himself to save his village. The fox spat on the carcass from his perch; he tolerated treachery in only one creature – himself.

That thought, of course, led him to another. He flicked his sharp amber eyes westward, to where his band was making camp on the leeward side of a similar collection of rocks. Babes and villains were essentially the same, he had always thought; they always required the same two things – instant gratification… and a very watchful eye. He flicked his cloak back over his shoulders and slipped down off the rock, moving across the grassy plain as silently as the drifting clouds.

Half-face sat with his back to a large boulder and his legs stretched out toward the fire, flipping a silver medallion into the air and catching it as it fell. He was a big and powerfully built weasel, with a peculiar two-toned pattern of fur on his head that had given him his name. He shivered slightly as a brief gust of wind played with his cloak and caused the fire to splutter. That storm moving in was going to be a real whopper, and he dreaded spending the night huddled in the hollow underneath the boulder. He flipped the medallion again, but this time it didn't fall back to his paw. Half-face looked up; Lightclaw stood over him, holding the disc between two claws, a slight smirk creeping across his face.

"Daydreamin' again, Half-face?" the ferret quipped, his grin exposing yellowed fangs as he turned the silver piece over in his paw. "Say, this 'ere's a nice bit o'shine! 'Ey Gyllem, how d'you think this'd look 'round me neck on a string?" The female rat Lightclaw had addressed glanced up from tending the fire.

"Mm, not 'alf so good as a nice strong rope," she said disinterestedly, poking at a large log with her spear.

"Oi, that's mine, give it 'ere!" Half-face growled. He reached up and muscled the medallion from the weaker ferret's grasp. "Took this offa one of them leader-type voles – right after I strangled 'im with the chain it was on!"

"Ye'd better no' let th' Chief catch ye wi' that," warned a dark-furred stoat in a heavy northlands accent. The stoat, whose name was Seyfert, glanced at Half-face through the fire and continued to clean his sword blade. "He hasnae divvied up the booty yet, an' likely won't til tomorra. He'll 'ave yer hide tae make breeches of if 'e finds oot ye took tha' fer yersel'." In the shadows behind him, a rat named Growler snorted his disapproval.

"Got that right," he rasped, lounging against a rock and not bothering to open his eyes. "O' course, e' might 'ave yer 'ide fer britches just fer the fun of it!" He chuckled at his own joke and then turned to the runty weasel crouched beside him. "Whadja think, Jaffy – 'ow'd the Chief look in a big pair o' weasel-skin trousers?" At this, Jaffy nodded vigorously.

"Real good, Growler, mate, real good! Satan's whiskers, Growler, you always 'ave the best ideas!"

"Ha!" Gyllem interjected, tossing a loose thread from her cloak into the fire. "Come off it, Jaff, it's a terrible idea. Look at 'im – the color would be all patchy! Catch the Chief wearin' that!" The assembled vermin all laughed, and Half-face narrowed his eyes, resisting the urge to hide his oddly-patterned features.

"Yah, go on an' boil yer 'eads, all of ya!"

"You first," Lightclaw sneered down at him, and across the fire, Seyfert grinned, his teeth bright against his dark coat.

"Aye, p'raps ye might be able tae boil the dirt offa tha' dingy side o' your face, get the lot all back tae the same color agen!" This set off another chorus of laughter, and Half-face clenched his paws, preparing to lash out. He heaved himself up from his seat.

"Oi, why doncha come over 'ere an' say that, stoat?" Seyfert sheathed his blade and rose slowly, the grin still lingering on his lips.

"Why? Are ye daft, that ye didnae unnerstan' it the first time?" The others chuckled, Jaffy working himself up into a high pitched giggle. Half-face's eyes flared.

"Right, that does it!" he growled. And tucking his coin into a pouch at his waist, he lunged at Seyfert through the fire, fangs bared and spittle flying.

It would have ended poorly for him – Seyfert's paw still rested on his long sword – if not for two things that happened simultaneously. As he dived, lightning struck a lone tree further down the plain, the beginnings of a lightning storm that startled the whole company; and as they each jumped in surprise, the silence among them was suddenly pierced by a voice.

"A fine lot of victorious marauders you are. Did you satisfy yourselves so little with killing the peasants that you now have to eat each other?"

"Chief?!" Jaffy squeaked, immediately falling back into the shadows alongside Growler. Everyone stopped and whirled around. Atop the boulder against which Half-face had been leaning, the leader of their band, the fox Sorno, lounged almost comfortably. His dark cloak rippled in the hot breeze, the only indication that he wasn't himself part of the rock face. His dappled grey, tawny, and red coat blended seamlessly with the powder hues of the sandstone, the soft bush of his tail almost disappearing against the rock. It was the perfect camouflage – all, that is, except for the face. Devoid of fur below the piercing amber eyes, the skin around the mouth and muzzle was slick, tan ribbed with white and the faintest traces of lavender, pulled taut as though it were stretched painfully across his face, and shrunken and twisted upward into a fixed sneer.

Behind him, another arc of lightning rocketed across the sky, outlining a cloud in the distance like an outstretched claw and turning the stifling brown evening into an eerie, sizzling blue twilight.

"Don't 'Chief' me," Sorno drawled at Jaffy, managing a decent imitation of the scrawny weasel's voice. He slipped off the boulder, cat-like, and landed noiselessly beside Lightclaw. "Now, let's have it," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft.

