Mossflower wood slept peacefully in the early winter months. The season was just picking up it's pace and finally erasing the last vestiges of autumn. A chill wind whipped down the road and blew snow against the southern gate of Redwall Abbey. Inside, the courtyard was mostly clear of the snow but still deserted as the winter cold forbade outdoor activity for the time. Those within the abbey however were not so dormant as the rest of the country. The cooks cooked and the maids cleaned and the little Dibbuns did whatever it is children do when locked indoors for three months.
Brother Foljer watched in good humor as the Dibbuns scampered about the nursery in Redwall Abbey. Outside, winter bore down with deep cold and heavy wind but the fires in the hearths kept the chill at bay even as it howled at the shutters. A blessing for his old bones. Squirrel or not, age can make a body weary. This squirrel, graying though he was still had that old fire in his eyes and as such, took the most harrowing task the Abbey had to offer.
He was the Caretaker for the young of the Abbey, those rambunctious and mischievous villains, the Dibbuns. Sister Abernathy, a young shrew maid was his assistant and their teacher and she was attempting at the time to corral the Dibbuns and calm them. At length she managed to herd the shrieking and laughing children into the common area where she bade them sit for their lessons.
“Aww, do we haf'ta, Sistah Ab'nathy?” one little mouse chimed in as he tugged at her apron, prompting many of the Dibbuns to echo the question.
“I would most certainly say so young mister Patrick!” she replied, removing his paw and pointing a stern finger at the mouse. Then, pulling a book from the shelf nearby and showing the cover to the gathered children she said, “We've got to learn you lot your letters some more.”
Groans of disappointment issued forth immediately. Brother Foljer chuckled as the Dibbuns attempted to bargain and plead with their teacher. Some even fell to their knees in their supplication. After a time Sister Abernathy looked to him, silently begging for assistance. Promptly, Brother Foljer stood and faced the reluctant students, rapping his heavy wooden cane sharply on the flagstones as he rose.
“Now, harken 'ere you little villiuns!” He said, taking on a mock threatening voice. Every eye in the room was suddenly on him wide and fearful. “Iffen you lot don' do what Sista Abernathy tells ya, I may see fit to skip over story time after she's finished with ya!”
Dismayed cries met his ears and he smiled inwardly. A playful scowl crossed his face as a young mole stood and spoke for the rest of the Dibbuns in that strange mole speech they have. “Burr naw Bruvver Folja! We'm be'd goo', we'm swurr!”
Foljer planted a fist on his hip, swished his tail and with a dubious expression he continued. “This true, you lot?” he demanded of the Dibbuns who chorused the affirmative. “Right. Well yer story time's safe fer now, but I got me eye on ya.”
The afternoon passed quickly enough and the Dibbuns, true to their word paid perfect attention. Lunch came and went and the Dibbuns returned from their meals in cavern hole ready for their story time as promised.
“Well, you little devils kept yer word eh? Looks like I'll be tellin' you lot a story after all.” Foljer's words were met with shouts of excitement as the Dibbuns settled around him for their story. Foljer settled himself with his back to the hearth on a low stool so that the flickering firelight cast dramatic shadows over him, not to mention the fire warming him comfortably.
“Now, what do you lot want to hear about?” He asked the collected children.
“Tell a story 'bout you an' th' Abbot!” one young squirrel piped up. Foljer smiled at the little one and nodded, giving a brief pause as he tossed about in his mind.
“Hmm... yeah. I think I know just the one. Now you older ones may 'ave 'eard this story before. It's one of me favorites after all. Abbot Timothy an' I, he was just Timothy back then, and this had ta' be near a score an' two seasons ago in fact. We were an adventurous sort to be sure. The two of us would find us-two up to our ears in trouble any day o' the week. We had all sorts of adventures, some more dangerous than others. The one I'll tell you lot about tonight though was our biggest adventure ever, before or since!”
The Dibbuns were quiet now, all listening intently to the story their caretaker was about to tell. They were arranged around the room on cushions and blankets to fight off the lingering chill in the air and the fire before them crackled merrily and warmed his aching back as Foljer dove into his tale.
