User blog:Astar Goldenwing/Raven's Feather

'''This is a fan fiction story by User:Astar Goldenwing. It is not considered canon, nor is it a policy or guideline.'''

This story is loosely connected with my fan fiction ‘For Freedom’: the War of Thousand Rains, or the war with reptiles, that is mentioned in the prologue, is the same war that Longstep and One-ear from ‘For Freedom’ fought in. Besides, in the book 3 of ‘For Freedom’ another connection between the stories could be glimpsed that would play its own role. Aside from that, ‘Raven’s Feather’ is an independent story that could be read alone.

In this story, one season equals one year.

Feel free to comment at the end and correct mistakes if you want.

Prologue
The sun was rising over the lands of Southsward, bathing hills and streams in its soft golden light. The glints of dawn reflected from the water shone into the otterwife’s hazel eyes, and she shielded her face off the sun as she neared a small house on the bank of a wide river that stood among other modest cottages. Several early risers greeted her as she passed by, some of them slightly bowing their heads with respect upon seeing a circlet of woven bark on her head, a single raven feather attached to it.

“Looks like it’s going to be a good day, eh, Ravenfeather?” called a burly otter from the riverbank.

“I really hope it is, Torlak Streambattle!” she called back.

The otterwife smiled when she reached the house she was heading to, for she could hear carefree voices and happy laugher even outside. She knocked at the door and immediately let herself in without waiting for somebeast to open it. “Morning!”

She was brought down right away as a small bunch of otterbabes mobbed her with cries of “Auntie!” Two tiny twin otterbabes clutched at her footpaws, squealing with glee, while two older kits pounced round her, tugging at her paws and dress. In a moment, the otterwife tripped on one of the pouncing kits and dropped down on her knees, but she just laughed and pulled the babes into a hug.

Another adult otter, a tall grey-furred beast with clear green eyes, came to her rescue, picking up the twins. “Children, children! If you go on like that, you’ll trample your aunt down and there won’t be anybeast to tell stories for you!” That had a desirable effect: two older babes trotted away from their visitor, clutching at their father’s paws. The grey otter smiled, “Morning, Bekka.”

The otterwife was back on her footpaws in a moment. “Morning, Asrif. Morning, little ones. You’ve grown twice as big since I last saw you!”

“What do you say now, children?” asked Asrif in a stern voice.

“Sorry we knocked you over,” chorused his two oldest daughters while one of their younger brothers peeped, “Do ye blin’ sweets?”

“Of course I bring sweets,” smiled Bekka, pulling some candied chestnuts from her belt pouch and giving each otterbabe a treat.

“You’re spoiling them, sis,” sighed Asrif when the children ran away with their trophies.

She winked at him. “Somebeast has to. Now, what was that you called me for?”

“Ailika had left for the Northern village two days ago to help them with the crops, and yesterday evening the Squirrelking asked me to lead an otter guard patrol to the Blackthorn Hill – there was reported some trouble with vermin. Ailika won’t return till tomorrow, so I wondered if you could watch over the little ones.”

“Why, of course I would look after them,” smiled Bekka, remembering that her brother had only recently been promoted to the Captain of the Outer Guard, responsible for patrolling the lands away from Castle Floret. “Don’t you worry, Asrif. Are you leaving now?”

Asrif nodded, picking up a rucksack with his traveling gear, and Bekka saw her brother’s spear, cleaned and sharp, leaned against the wall as well. She raised her voice. “Kits, come and say bye to your father!”

The otterbabes rushed back to the door, almost knocking Asrif down, but he was used to such a treatment and stood his ground as he hugged his children. “Aunt Bekka will stay with you till your Mum comes home tomorrow. Behave yourselves and don’t be naughty. Fari, look over your sibs.”

The eldest kit, Farika, slim and graceful like her mother, down to the shade of her grey fur, nodded seriously, “Will do, Dad,” and puffed her chest out. Her younger sister Tarli giggled and elbowed her, and their twin brothers joined them, thinking it to be an exciting new game, and soon enough all the kits were pushing each other in a mock fight.