"'Ave what?" Half-face grumbled. Sorno barely moved, but one claw strayed to the hilt of the curved knife on his belt.

"Whatever illicit piece of my spoils you've taken without my permission." Sorno flicked a piece of dust off his cloak. "I assume that's what started all this ruckus in the first place, hmm?" On the right, his brow inched imperceptibly higher; on the left, where the scarring was slightly worse, there was only a twitch. Half-face tried not to look. The fox always seemed to speak without really moving his lips, and it was unnerving. "Now," he murmured in a tone not unlike that of a mother vixen with an unruly cub, "like I said. Let's. Have. It." His tongue clicked dangerously against his fangs at the end of the sentence, and Half-face whimpered.

"O-oh… y'mean this ole fing?" the weasel gulped, and his shaking claw fished the coin out of his belt pouch. He offered it to Sorno the way one might offer food to a coiled snake. His Chief stared at the silver piece as though it stank.

"Yes… yes, that… 'ole fing.' Allow me to relieve you of this dreadful burden." Sorno reached out a claw to pluck the medallion away; then, he appeared to change his mind. He retracted his claw and adopted an easy posture, paws tucked gently into his belt. "You know, on second thought… let's have a game instead. Hmm?" He nodded cordially and Half-face, now beginning to get nervous, nodded along out of instinct. "I thought so. Alright, then. Friend. How about… I let you keep that bit of silver?"

"If?" Half-face prompted knowingly. Sorno gave him a dark grin.

"If… you can keep it away from me, of course." He waited. Half-face stared back at him vacantly. Sorno sighed. "Hold out your paw, you imbecile," the fox growled. "Switch paws quickly. Toss it in the air. Make me try to snatch it. Play keep-away. It's an infant's game, you simpleton. If you can keep me from getting it for at least… oh… two minutes… then it's yours."

Half-face looked round at the others by the fire as if searching for guidance. Gyllem wouldn't meet his eyes; Seyfert sat stoically, pretending to polish his sword hilt; Growler stared at him impassively, while behind him, Jaffy's teeth could be heard chattering; and standing closest by, Lightclaw stood with a paw over his mouth, his head shaking a barely visible No. They all knew it was much better not to get involved in any of the Chief's "games." But nobeast wanted to be the one to warn him aloud.

Half-face turned back to Sorno, whose face seemed to say, Well? The weasel blinked stupidly.

"Well… alright," he mumbled. Sorno's face dissolved instantly into something soft and almost amiable.

"Excellent!" he quipped. When Half-face simply kept looking at him, the fox waggled a claw at him. "Well, go on, then."

"Oh," Half-face grunted. Then he held out his paw, the coin in the center glittering in the firelight. Behind him, Lightclaw let out a barely audible groan. The rest held their breath and their tongues.

At first, nobeast moved. Then Sorno made a lazy, almost careless swipe at the coin, enough so that Half-face was able to easily close his claws before it was snatched. The fox winced dramatically.

"Ah, bad luck. Shall I give it another go?" And he nodded for Half-face to present the medallion again. He did; another languid swipe followed.

This was repeated several times over, until finally Half-face looked as though he were beginning to enjoy himself. He took to flipping the coin into the air and letting it fall back into his claws, with Sorno making a half-hearted grab each time it came down. It was clear to everybeast (except Half-face) that he was missing intentionally; and each time he did, the tension in the hot night air grew thicker and more poisonous. Sorno let it go on until Half-face was actually chuckling.

WHAP.

For a moment, Half-face was still waiting for the coin to fall back into his paw. Then he blinked in realization. Sorno had slapped the coin in mid-flight, sending it whizzing off to the side – straight into the campfire. Everybeast looked. The silver piece could clearly be seen, deep in the midst of the embers, the heat and light making it reflect a hot pearlescent glow. Sorno clicked his fangs, and when they all looked back at him, his face was a picture of innocent dismay.

His eyes, however, were deadly serious.

"Tsk tsk…. Look what I've gone and done!" the fox drawled. "My sincerest apologies, friend. You'd better reach in there and get that, before it gets too hot!" And then he laid a claw gently but meaningfully on the weasel's shoulder.

Half-face gulped.

"Naw…naw, 'at's alright, Chief – y-you c'n get it. You're quicker'n me, that's f' sure. I'd burn me paw."

"Oh, but that wouldn't be fair!" Sorno murmured. "We're playing keep-away. I can't get it – I have to take it from you in order to win! What if I were to simply take it from the fire and not return it? Then where would our game be? No, no, fair is fair, friend. You'll have to be the one to get it out, if we want the game to go on properly." He locked eyes with Half-face, and the weasel stifled a whine.

"You – you can 'ave it, Chief. It's alright. I don't want it no more. Hones'."

Sorno feigned surprise.

"Really? …Well, if you're sure…." For a moment the fox continued to stare at his minion fixedly; then he flicked his cloak back to keep it out of the way and approached the fire. His amber eyes narrowed to hot, golden slits that reflected the molten glow. Sorno marked the flames, how they danced, perfectly still except for his eyes which followed every jump and flicker, moved with the undulating rolls of heat and snapped to every pop or spark. The other vermin watched their leader with a fascination bordering on horror. They regarded him as something very like the fire itself, and they were never quite sure which was the more dangerous of the two.