“Now you all know about Dari, the King of Rats,” Foljer said, receiving a nod from many of the Dibbuns. “Well he was a bad one for sure. He wanted to take our fine Abbey for his. We couldn't let that happen, no sir. So ol' Timmy an' me, along with a duo of hares from the Long Patrol, the brothers Reginald and Laurence, may they rest in peace, set out to meet up with a contingency of Fightin' hares to take a gander at our foe. But that's where it stops making sense in the strictest o' terms.”
The gates of Redwall Abbey boomed closed behind the four, a mouse, a squirrel and two hares. The mouse, Timothy rested a paw on the pommel of a gleaming short sword. It was none other than the blade of Martin the Warrior, ancient founder of Redwall and guardian spirit of the Abbey. His eyes scanned the horizon. Adventurous though he was, he had never ranged so far from the safety of the Abbey walls as he was about to.
The idea was a simple one. Scout the way between the encampment of Dari the King of Rats and his vermin horde, then meet up with a contingency of Fighting hares of the Long Patrol between Dari and the Mountain fortress that was home to the Badger lords, Salamandastron. Once that was complete, they were to aid in the recovery of those enslaved in Dari's camp and then in the battle.
Beside him was his dearest friend and partner-in-crime, Foljer the Squirrel. The two were terrors in their Dibbun days and were no less so now, but when the spirit of Martin had visited Timothy one night in a dream, Foljer was eager as ever to follow along and give his aide. The brown squirrel carried, on his side, a pair of daggers he acquired from a scout sent by Dari himself. The unlucky fox had attempted to creep into the small wicker gate set in the east wall just as Foljer passed by.
The hares, twins-- or so they claimed --were hoisting their packs onto their backs, waiting for the order to move. Most found it difficult to believe they were even related, let alone twins. The first, Sgt. Sir Reginald “Short Ear” Peregrine had dark gray fur and his left ear was half the length of the right, not cut but stunted. He was fairly pudgy and bore a long cutlass at his hip. He was looking to his brother, Private Laurence Peregrine who was fiddling with the straps of his pack in a futile attempt to adjust the hulking thing. His fur was snow white with gray ranging across his back unevenly. At his side he carried a mace and buckler.
“I say, mind giving a chap a hand with this ruddy strap brother?” said Laurence, tugging again at the cord.
Sir Reginald smiled lightly as he helped to fiddle with the straps, making remark as he did. “Can't very well have all that scoff go falling on the ground eh, wot! What would a body eat?”
Foljer shook his head at the two hares and looked over to Timothy. “These hares. Think more with their guts than with their heads. Did you see all the food they managed to nick from the kitchens? Why, between the two, I'd wager they could fill every belly in the Abbey.”
Timothy gave a dry chuckle. While he appreciated Foljer's attempt to make light the situation, the fact remained that they marched into battle that day.
“Well Mates,” Timothy said, hoisting a small ruck sack higher on his shoulders. “Seems it's about time we go. You fellas ready?”
“Ready as I'll ever be, mate.” Foljer said, clapping Timothy on the back.
“We're right behind you Sah!” Said Laurence with a sharp salute and Reginald giving curt nod as well.
Timothy gave a grin at his compatriots and waved goodbye one last time to his home. With purpose, he drew the blade of Martin the Warrior and hoisted it skyward.
“REDWAAAAAALL!” He bellowed.
“REEEEEEDWAAAAAALL!” came Foljer's reply.
Beside them, the two hares hoisted their weapons and shouted the ancient battle cry of the Badger Lords. “EULALIAAAAA!!!”
A great cheer echoed from the ramparts of Redwall abbey as the Mice and shrews and moles and squirrels of the abbey bid farewell to the four heroes.
The evening had come and gone and night now blanketed the land. Timothy, Sir Reginald and Laurence all three sat crouched a good way from the road, waiting in the late shadows. Nearly an hour ago, Foljer had decided to scout ahead to try to spot any patrols. Timothy's fingertips nervously twisted a twig between themselves as he waited, eyes glued in the direction that Foljer had disappeared.