Once they saw Asrif off, the otterbabes had Bekka in a tight circle. “Tell us a story!” they demanded. Actually, the post of Castle Scholar belonged to Flavicollis Greyfur, and his former apprentice Twig took over the responsibilities of Castle Librarian, Archivist of Floret and Official Recorder for Southsward. However, Bekka still lived in Castle Floret and was spending a lot of time helping them, so she had a never-ending amount of stories she read from old scrolls and books she had helped to sort.

The otterwife seated herself comfortably in one of the chairs, and twins Chime and Kian immediately climbed on her lap while Fari and Tarli sat on the floor next to the chair. “So, what story should I tell you today, little ones?”

“Tell us how Southsward was freed from the Foxwolf!” demanded Tarli, and Bekka smiled, seeing the curiosity and inquisitiveness of her own cub self shining in the kit’s amber eyes. Among all the children of Asrif and Ailika, Tarli was the only one who inherited Bekka’s brown fur, making them even more similar.

Fari made a sour face at that. “What, again? We’ve heard that story at least a dozen times.”

“And so what? That’s my favorite!”

“But I want to hear something different this time!”

“Girls, no fighting,” said Bekka. “Now, I think I tell… Ouch, Chime, careful!” When she talked, one of her nephews climbed on her shoulder and now was tugging on the raven feather Bekka wore on her circlet. “You don’t want to ruin it, do you?” she asked, carefully extracting the feather from the kit’s tiny paws.

The otterbabe pouted at losing his toy. “T’is just a fevva.”

“Oh no, little one, it’s not just a feather. It’s a symbol, a sign, a mark of a hero that had once belonged to a beast before whom even the rulers bowed.” Bekka took her circlet off and held the feather for otterbabes to examine.

“There’s some grey on the tip,” Farika noticed. “And I didn’t see any grey-tipped ravens nearby.”

“Of course it didn’t belong to an ordinary raven,” Bekka winked. “It wouldn’t have been so important otherwise.”

“Auntie, why d’ye weer tis fevva?” asked Kian, tugging Bekka’s sleeve. Both he and his brother already were becoming real bundles of mischief, but Bekka could already see that Kian was more enthusiastic and eager to help, while Chime was always in search of an adventure.

“She’s wearing it ‘cause her name is Bekka Ravenfeather, you silly,” proclaimed Fari with the sense of conscious superiority.

“No, ye got it wrong! They call auntie the Ravenfeather ‘cause she’s wearing it, not vise versa!” argued Tarli.

“Then let me tell you, kits,” Bekka said with a smile. “It has a long story, this feather. If you want me to, I will tell you where it came from and to whom it were first given to, what is its meaning and why do they call me Ravenfeather. Oh, it’s going to be a glorious story, a story of sacrifice and courage where darkness and light, honor and betrayal are intertwined, a story of kings and peasants and outcasts, but most of all, it’s a story of a beast that single-handedly changed the course of the war in a day.”

“Is there going to be many battles?” Farika asked bloodthirstily.

“There are going to be fights, and daring escapes, and a struggle that is more deadly than any duel. Will that be enough for you, Fari?”

The eldest otterbabe nodded, and Tarli, being more romantic-minded, made her own inquiry. “But is there going to be love in it?”

“But of course,” Bekka smiled. “How else would you win a war if there is no love?”

“Great!” Chime and Kian chorused as one. “Tell us, auntie, tell us!”

Bekka clasped her paws to her ears in mock terror, causing the babes to giggle. Making herself more comfortable in her chair, the otterwife began her story. “So, little ones, many seasons ago…”

“How long ago?” interrupted Tarli. “Was it during the war with reptiles?”

“Yeah! The bloomin’ war with stinky, slimy, nasty toads when you and Mum and Dad fought and won!” cheeped Farika. That was her personal favorite story.

Bekka smiled at the impatient otter kit. “Actually, that happened about thirty seasons before the War of Thousand Rains started.”

“Before the war?” the kits gasped. Even though it was just ten seasons since that war ended, for them it had happened a whole lifetime ago, and everything that happened before it was regarded as ancient.