When Sorno finally moved, it happened in an instant. One moment he was still as the rock behind them; the next, his arm was halfway into the fire. He struck toward the heart of the flame like somebeast fishing in a river with his bare paws, and he came up with his claws embedded in a chunk of wood the size of his skull. It was still blazing, the flames dancing a breath away from the fur on Sorno's paw. Perched on top, in the middle of the hottest flame, was the medallion. It now looked white hot. Sorno's eyes flicked over to Half-face, who backed away from the hot ash and sparks the wood was shedding.

"F – f – fair's fair, Chief – you've got it," he stuttered. Sorno looked back at the fire, dragging his eyes over it the way most foxes would look at a beautiful vixen.

"Yes, I suppose I do," he crooned softly. "But …you know …I think I've changed my mind. You can have it after all. Friend."

Without warning, Sorno reached into the flame and plucked out the coin between two claws, dropping the blazing wood in the same movement. It crashed onto the dusty ground in a shower of sparks. Half-face took his eyes off Sorno for only a second – and it was all the fox needed. Swiftly and deftly he shoved the white-hot metal against Half-face's neck.

"OWOWOWOWOWOWOOOOWWWWWWWW!" howled the weasel, as the air around them was suddenly inundated with the scent of burning fur and cooking flesh. Sorno was snarling now, the slick, scarred skin pulled completely back from the vicious, dripping teeth.

"You WANTED it, weasel, so TAKE it. It's aaallll yours. My compliments!" The fox let go then, giving Half-face a shove as he did. He fell to the ground, whimpering. The medallion was stuck to his flesh, still glowing warm; the second Sorno looked away, Lightclaw reached down and nicked it off him quickly, trying to ignore the bits of skin that came away with it. All of this happened in a matter of seconds. By the time the group had recovered from their shock, Sorno was lounging against the boulder, his twisted face calm, as if nothing at all had happened.

"We move west in the morning," he drawled, his voice back to its smooth, sultry baritone. "Spoils will be divided at breakfast. Gyllem, that's your job this week. See that it's not burnt."

"Aye," she murmured in acknowledgment.

"What's west, Chief?" Lightclaw asked cautiously. If the question annoyed the fox, he concealed it well. He shrugged.

"More settlements, hopefully. This village can't exist as an island; and they didn't mine that silver themselves," he pointed out, gesturing in the vague direction of the still-whimpering Half-face. "There must be other villages out here on the flatlands with whom they trade. And since we've already been east…we're going west. Any questions?"

There were none. Sorno nodded once, softly.

"Someone toss some water on him," he murmured, again indicating the weasel on the ground. "Otherwise the whole camp will smell like burning fur. Seyfert, you're first watch." A nod from the stoat. "Growler?"

"Aye?"

"Go round to all the other campfires. Make sure everyone knows the plan for the morning. And then get under cover," he added, pulling up the hood on his cloak and glancing up at the sky, across which another arc of lightning had just streaked. "I don't want to wake up to a camp full of drowned minions tomorrow."

As if to punctuate his statement, a chorus of thunder bellowed out of the sky to the south. It set everyone moving. Growler threw up his hood and slipped quietly out of the firelight, heading toward the nearest of the other campfires. Lightclaw pulled his canteen disdainfully from his pack and dribbled some water on Half-face's neck, eliciting a groan. Gyllem began pulling out the makings of a tent to cover the fire. Sorno slipped back into the shadows of the boulder as the first drips of rain began to touch down, his amber eyes shifting to the west, scanning the horizon. There would be other villages out there, yes. But he was hoping for some bigger prey, if he could find it. Something that presented more of a challenge than a cluster of houses full of terrified voles, with only a handful of jewels amongst them and no weapons to speak of. Somewhere out there, west across the flatlands, there had to be a greater prize. And the bigger the prize….

Sorno spun instinctively, just in time to see a huge claw of lightning strike to the south. After a moment, he thought he could see the faintest trace of a warm glow on the horizon. The lightning had struck something, and it was burning. Sorno stared at it lustily, his eyes suddenly half-lidded in arousal, his tongue tracing the edges of his scarred lips.

The bigger the prize, the longer and hotter it would burn.

The moon over Mossflower Wood was almost completely obscured by dark rolling clouds and torrents of cold rain. The downpour dashed itself against the walls and battlements of Redwall Abbey, turning its normally rosy sandstone complexion into a slick, reddish-brown carapace. Inside, however, the gale might have been a million miles away for all the inhabitants of the Abbey were aware of it. Beneath Great Hall, in the cozy shelter of Cavern Hole, torches burned bright in every sconce, throwing a cheerful golden light all round the chamber, and creatures were warm and dry. Through the air wafted delicious and tantalizing scents, promises of the feast that was about to be delivered to table. The whole room was filled with the sounds of laughter and pleasant chatter – creatures mingling, calling greetings across tables to friends and guests, woodlanders arriving in from the rain and gazing around excitedly, Dibbuns running exuberantly between the footpaws of adults, and the good-natured scoldings of Sister Margaret as she tried to chase them back to their own small table by the fire.