“It's been near an hour,” Laurence whispered, keeping his voice as quiet as he could while still being heard. “Mayhap something's befallen the fellow?” The wind gusted, rustling branches all around causing all three to stiffen for a moment. When no attacks were forthcoming, they relaxed marginally.
“Not bloody likely,” Timothy muttered back, snapping the little twig absently. “I've known Foljer my whole life. He'd sooner shave his tail than be caught out by the likes of Dari.”
“An' that's about as likely as ol' Timothy ere becomin' abbot!” Foljer said as he dropped from the treetops, causing the others to jump back a step and Sir Reginald to draw his cutlass. “An' 'sides. I ain't never shavin' me tail again. Not after that bet I lost on wh--”
“SHHH!” Timothy hissed, forcing his friend's mouth shut with a paw and glancing about. “You're gonna get us caught you branch skipping fool.”
Lowering his blade, Reginald bristled at the squirrel, anger writ clear on his features. “I say, I ought to give you a proper thrashing, spooking a chap like that.”
With an effort, Foljer managed to force Timothy off. “Easy mates, I got us clear a half mile in any direction. We're safe fer now. Anyway, I spotted where Dari's horde is campin' out. Couldn't count 'em proper, but I figure six, maybe seven hundred that I saw. Some of the camp was over a hill so no tellin' for sure. They're a good way off the main road.”
“Twenty and five score if not more...” Sir Reginald mused quietly, sheathing his blade and tapping a paw to his chin. “The Captain will jolly well want to hear about this. We should make haste lads.”
“Right you are, brother. We don't have a moment to spare.”
“Now wait a moment,” Timothy said, still speaking quietly. “Foljer, did you spot any captives?”
The squirrel shook his head solemnly as he fiddled with his daggers. “Not a whisker to be seen lads, nothin' but rats, foxes an' stoats. But I couldn't spy Dari neither so all's not lost.”
“Right. We need to see if we can't find out where the captives are being held.” Timothy stood at last, looking around at his comrades. “We find them, then we report to the Fighting Hares and get this whole mess cleared up.”
“We need to head along the forest edge for a bit to draw up even with the blighters,” Foljer said, pointing along the treeline before them. “There's an arm of the wood that reaches almost to their front step. We can creep up in there all secret like.”
“We hares are more a fighting sort,” Sir Reginald said, still being quiet. “ But we need to head back for the Patrol. The lads'll want to hear about what we've seen.” He looked to his brother. “What say you old chap?”
“I'll think I'll keep with the squirrel and mouse, keep a weather eye on them and keep the enemy away should they need it.”
“In that case, I'll be on my way back to the rest of the Fighting Hares. I'll have a jolly bunch o' reinforcements before you can blink lads,” Reginald said, hefting his pack more securely and beginning to move away. “You chaps stay clear o' them blighters while I'm away now.”
Timothy nodded once and turned. “It's time we went then.”
Quietly Timothy crept towards the encampment, keeping low and ducking behind trees and shrubs. Close behind him, Foljer and Laurence taking the rear guard. Twice, they were almost discovered as patrols from the camp passed close by. It was by a mixture of equal parts strategy, skill and blind luck that they found themselves abreast with the edge of the trees. As another patrol passed, the trio readied themselves to bolt for the next patch of cover.
As Foljer had said, the trees brought them near enough to the horde that they could easily strike a stoat or fox with a thrown stone. However, this brought on the added issue of making their way into the camp proper. With so many so closely packed, it would take a miracle for them to pass by unnoticed. A miracle, or one mischievous and cunning squirrel.
Acorn in hand, Foljer stalked to the edge of the trees and took careful aim. At an edgewise cluster of tents, several of the horde beasts lay about lazily. Many were asleep and it was at one of these that Foljer cast his missile. With a thwack and a howl of confused rage, a dagger wielding rat rose to his feet, a paw pressed over his bloodied snout glaring daggers at his compatriots.
“Which wunna you t'rew dat?” He demanded thickly while brandying his blade threateningly at anybeast nearby.
“'tweren't any o' us mate,” said another. “Siddown and shaddup.”
“Why you rotten little...”