“As I said, little ones, thirty seasons prior to the War of Thousand Rains the lands of Southsward were ruled by Squirrelqueen Genevieve, who ascended to the throne when her husband died and her son, Squirrelprince Artus, was too young to become a king. One day…”

Part 1: Sail on the Horizon
Artus clung to the sheer wall of the tallest tower of Castle Floret, his claws locked securely on the tiniest cracks and chinks between the bricks. The young squirrel pushed with his hindpaws and released his grip on the wall as his leap carried him upwards, and in a moment he was sprawled against the stone face again, a good jump higher than a minute ago. As Artus righted himself for the next jump, one of his footpaws slipped and swung into the emptiness. But Artus wasn’t a squirrel for nothing. He lashed out with his bushy tail, steadying himself with two strong sweeps and regaining his balance.

The Squirrelprince continued his hurried climb toward the tower’s top till he finally pulled himself over the parapet and slumped on the warm stones, his back against the battlements. Technically speaking, Artus hadn’t reached the very top of the tower yet, since it was crowned with coned roof covered with red tile. Right at the moment Artus was sitting on a wide balcony that girdled the last level of the tower and served as a vantage-ground for sentries.

Artus had barely regained his breath when the loud sound of tramping footpaws reached his ears; the sound that was followed with the tower’s door being flung open and a young otter running out of the tower. The sight of Artus jauntily lounged on the balcony made him stop so abruptly that he stumbled over his own rudder.

Artus couldn’t help laughing at his friend’s confused look. “Haha, I beat you, Targ! Hehehee, wish you’d see your face!”

Targan Streambattle, the Squirrelprince’s best friend, blew out a long breath and shook his head. “How’d ye do it, Squire? Did ye grow wings while I wasn’t lookin’?

“Hey, I’m a squirrel. If a squirrel tells you they can climb faster than you can run the stairs, you’d better believe.”

The young otter plopped down next to Artus. “Yup, ye win.”

The look of embarrassment and bewilderment on his face brought laugh from his friend. The Squirrelprince elbowed Targ. “Hey, you was fast too. I didn’t win by far; in fact, I got there, like, a couple of minutes before you.”

The reply nudge knocked wind out of Artus’s lungs. “Ha, I knew it! I would’ve outraced ye fat nutcracker if I hadn’t tripped at the fourth stair landing!”

“What, ‘nutcracker’? I’ll get you for this, frogpaws!” Artus launched himself at Targ, who caught his wrists and rolled over. In no time both youngsters were locked in a friendly wrestle match. Targan was heavier than Artus, but the squirrel wasn’t an easy adversary, despite being shorter and chubbier than most of his kind. After all, one can’t be friends with an otter for all fifteen seasons of his life without working up some muscle.

Finally, Targ managed to pin Artus against the wall. “Do ye give up now?”

His squirrel friend frowned as he looked somewhere over his shoulder. “What’s there?”

“Come on, Squire, do ye really think I’ll fall for that old trick?”

“Hey, there is something over the horizon, honest! Looks like… like a sail or something?”

“Just give up already.”

“All right, I give up, weedbrain riverdog, now give it a look!”

Targan whipped round with a frightened expression on his face: it wasn’t like Artus to surrender so easily. He narrowed his eyes to descry a white spot near the skyline. The seashore was more than a half-day march away to the west; however, the tower was tall enough to see a thin streak of ocean at the horizon. “Yes, that’s a sail all right,” he confirmed.

“And it certainly doesn’t look to be one of the fishing boats.”

“Nope, it’s not.” Targ squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to discern details. Artus could have had better eyesight, but the otter had better knowledge of ships. “It’s a sea-faring ship, double-decked, with two masts.”

Artus tapped his paw on the parapet. “I can see only one sail, not two. And how by the four seasons do you know how many decks are there?”

“Hey, I come from the line of sea-farers, matey!”

Trying to make Targan stop boasting about his ancestors was what Flavicollis, the Archivist of Floret called ‘causa mortis’, a dead business. Several generations prior to Ugran Nagru’s invasion, a crew of otters sailed to Southsward. They said they were members of Streambattle clan from far-away land called Green Isle that had left their home in search of adventures. They finally settled in Southsward, mixing with local otters and founding Holt Streambattle. Considering the time that had passed since those days, there couldn’t be more than an ounce of original Streambattle founders’ blood flowing in Targ’s veins, but he seemed to inherit their love of sea and sailing nonetheless, despite being a river otter and not the sea one. “All right, Targ, double-decked she is. Don’t you think that she looks awfully similar to the ships pirates use?”