At the head table, Abbot Jerome's high carved chair stood empty; the Abbot was up and about, wandering through the crowd and talking with his guests. To the right of the Abbot's seat, in a massive, cushy armchair, sat the elderly badger Bella of Brockhall; wandering about the room was too tiring of an undertaking for her old paws, especially at the end of a long day, but she sat contentedly and watched the crowd mill around her, sipping elderberry wine from a battered wooden cup. Across the table, Martin and Gonff were turned round, deep in conversation with two young novices who stood behind them. Curtys and Demric were hanging on every word as the two elderly mice regaled them with stories of their travels.

"And then, of course," Gonff was saying, "we were in a stalemate, you see, because the crab was locked onto my staff like a vise. He was intent on killin' me, mate – too angry to let go."

"Too stupid, more like," Martin murmured over his goblet, but he was smothering a grin. Gonff ignored him.

"And so there we were, both wrestling with all our strength, when suddenly, over the cliffs, come hundreds of his gigantic crab brethren, and—"

"Easy now," Martin chuckled. The two novices laughed with him, and Gonff waved dismissively in Martin's direction.

"P'raps it wasn't hundreds. But the other crabs—"

Martin coughed into his drink. "I think you're beginning to let this story get a bit fuzzy in your old age, friend," he smiled. "Last I remember, there was only one crab, and it was more a dance than a wrestling match."

"All right, spoil it, will you!" Gonff laughed. "Who's telling this story, mate, me or you?"

"Well you're telling something, but it certainly isn't this story," Martin countered playfully. Curtys, a slender mouse with very blue eyes, swallowed a guffaw.

"You tell us, then, Martin. What did he really do when the crab took the stave from him?" Martin smiled at the youngsters as he put his cup back on the table.

"Just what I said – he danced with it!"

"Really, Martin?" asked Demric, who was beginning to be too pudgy for his novice habit. Gonff made faces as Martin nodded.

"Really. The thing was too stupid to let go of the staff. Once Gonff figured that out, he naturally had no other recourse but to mercilessly make fun of the creature. It kept waving the stick and scuttling round, and it looked so much like a dance that he couldn't resist. Pulled out that flute of his, and did a jig right there next to it. And it was getting frightfully angry with him, but couldn't figure out how to attack him because it couldn't let go of the staff!"

"Leave it to you to ruin my reputation with the truth," Gonff scowled in false temper; then he broke into a grin. The chorus of laughter from the four mice blended seamlessly into the warm ripples of conversation and noise that washed gently around the room – creatures talking, chuckling, and generally enjoying themselves the way only creatures who are warm and dry and cozy on a stormy night can do. At the far side of the room, a crew of otters were singing a loud shanty about the pleasures of catching shrimp, and of doing some sort of dance they called "shrimp jigging." The booming voice of Brother Melvin could be heard from his seat near the stairs, telling anyone who would listen all the particulars and details of the building of the ballista at the Battle of Kotir, and offering to show them some old diagrams he had in his study; he was an enormously fat mouse who barely fit in his chair, and his knees were in such a poor state that he carried an intricately carved cane wherever he went. To punctuate his statements, he knocked it against the floor. Those standing near had to watch their footpaws to be sure they didn't get knocked as well.

Soon, the air in Cavern Hole thickened with the smell of something wonderful being brought up the passage from the kitchen. The sounds of barrels being rolled up from the cellars by Ferdy and Coggs Stickle, the twin hedgehog cellar-keepers, mingled with the chatter until a hum of expectation settled over the whole room. The feast was about to begin!

Near the front of the room, Abbot Jerome took his cue from the murmurs in the kitchen hallway and headed back to his seat at the top of the main table. He stood for a moment, smiling, surveying the Abbeybeasts under his charge, enjoying the atmosphere. Then he cleared his throat to speak.

"Excuse me… ahem… everybeast, please…." The Abbot rapped the tabletop with a large wooden spoon he found lying on the table, attempting to gain the attention of the roomful of Redwallers and their woodland guests. He barely even made a dent in the hubbub. Looking around helplessly, his eyes fell on a big otter sitting a few yards away with Brother Melvin. He gave him a pleading look. "Skipper, do you think you could…?" He gestured at the crowd. Skipper nodded, needing no second bidding.

"AHOY, mateys!" he bellowed, bringing all activity to a halt. "Stow the gab, Abbot wants t' address the crew!"

There was a quiet shuffling and scraping as seats were claimed and benches pulled up to tables, then silence descended over Cavern Hole. "She's all yours, Father," Skipper murmured, lifting his mug slightly in the Abbot's direction. Jerome smiled gratefully and turned to face down the long table.

"Yes, well…. Hello! Ehm… I'd like to thank everybeast for coming to celebrate my Jubilee feast—"

"You mean for coming to celebrate the free food?!" There was a ripple of laughter as Jerome eyed the speaker, a tall mouse with a long white beard and spectacles.

"Yes, thank you, Dally. I realize that between seeing me and sampling the cheeses, it's no contest. All the same, I'd like to thank everyone – it's been a wonderfully fulfilling ten seasons, and I'm grateful for the gift I've been given, and the privilege of shepherding this wonderful group of creatures. So thank you all – and welcome, especially our guests, welcome to Redwall Abbey!" There was polite, quiet applause for both Jerome and the woodland visitors. Then Jerome clasped his paws and cleared his throat again. "Now, the food will be brought in very shortly; but before we enjoy the wonderful things our cooks have created for us, it is only fitting that we show our appreciation and our thanks." He turned to the mice sitting closest to him at the table. "Gonff, old friend, would you please do us the honor of singing the grace this evening?"