The rat threw himself at the other, blade swinging but found himself hurled away. He landed in a tangle of limbs atop a weasel who promptly shoved him off and began kicking him. From there, the melee began in earnest as several of the vermin decided to join in for the sport of it all.
Timothy looked incredulously at the bedlam caused and then to the cause itself which was grinning quite proudly beside him.
“Much as I hate to say it,” Timothy said quietly, “well done mate.”
With that, he began creeping forward, staying to the shadows cast by the fires and staying near enough to the brawl as not to draw any attention but far enough to not be seen. With equal care, both Foljer and Laurence followed behind. Several moments passed where the trio ducked and dodged the odd ferret or stoat as they made their way inwards of the camp. They soon found themselves ensconced in a dense thicket near the center of the horde. From their vantage, slightly raised above the rest they were able to spy a very large tent nestled near the base of the small rise they sat atop. This, they surmised, must be Dari's lodgings.
“There's Dari,” Foljer whispered. “But where's the prisoners?”
“The blighter may not have taken any after all,” Laurence said, his brow furrowing deeply as he glared down at the tent. “We should just set fire to his tent and be done with him, I say.”
Timothy however shook his head. No matter how much he agreed with Sir Laurence, the prisoners needed to be freed.
“We stick to the plan.” Timothy whispered to his comrades. “No killin. We'll save that for the fight mates.”
“So,” Foljer began, one ear twitching at the odd sound that carried to them. “You don't suppose they got them in a tent or nothing do ya?”
Timothy thought for a moment, trying to peer through the gloom of night to spy where the prisoners may be. With no clues coming to him, he sighed.
“Seems as likely as anything else at this point.” His fingers drummed nervously against the pommel of Martin's blade as he pondered their next course of action. “It's no good. Too risky. We'll just have to pull back and give the Fighting Hares what we found. As for the prisoners, we'll hope for the best but prepare for the worst.”
“Seems sensible,” Came a deep, unfamiliar voice from behind them. The trio froze on the spot and as one, turned to look behind them. “But I could show you, if you like?” Said Dari, The King of Rats.
He was hulking specimen of his kind. His battered and scared face shone intelligent malice from every feature and around his waist he wore a belt with short bones strung along it's length. At his hip was a heavy mace with wicked spikes around it's head and a wooden handle stained blood red. His malicious grin widened as his eyes roved over the three unlucky adventurers.
“Scrimtail, Take my guests to sit with the rest. I'll be there shortly to speak with them.”
“Yes my lord!” came a scratchy reply as a scrawny ship-rat came ambling from behind Dari with two foxes and a ferret in tow. “Alright boys, you heard 'is lordship! Clap them in binds and see them to the holding pen.”
“Mighty fine work you lot, finding you way to my front door across my whole horde. But I can't help but wonder, to what end? Obviously, you knew the three of you could not hope to accomplish anything worth while. I have over a thousand warriors at my disposal. Did you hope to put an end to me directly?”
Dari stood just outside the flap of the large tent that the prisoners were hidden in. His evil eyes scanned the huddled interred with a sadistic smile. Foljer, Timothy and Lawrence all stood before him, disdain for their captor plainly evident on their faces. They had been stripped of their armaments and shackled to heavy iron rods driven deep into the ground. Dari stared at them for a moment, awaiting a response. When none came, he simply smiled.
“No matter. I will prevail, and you three along with all the others will make excellent slaves for my commanders. Or failing that, passable rations for my soldiers.”
With a final laugh, Dari turned on his heel and strode away, completely confident in his victory. When he was out of earshot, Foljer began pulling and tugging against his chains, trying to escape.
“Stupid, Stupid! Bloody brilliant of us to get caught like that.” He grunted and puffed as he strained against his binds. “Now the Long Patrol'll have save our sorry skins when they come a'chargin in 'ere an' it's all our bloody fault!”
“Calm yourself sah.” Lawrence said, putting a paw on Foljer's shoulder. “My brother, bless him, will get word to the troops and we'll be liberated within the day. All we can do now is be patient and wait.”
“He's right Folj,” Timothy assured Foljer. “Just sit down for a second. We can figure this out.”