“The ship does look like one… though it’s unlike pirates to sail there in broad daylight. Anyway, we have to tell yer mother right away!”

That evening, a host of beasts lined up the Western Shore. Autumn hadn’t yet sunk its claws into the lush forests of Southsward, but there, on the coast, its close arrival was especially evident as the icy wind blew from the water.

At the head of the group stood Squirrelqueen Genevieve, a tall red squirrelwife with such a regal bearing that she wore cream blouse and long cream skirt in a manner one would wear royal mantle. She was surrounded by a score of otter guard led by Seguro Streambattle, Targan’s father. Farther away one could see gathered members of Holt Downriver – otter settlement a little distance away from the mouth of the river. And there was Barktooth, the Head Herbalist of Floret, and his assistants, ready to help if the ship carried woodlanders. Artus and Targ were there as well, standing with their parents. The eyes of every single beast were fixed on the sea, on the object of their worry.

The ship made a good distance by that time and now neared the shore. Just as Targan had said, she was a middle-sized vessel with two masts. However, the ship was reduced to little more than a wreck after the voyage: one of the masts was broken, the sail on the other mast tattered, the rigging torn or tangled, a large part of starboard rails missing. Still, the ship bore a figurehead carved in a form of grinning rat skull and boards painted red and black, identifying it as a pirate ship.

“Strange – there’s nobeast abroad: neither on the deck, nor on the rigging,” observed the Squirrelqueen. “Be careful, Seguro, it may be a trap.”

“They won’t take Southswards unawares, Your Majesty. I guess they are in a hearing distance now.” The otter put his paws to his mouth and shouted deafeningly, “Ship ahoy! Who are ye an’ what do ye want? If ye come with evil intent, ye better turn back ‘afore ravens pick on yer bones!”

Slowly, a paw was lifted above the ship rail, waving a dirty and bloody rag that had probably once been a white handkerchief. “Help! Beg help, succor and healing!..” called a voice – just as weak as the sluggish movement of the paw.

Seguro exchanged a look with the Squirrelqueen before shouting a reply. “If ye’re goodbeasts, change course and head for the south! There’s a cove ye can dock in!”

The ship showed no signs of changing course – it was heading straight landwards. When it became clear that the ship’s crew, whoever they were, had no intention of obeying the order, Seguro repeated it. “Steer south, on board! Ye change course right away, or ye run into…”

However loud the Skipper’s cry had been, it was completely drowned by a crackle that followed. The ship began to shudder and started to move more slowly, like a beast walking against the wind. With a concluding crash, she stopped short at an arrow’s flight from the shore.

“…Shallows,” Seguro finished in the silence that followed. He frowned, “By the sound of it, those fellows got themselves a breach in the hull. I’ll have a look now.”

“Don’t be rash,” Genevieve advised. “Take your guard with you. Who can say they’re not vermin setting up an ambush?”

The boats had already been prepared, and three of them departed for the ship, six otters in each. The Streambattle leader gave a signal to rest on the oars some way off the ship’s portside and dived in the water with the dagger in his teeth. Silent as a snake, he climbed the board and disappeared behind the untouched part of the rail.

In a minute that seemed a whole hour for those waiting on the shore, he reappeared, a limp mouse in his paws. “Hoi, Barktooth, get your crew up there! They’re goodbeasts in need!”

This broke up the tension that was slowly rising among Southswardeners. The beasts rushed to the rest of the boats, healers, volunteers and gawkers alike. For a moment, turmoil almost reigned, but then Barktooth, a very strict squirrel, restored the order with several stern commands. In a much more organized manner, the boats pushed off the shore, Artus and Targ occupying one of them.

Seguro was patiently waiting for the healers to arrive so that he could give the unconscious mouse into their custody. “Poor guy must’ve passed out right after givin’ the signal,” he said. “Well, it’s not like he could steer the ship in any case, the wheel is all in splinters.”

The rest of the otter guard had already inspected the vessel; there was nobeast on the deck besides the steermouse, so they led the herbalists to the hold. Artus couldn’t suppress a cough when the door was opened: the air inside was so stifling that it made breathing difficult. Then he saw them – many, oh so many of mice, moles and squirrels laying pell-mell on the floor, some sprawled on bare wood, some having the luxury of old rags wrapped around them. Almost all of them were unconscious, and those few still in their senses reacted only by lifting their heads or opening their eyes, too weak to do anything else.