Nodding respectfully to his Abbot, Gonff put down his cup and stood, stretching his back. "Thank you, Father Abbot. Always a privilege. Would everybeast please bow their heads?" When all heads had been lowered, the old Mousethief cleared his throat and began to sing softly:

"Seasons pass as seasons must,

What we build returns to dust;

Verses sung float swift away;

Friends well-loved retire in clay.

What then remains when all departs?

Nature's bounty, and loving hearts.

So love and laugh and eat your fill,

And give thanks for what Time shall not kill."

There was a murmured "Amen" from all present, and Gonff sat back down amidst renewed murmuring and noise. A hard nudge came from his left as somebeast sat down alongside him.

"Lackaday, Sir Gonff, you couldn't have picked a more depressing one, could you? I mean, you've written some wringers in the past, but that one, whew." The mouse waited until Gonff made an offended face before breaking into a wide grin.

"All the time and effort your mother spent trying to teach you respect for your elders, and here you sit calling me, your poor old father, by his first name," Gonff replied in mock disappointment, for the mouse beside him was none other than his grown son, Gonflet.

"Yes, well," Gonflet smirked, clapping his father on the back, "while she was working so hard teaching me respect, as I recall, you were working equally hard teaching me to be a rogue, so there you have it."

"And I'll give you one guess which of you was successful," Martin chimed in from Gonff's other side. Gonff chuckled and reached for his cup.

"As long as you realize that you'll never out-rogue the Prince, you young scamp. Hang on a tick, where's my goblet?" He was reaching for the place where his drink had been sitting, but it was nowhere to be seen. The Mousethief looked questioningly at both his companions. "It can't have gotten up and walked, you know…."

"P'raps somebeast took it to refill it," Gonflet suggested. "You know. Before the food is served." Gonff began scanning the room, looking for whoever had made off with his cup. Behind him, Gonflet leaned around and winked at Martin, and the Warrior looked down; the empty cup could just be seen peeking out of the opening in Gonflet's shoulder bag. Martin laughed into his own cup as his best friend continued to search the room.

The first part of the feast to be brought in was a massive cauldron of steaming vegetable soup; it flooded the whole of Cavern Hole with a sharp, mouthwatering, tomato-scented mist. Trays laden with all manner of breads followed it, and soon everybeast was tucking in while the rest of the food was being laid out. True to form, the Redwall kitchens had outdone themselves. After each table had been supplied with a tray of assorted breads – biscuits, rolls, loaves both sliced and unsliced, cornbread, round flat trenchers, and long baguettes – the cheeses were then rolled out to match them: pale white, brilliant yellow, crumbly and smooth, plain or studded with herbs, nuts, or vegetable bits, every variety possible. Bowls and platters full of cooked vegetables, nut bakes, woodland salads, pasties, and sauces filled every gap left on the tables. The moles were clustered around an enormous turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie, which was nearly large enough to require its own table to support it. And the otters had brought their contribution to the feast, a huge pot of shrimp'n'hotroot soup; Curtys and another young mouse, Merton, talked their friend Demric into tasting a bowlful, and he had to be led out of Cavern Hole, his eyes streaming from the spicy dish. Laughing uproariously, Coggs Stickle took him down to the cellars to cool off and quench his thirst. Understandably, very few other Abbeydwellers felt keen to test themselves against the formidable soup. Of course, the otters had anticipated this, and they had also brought a pot of tender freshwater shrimp cooked in a creamy wild garlic sauce for those unwilling to brave the dangers of hotroot.

Tucked into every remaining spot on the tables were jugs, beakers, and pitchers of all sizes, a wide sampling of the various drinks cellarhogs Coggs and Ferdy had to offer. Every type of fruit cordial imaginable, a whole rainbow of colors, alongside flavored teas, fine wines, and no less than six different types of ales, including the obligatory dark brown October Ale, as well as pitchers of cool water to cleanse the palate, and jugs of milk for the Dibbuns (and for putting out fires in the mouths of those who had tasted the otters' signature soup). And waiting in the kitchen, of course, biding their time until some of the main course dishes were carried away, were carts and tables full to bursting with desserts of every type fathomable – tarts, pies, cakes, puddings, cobblers, candied nuts and fruits, all in bright hues of honey and raspberry and blackcurrant and glimmering with sugar.

By the time the salads, soups, and vegetable plates had been carried away and replaced with desserts, sauces, and extra breads and cheeses, the noise in Cavern Hole had settled down to a warm, pleasant gurgle, like a pot of water that snuggles down comfortably into its bubbles after the first violent surge of boiling. Groups of creatures had broken off from the main tables and were now found in clusters all round the room; those with a bent for history standing around Brother Melvin with their tarts and cakes in their paws, listening to him separate myth from truth in the tales of the founding of Loamhedge Abbey; a group of concerned novices sitting with the sweet Infirmary keeper, Sister Janet, asking her for advice on innumerable subjects; to the left of the fireplace, Sister Margaret had her paws full trying to convince the table full of Dibbuns to finish their pasties before getting any blackberry pie. She had recruited Brother Samuel to help her, but even together, they were drowning.