“Bah! This squirrel won't lay down an' take it! NO SIR!” Planting his feet firmly, he began to pull even harder, trying with all his might to shift the metal spike they were chained to. “I- WON'T!” moments more and he finally collapsed panting heavily, head bowed on paws and knees. “There's gotta be somethin' we c'n do in the meanwhile...”
With a tired grunt, he flipped around onto his rump and stared out of the flaps, watching as the horde outside went about their business. The three sat for hours and hours, listening to the beleaguered moans of the other captives, Foljer occasionally pulling and thrashing against his chains only to fall still again after a moment.
As the morning sun sneaked past the treetops a very very welcome sound reached their ears. From the distance they could hear the battle cry of the badger lords echoed hundreds of times by hundreds of voices. The Long Patrol had arrived.
As the minutes passed, the sounds of battle became louder and louder. Steel on steel, the shouts of anger and wails of agony and they sat there waiting, hoping that soon, someone will come and free them.
All around them, the other captives huddled close together, fearful of the awful commotion outside. Timothy seethed in his anger at the vermin that would seek to destroy the peace that Redwall and all of Mossflower enjoyed. He longed to be out there with Lawrence and the Fighting Hares, spilling the blood of these monstrous beasts, none more so than Dari.
Suddenly, the one called Scrimtail came bursting in with two dozen other vermin in tow. He began to unlatch several slaves and the vermin began to drag them off and deeper into the camp, away from the bedlam. Scrimtail and six of his vermin turned and made for Timothy and his friends.
“You lot are comin' with me. Boss wants to deal with you personal-like, see?”
The vermin quickly pulled the iron stake from the ground and removed the chains, taking them up and with Scrimtail in the lead, began to drag Foljer, Timothy and Lawrence along behind them. Outside, vermin were pouring past towards the fighting, bellowing and whooping with blood lust. The trio were being dragged against the flow towards an earthen hill that had been hidden from view the night before. They came out from between two tents before a large fire pit where stood none other than Dari.
His features were locked in a snarl and his mace was dripping with the blood of some unlucky Hare. He was pacing back and forth but stopped short when he saw Scrimtail round the bend.
“There was a fourth, wasn't there?” he demanded. He did not raise his voice, but lowered it to a dangerous growl. “I had spies looking over these Hares for a week and suddenly they're on my doorstep, no warning. You lot were going to survive to see my victory, but now, I think I'll slay you myself and be done with it.”
Dari stalked to the side of the clearing and set his mace aside. With a wicked grin, he reached into a pile of discarded items and extracted a very familiar blade. The blade of Martin the Warrior rested in his massive paw and with a dangerous gleam in his eye he turned to the captured friends.
“Seems only fitting that you should be slain by your own blade then.” He made a gesture with his free hand and Timothy felt a paw shove him forward onto the ground. Dari loomed over the mouse, chuckling darkly. “Any last words?”
“Just one,” Timothy said, a slight smirk playing on his features. “Duck!”
Dari quirked an eyebrow before he saw Timothy's eyes locked on something behind him. Before he could turn completely, he was bowled over by a pair of hares. One of which, despite the dust and grime of the fight was unmistakeably Sir. Reginald.
Thinking quickly, Timothy rolled to his feet and rushed over to the melee in progress, and snatched the discarded sword before rounding on Scrimtail and company with a glint in his eye. Scrimtail rushed at him, his compatriots standing behind, unsure of how to proceed. Sword raised, Scrimtail attempted to strike at Timothy's shoulder.
A deft sidestep and nerve wracking maneuver placed the chain of his shackles in the path of the blade. Not expecting the force to be so great, Timothy was nearly bowled over by the force of the strike before the chain broke. Instead, he simply stumbled and barely caught his footing before the other vermin took action. With his wrists aching, Timothy backpedaled to avoid the advancing vermin. One among them, a stoat with what appeared to be a smith's hammer took courage and rushed ahead. Timothy, in his near panic brought the sword of Martin the Warrior to bare only to have it battered aside with almost mocking ease by the stoat.