"Yurr, oi be's wantin' that thurr pie naow," little Viggo was pleading as Brother Samuel vainly waved the pasty in front of him.

"Please, Viggo – just a bite?"

"Piiiieeeee," cried tiny Pwyll from Sister Margaret's lap. Unfortunately, she had opened her mouth just wide enough that Margaret was able to shove another hunk of bread into it. The little volebabe looked up at Margaret reproachfully, her cheeks puffed out with bread, but Margaret didn't look apologetic in the least.

Beside them, Kaid poked at the small pieces of shrimp Margaret had cut for him with the fork he was just learning to use.

"How many bites I gotta eat 'fore I gets pie?"

"All of it," Margaret replied without even looking up from wiping Pwyll's face.

"Is two bites all it?"

"Not hardly."

"Is thwee bites all it?"

"All of it is all of it, Kaid," Margaret sighed, and Kaid reluctantly speared one small cube of shrimp on a tine of his fork and placed it in his mouth, being sure to display that he was none too happy about it.

On the other side of the fireplace there was a small round table that looked as if it were about to fall apart; it was surrounded by plushy stools and hassocks instead of regular chairs, and that was exactly how Taryn, Wyatt, and Jerill liked it. They had long ago pulled the little table into the corner and claimed it as their own in the event of any sort of feast, and it was rickety enough that nobody bothered to usurp it from them. And in any case, it kept Wyatt's prickles pointed consistently into the corner and away from passing elbows. By now, both Taryn and Jerill had given up on fitting any more food into their stomachs; the table was piled high with empty plates, discarded crusts, and one half-eaten raspberry turnover that now looked about the size of a mountain to Taryn, who pushed it away with disdain. Wyatt, however, was still trudging onward.

"What I—" he began, stopping as a large mouthful of apple crumble threatened to escape his mouth. He swallowed it with some effort and began loading more of it into his spoon. "What I want to know, is what exactly is shrimp jigging?" He shoved the crumble into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. "I mean, are they talkin' about a pulley system or summat that they raise the nets with? Or d'they actually dance with the shrimp?"

"Maybe it's about what happens when an otter gets pulled into the air cos he's too small to weigh down the net." Jerill said this to the ceiling, her head propped against the wall stones behind her, cushioned by her brush. Taryn raised one brow, the only movement she could manage.

"How does that make any sense?"

"You know," Jerill sighed, waving a paw without much conviction. "He'd be hanging there in the air above the raft, wiggling on the end of the pulley rope… you see?"

"Mmm," Wyatt shook his spiked head. He reached over and poked his fork into Taryn's forgotten turnover; when he saw no resistance, he pulled it up alongside his own stack of plates and began disposing of it for her. "No, I still think it's a dance or summat. Y' wouldn't write a whole song about getting pulled off yer feetpaws by a net."

They fell for a moment into the natural, comfortable silence of old friends. Then Taryn sighed and slid deeper into the velvety sack she was nestled in. "Well, what I want to know," she said sleepily, "is do you think we'll ever talk about anything more interesting than the definition of shrimp jigging?"

"Like what?" Jerill asked.

" 'D'y'mean?" muttered Wyatt through a mouthful of raspberry.

"Oh, I dunno," Taryn sighed again. She sat up reluctantly and propped herself on the edge of the table, looking over the demolished remnants of supper. "I just feel like nothing ever happens here. At least, not to us. Like we'll spend our whole lives going through the same routine of mornings in the orchard, afternoons among the history scrolls, and evenings evading bedtime, punctuated by the occasional feast, until we die of old age and boredom."

"Reading too many poems again," Jerill said officiously, rolling her head toward Wyatt and speaking like a mother of an incorrigible Dibbun. Wyatt brushed away crumbs, popping some of the larger ones into his mouth.

"I like the orchard and runnin' from bedtime and goin' to feasts," he said simply. "If we didn't like those things, we wouldn't have gotten into an 'abit of doin' them, would we?"

"Yes, but it's all so terribly dull," Taryn moped, watching bubbles pop in her cordial. "Where's the excitement? The variety? The adventure?" She looked up just in time to see Jerill mouthing her exact words out of long experience, and she threw a stray cherry at her. "Oh, you stoppit!" she squeaked. Jerill was unfazed; she caught the cherry in her mouth, deftly nipped off the stem, and spat it like a dart at Taryn before chewing up the dark red fruit. Wyatt chuckled at them.

"Ah, count yer blessings, Taryn. From what I hear tell of the old Kotir days, adventure isn't all it's cracked up to be." He seemed to have finally finished eating, and now he leaned back like his two friends, his spikes making skittering little sounds against the stone wall. He wasn't alone; all around Cavern Hole, a comfortable quiet was beginning to settle over the satisfied creatures, their bellies filled with good food and drink and their senses lulled by the warm and crackling fire. Yawning Dibbuns were being carried upstairs to be put to bed in their dormitories, and some of the older creatures had begun to follow them out, tired from a day's hard feasting. Sister Janet and Brother Samuel were helping Bella the ancient badger as she pulled herself up from the depths of her armchair; it took both of them to shift her, even as old and thin as she had become. Across the table from her, Gonff the Mousethief was deep in conspiracy with Ferdy Stickle; his twin Coggs had supped one too many flagons of October Ale and had fallen asleep on the table. Gonff and Ferdy were hard at work spearing grapes on each of his spikes, hoping they could completely cover him in the little fruits before he woke and caught them. Martin the Warrior watched, bemused, from a neighboring bench, taking small sips of a last beaker of currant wine. Taryn had been watching them in silence for several minutes before she realized that her friends had taken note of her gaze. She put a paw over her full stomach and sat back in her hassock.