A fox reached Timothy and he was forced to back up even further. With the two bearing down on him, he attempted to leap back and open up some breathing room but his heel caught a stone and he found himself sprawling on the ground, suddenly realizing that his skill in swordplay was woefully inadequate as the stoat and fox were joined by two rats. Rolling back to his feet just a split second before one of the rats was able to bury his axe in his chest, Timothy lunged at the offending rat and was able to slice along it's right arm only to have the wind knocked out of him by the stoat's hammer.
Paw pressed against his bruised ribs, the vermin were laughing at him. The others that had stayed behind were watching with amused grins. In the corner of his vision, Timothy spied the second hare that had attacked Dari, his head facing the wrong way and behind him, just out of his vision, he could hear Dari and Sir. Reginald still tussling on the ground.
Were he not surrounded by vastly more experienced fighters in the middle of a life or death situation, Timothy would have noted the odd purple color that the sky was beginning to turn and if not for the adrenalin making his extremities numb, he would have felt the tell tale vibrations in the hilt of his weapon. The vermin around him were not so distracted and as they glanced about they saw the blade of Timothy's weapon begin to gleam with purple energy.
Scrimtail was no fool. There was a very good reason that Dari had elevated him from the rabble and made him his most trusted general. His keen sense for victory and readiness to serve had brought him much acclaim and jealousy in the ranks of the vermin hoard. Seeing what was clearly some sort of magic at play, Scrimtail acted without hesitation and lunged at the mouse when his eyes were not on him. Grabbing the mouse's paw and attempting to wrench the blade away, they both fell backwards towards Sir Reginald and Dari. Landing painfully atop the tussling beasts, the world for all four and everyone within sight of the fight went bright purple.
Timothy awoke suddenly and rushed to his feet. Glancing wildly around, he spied the sword of Martin the Warrior laying in the thick loam just to his right. Rushing over, he snatched it up and glanced wildly around. He was not where he was before. The grasslands that were playing host to a grand battle were nowhere to be seen. In their place was a forest of immense proportions. The trees towered so high that he couldn't see their boughs through the impenetrable gloom that seemed to pervade the area.
Before he could look any more closely, he saw a large form begin to rise from the ground. Dari the King of Rats stumbled to his feet, looking slightly dazed as he righted himself. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Timothy who quickly raised the sword in his hands between them, only to allow the blade to drop several inches as he pressed a hand against his ribs and gave a heavy hiss.
“What in Blazes,” Dari muttered glancing around briefly before moving menacingly towards Timothy. Behind him, a stirring in the loam produced Scrimtail, sword still in paw with the other pressed to his head. As Dari approached, Timothy swung his sword wildly at the rat, discouraging him from approaching too closely. Scrimtail's eye was drawn by the motion and with a wicked grin, he began to skirt around the two, sword pointed firmly at Timothy.
“Where are we, Scrimtail?” Dari Demanded, not taking his eyes off of Timothy for an instant.
“Can't says I rightly Know yer lordship,” Scrimtail said, still circling around and making it harder and harder for Timothy to keep both of them in view at the same time. “but it's him what's brought us here. I recon his sword has some magics in it.”
Quirking a brow, Dari's eye moved to the blade in Timothy's paw.
“Give me the sword little mouse, and I'll kill you swiftly,” Dari said, a glint of malice shining in his gaze.
Timothy was straining now to keep both of his adversaries in view, shifting his focus from one to the other while keeping both in sight. He attempted to take a step back but Scrimtail simply closed the distance that he opened each time. A final rustling caught his ear and he made the mistake of glancing over at it. Catching himself too late, he forced his eyes back towards Scrimtail only to see him mid leap and slamming into his chest, knocking the sword from his hand and taking them both to the ground.
Struggling for a moment, Timothy managed to get his arms free and began to drag himself towards the sword. Just as he was reaching his paw out to grasp it, Scrimtail dug his claw into his chest where he had been injured before. Reflexively, he pulled his arms in to protect his chest and Dari reached down to scoop up the blade. Leveling the point at Timothy's throat, he smiled.