"Well, I'm not saying I'd like to be attacked by wildcats or vermin," she went on. "But a good rollicking quest would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Quest for what?" Wyatt asked blandly. "We got everything we need here. Plenty t' eat, no enemies about, no diseases t' seek out cures for, thank the seasons, and no long-lost legends to track down. Quests are for times when you're lackin' summat."

"I know," Taryn conceded, propping her chin on her paws. "Perhaps I was just born into the wrong time."

"You'd rather have been born into the time of the wildcats?" Jerill prodded, an impish smile beginning to form on her lips. Taryn chose not to answer, and Jerill laughed. "You great fibber, you don't care about adventures – you just wish you were born back then so you could be Missus Warrior now!"

Wyatt ducked below the table instinctively as Taryn launched a whole volley of leftover cherries in reply.

Martin the Warrior was lost in his own thoughts. As a consequence, it was several moments before he realized that anybeast had spoken to him; he blinked owlishly at Gonff, trying to dispel the afterimages of the fire that he hadn't realized he had been staring at. The little colored shapes flickered about over the Mousethief's face before fading as Gonff repeated himself.

"I said, are you goin' to bed any time this season, matey? Us old ones can't stay up all the night like we once could."

"You go on ahead, friend," Martin said wearily. "I think I'll stay and…." He cast about for an excuse. "...and finish this wine." He and Gonff both looked down into his beaker; only small puddle of the dark liquid remained in the bottom of the vessel, barely enough for a mouthful. Gonff sat down beside his friend. His face remained jaunty, but a soft concern glossed over the tones of his voice.

"You wouldn't be avoiding going to sleep, would you, messmate?"

"Of course not," Martin lied. "I just…." He didn't know how to answer. Gonff leaned in so that only the Warrior could hear him.

"Is it those nightmares again, Martin? I thought you asked Sister Janet for a draught that would do away with them?"

"That… gave me headaches," Martin said after some thought. It wasn't precisely true, although Janet's herbal concoction had made his head feel swimmy and heavy the mornings after he'd used it; but it was a better answer than the real one – that sometimes the dreams, as painful as they could be, were better than having no dreams at all. That to stop the dreaming would be to stop the remembering, and that was something Martin hadn't the courage to do.

Gonff knew none of this precisely, but he perhaps read something of it in his old comrade's eyes. "You'll have an even bigger headache if you stay up drinking currant wine all night, matey," he said softly, putting a paw on Martin's shoulder. "Come on. If you keep not sleeping like this, it'll be all the worse when you finally keel over from exhaustion. I wouldn't want to be in those dreams you'd have then, mate. Whatever you might dream tonight, I'd wager it'll be easier than a nightmare in that condition would be. What d'you say?" The Mousethief held out a paw to the Warrior, who took it reluctantly after a few seconds of silent contemplation.

"I suppose you might be right, old friend," he acquiesced, putting down his cup on the corner of the table. Gonff helped him out of his chair, and together they headed down the table toward the stairs to Great Hall. Ferdy and Coggs were now both asleep, their headspikes mingling and rattling together as they snored. Gonff reached out and plucked a grape off the back of the latter's head, popping it into his mouth as he and Martin passed.

"D'you think somebeast should take those off him before everyone goes off to bed?" Martin managed a wan smile as they reached the stairs.

"No. They'll sleep at that table all night, and then Ferdy will eat them off him for breakfast before he's properly awake."

The two old friends climbed the stairs together, holding each other steady and laughing at the thought of the hedgehog using his brother as breakfast buffet.

The secret forest valley was a timeless place, eternally existing in that delicate, tenuous moment between late evening and early twilight. The sky above the canopy of trees was soft and silky, the color of milk and blueberry juice swirled into the same celestial bowl. Riding across it like ships on a tide were a handful of clouds, soft, warm lilac underneath but glowing on top like peaches and cream where they caught the last rays of sun. Tendrils of blue smoke rose up to meet them from undying kitchen fires. Martin sniffed the breeze; woodsmoke, honeysuckle, pine, blossoming trees, and that most piercing of scents – the wild rose. The Warrior sighed, perfectly content. There was a paw tucked into his, and he squeezed it gently.

"Where should we walk?" he whispered, not wanting to break the spell that seemed to hang in the air. The voice that answered him was like sunlight on clear water.

"Let's see the orchard."

Martin glanced over at her. Rose was like this place; eternal, ethereal, enchanted. Her voice had echoed slightly, and that puzzled him, but then he remembered that his own had echoed too. He smiled at her, and she at him, and together they walked, footpaws whispering softly with grass that was thick and liquid green. A touch from a warm breeze stirred their whiskers but didn't seem to move the smoke that rose above them. White petals loosed themselves from the flowering trees and floated around them like clouds of sweet-smelling snowfall; Martin led Rose to the edge of the sparkling pool tucked into the corner of the orchard, where the forest stream tumbled down into the valley like a cataract of diamonds. Pink and white petals drifted on its rippled surface and swam through their reflections as he took Rose's paw in his.