“Even lacking in skill, you put up a grand effort little Mouse,” He said, pressing the point into the soft flesh while Scrimtail held his head back so that any motion would press his neck into the blade further, quietly chuckling all the while. “But no matter. Now, I will slay you and take my spoils and lay claim to whatever wood you've taken us to.”
Raising the sword to the side to take a swift swipe at Timothy's neck, a deep bass rumbling stops him short. Whipping around, fearing a Badger Lord had accompanied the Fighting Hares of Salamandastron, instead he is met with a creature far larger than any badger. Stood on four legs, the beast seemed to be covered in moss and it's eyes glowed an otherworldly green. Stalking forward, it's form appeared to be made of wood and it's maw dripped with a strange viscous goo.
Bracing, Dari brought the sword of Martin the Warrior to bare as Scrimtail scrambled off of Timothy and began backing away from the monstrosity before them. Before any of them could move further, the creature lunged and Dari swung the sword. There was the sound of splintering wood as the blade of Martin's sword lodged itself in the muzzle of the creature which closed around Dari's arm and lifted him from the ground. Dari fough and thrashed, jabbing the beast in the eye and falling to the ground. The blade was still lodged in the beast and he scrambled to his feet and rushed after the monster, leaping onto it's side as it sped into the trees.
Scrimtail rushed to follow only to have his legs thrown out from under him with a sickening crunch as Sir Reginald drove his cutlass into the beast severing his leg at the knee. Howling in pain, the ship-rat fell to the ground, clutching at his stump, his sword laying forgotten beside him. Sir Reginald drove his cutlass into the rat's neck, silencing him before he could draw the attention of any of his allies, or, heavens forbid, another one of those wood monsters.
“I say, old chap,” Sir Reginald said, picking up Scrimtails weapon and sauntering over to Timothy, eyes still scanning the surrounding trees. “Any clue on where we've turned up, wot?”
Timothy pushed himself into a sitting position and took the sword when Sir Reginald offered it. Shaking his head, he stood and brushed the leaves and dirt from his jerkin and breeches.
“I haven't the foggiest mate. Last thing I recall, we was fighting with the vermin when everything went all purple and we showed up here... Wherever 'here' is.”
Looking around, both of them were unnerved by the dense trees around them. While nothing was particularly alarming about them, their sheer size was off-putting to say the least. Everything looked right, just... too big.
“Did you happen to see what happened to Folj' mate? Or your brother for that matter?”
Looking at the light from the window, Foljer clicked his tongue and smiled down at the Dibbuns.
“Now you lot have been verry good today so, if'n sista Abernathy is in an agreein mood, I'll pick this story up again on tha morrow,” He said, stopping the tale abruptly to much grumbling and moaning from the collected little ones. Giving a pleased grin, he stood and swept his arms wide.
“Now now, None o' that! You little rascals run along with the good sista and take your baths like good little beasties. I'll still be 'ere when you get back to tuck you all in nice and proper. And, tomorrow's no schoolin' so we'll have plenny o' time to finish up our tale.”
A bit more agreeable, the Dibbuns marched out the door at Sister Abernathy's urging. She paused before she followed them and turned to Foljer who was retaking his seat by the fire.
“Thank you kindly mister Foljer,” She said, giving a half bow and smile to the elder squirrel. “I don't know how you keep up with the wee beasties at all hours with your seasons behind you like they are.”
“Ah, I see your meanin' but it's no real struggle for me. Always been a dibbun at heart meself, so it's not too much to keep a weather eye and stop their more dangerous romaings.” Foljer leaned heavily on his cane, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Jes ask yer mum about me an' the ol' abbot some time. She'll tell you some tales that might surprise ye.”
“All the same,” the shrewmaid continued, “It's a big help. I'll get the dibbuns all washed up and in bed, then I'll come collect you to see to them.”
“Aye, you do that. I'll likely be here. Not so spry as I once was...”
Sister Abernathy turned and left, leaving Foljer to his thoughts. His mind quickly wandered to his story and the part he would be telling tomorrow. Slowly, he reached a paw up the wide sleve of his right arm and withdrew a little braided cord. At the end were several colorful tufts of fur. His eyes rested on the yellow one as he ran his paw across them and he smiled.