"There is a magic in this place, Rose," he whispered as she turned her eyes upward to look into his. "There's an enchantment so enveloping and so deep, so deep that it enchants me…almost as much as you do." He felt himself begin to smile. He had never been able to say such things and keep his composure; it was only here, in this sacred vale, that he could verbalize them at all. Rose smiled back at him, rocking slightly on her footpaws and watching her skirt swish about her.

"You don't have to leave, you know. This could be your home, Martin. Stay. All of it, this could be yours. This could be ours." She pressed his paws between hers, and Martin felt the valley's magic swelling around him. He had long forgotten what it meant to have a home. And to think – he could live forever in this place… and in the soft cloud of magic that was Rose….

"Ours," he repeated, and drew her closer into his embrace.

"Ah!" he heard her gasp. Rose drew away from him sharply.

"What is it?" Martin asked, concerned. Rose said nothing, only taking a step back. He looked down. The hilt of his sword, glimmering in the pale sunlight, stood out large and heavy from his belt. Martin sighed as his fears subsided; it must have prodded her in the side as she drew near to him. He put a paw to it to turn it round to the side.

It wouldn't move. He glanced back up to ask Rose to help him turn the belt.

She was gone.

The feeling of enchantment died as swiftly as a spring breeze, and the air fell flat; clouds the color of dark steel rolled in overhead and obscured the setting sun as Martin spun around, desperately searching for Rose in all directions. The waterfall had died; a cool current of air swept along the ground, rolling and tumbling the piles of petals like dead white leaves. The smoke from the cooking fires had turned thick and grey, and it oozed down over the thatched roofs to pool and roll toward him.

"Rose!" he cried, beginning to panic. Nothing survived without her, not the magic, not the valley, and certainly not him. "Rose!"

"Gone…."

The Warrior spun back around as a melancholy voice reached his ears. An older mouse stood before him, clad in a long black robe, her paws over her eyes to stem her tears. "Gone… gone… Laterose is gone…." She seemed to be unaware of Martin's presence, ceaselessly repeating her mantra of grief. Martin covered his ears; each time she said it, the sound slashed deeper into his heart.

"No… no!"

"My Laterose… my Laterose…." Martin turned again; this voice belonged to an elderly mouse with a long beard and a look of deep despondency on his face. "Warrior… where is she, Warrior? Where is my Laterose?"

"No, stop!" Martin cried. He backed away, only to stumble and fall over a third figure. Lifting himself from the cold, wet grass, he looked up. A younger mouse, a few seasons his junior, stared down at him with stony, unforgiving eyes.

"You said you would protect her!"

"NO!" The Warrior mouse scrambled to get up as the three figures encircled him. "No, I… I tried! I… I just couldn't—" He choked on his words as a fourth figure approached, a mole in dark mourning garb, carrying a ladle. As Martin watched, the mole lifted the utensil and pointed to the waterfall, which had begun to flow again, languidly, and was now seeping over the precipice in a flat sheet of liquid that resembled a tarnished mirror. Slowly, cautiously, Martin obeyed the mole's apparent command and walked to the water, wading in waist deep until he had reached the falling stream. He could see his own reflection in the curtain of water.

No, wait… was it his face – or Badrang's? The evil ferret's features mingled with his own until he could no longer see a difference.

"No, please!" he started to cry, turning back to the dark figures on the dry ground; three of the shades simply stared, but the fourth lifted his ladle and pointed to the water again. Martin looked back reluctantly. Badrang still stared at him from within his own reflection.

No, not Badrang anymore… and not himself, either. The face was changing. Martin stared as the shadows and ripples on the dark water formed the face of a fox. His eyes were burning amber, lit by chaotic fire; and his mouth was twisted into a mocking, vicious, and dangerous grin. The face in the water cackled, a sound like the snapping of sparks in a fire – the kind one would hear as the timbers of a burning structure succumbed to flames and tumbled to earth.

Martin screamed as the dark, icy water came crashing down on top of him.

He woke in a tangle of bedding that was damp with both sweat and tears; the lumps and folds of the sheets were thrown into sharp relief by white moonlight that lay draped over the dormitory bed like a blanket. Martin passed a shaky paw over his face. He looked around the room, conscious that it had all been a dream but still irrationally seeking the lovely face that had been there one moment and then gone the next. His eyes fell instead upon the closed doors of his wardrobe. Behind them lay his burnished and engraved ceremonial shield, and the fine leather scabbard that had once carried the great sword. Moonlight glinted off the polished metal door knob, winking as a cloud passed momentarily in front of the moon. At once Martin remembered the sparks he had seen in his dream, in the mad eyes of the fox in the waterfall. Suddenly very awake, the Warrior threw off blanket and sheet and swung his footpaws over the edge of the bed. He put on his slippers, lit a candle, and threw a dressing gown over his nightshirt. It was no longer a matter of simple dreams, he realized. Now he knew what he had to do.

In the flickering light of the candle, Martin took a satchel from a hook on the wall and began to fill it.