Artus, as well as most of the others, was stunned by the sight. But not Barktooth. He knelt next to an unconscious grey-furred mousewife and performed an intricate magic ritual, incomprehensible to anybeast save other herbalists: felt the mousewife’s forehead, dump with cold sweat despite the hot, pulled down her eyelid and looked her in the eye, forced her mouth open and smelled her breath. Finally, he trickled several drops of some mixture in her mouth and declared his verdict. “Severe case of starvation and dehydration, coupled with fever. No external wounds. It seems to be the case with the rest as well. Prescribed some hawtea as tonic, but no more than a few drops to wet their lips. They are to be wrapped in warm blankets and carefully carried outside, with as little disturbance as possible.”

And then Barktooth moved to the next patient, an elderly squirrel with silver-grey pelt. This one was still in his senses; he shrank away when the herbalist bowed over him, mumbling in delirium, “No, no, never again! You won’t get me, vermin, won’t come back, better die – augh-ch!..” The rest of his muttering was lost in a fit of coughing.

Barktooth put some herb pulp on the elder’s chest and began to rub it in gently, soothing him softly, “You’re among friends, and there are no vermin, you have my word for it. We will take care of you now, we’re friends…”

“Friends…” sighed the squirrel sleepily, but then grabbed Barktooth’s paw in another fit of morbid agitation. “Beware of vermin! They’re after us, close, close, they got us, they’ll get you too!..”

“So these poor beasts are pursued by vermin,” said Targan as Barktooth was calming down the old squirrel. “Dad should know it.” And the young otter dashed outside, calling loudly for his father.

Artus stayed, helping the healers, mainly wrapping the ill in thick clothes, wetting lips of unconscious and murmuring words of hope to conscious and, more often than not, calling for more experienced healers when encountering seriously ill beasts. As he worked, one thing had caught his attention: all the beasts on the ship had their fur in various shades of grey or grey-brown, even black pelts of moles had a kind of grey rime on their coats.

At last, his curiosity got the better of him. “Uncle,” he called to Barktooth. Actually, the herbalist was his father’s cousin and not brother, making him Artus’s uncle once removed, but Artus had been calling Barktooth ‘uncle’ since he learned to talk. “Uncle, why is these beasts’ fur so grey? They couldn’t have all turned grey with age; this one is younger than me,” the Squirrelprince pointed at a young squirrelbabe Barktooth was treating.

“For the same reason your fur is bright red like your mother’s and mine and your father’s is brown. We originate from the different places: your mother from Castle Floret, your father and I from Barkwood Grove to the south, that’s why our fur color differs. I’d say these beasts came from somewhere far north.” After this speech, the squirrel herbalist gave Artus a strict glare. “Now stop chattering and get back to work, if you want these beasts to recover and be able to talk to you!” He carefully picked the squirrelbabe up and carried her to where the ottercrew was transporting sick beasts to the shore. The babe was conscious, but not quite realizing where she was or what was going on, and she wept loudly in Barktooth’s paws.

Another squirrelmaid of about Artus’s age struggled to get up as she had heard the cry. “No! Wind, wind!” Artus hurried to lay her back down, but the bone-thin maid proved to be stronger than she seemed, pushing him off with her paws. “No, no! Wind! Wind!”

“You’re among friends, you’re safe,” tried to persuade her Artus. “No wind can get you there, whatever you refer to.”

The maid stared at him as if he was an idiot and with her last bit of strength flung her paw toward the healers carrying away the squirrelbabe. “Windrose! Sister!”

“Your sister will be all right,” quickly reassured her Artus. “The healers will take good care of her. They are helping her.”

He failed to convince the squirrelmaid of it, though, as she went on fighting with him. “Leave her alone! She’s just a babe, she did you nothin’!”

Artus saw that the maid’s eyes were cloudy with tears and realized she wasn’t seeing who she had struggled with. Obeying a sudden impulse, he grabbed her paw and put it on his head so that she could feel his ears. “Tufts, see? How many vermin with tufted ears are there? I’m a squirrel, I’m trying to help you.”

The squirrel maiden brushed her paw over Artus’s ears several times. That motion somehow calmed her down. “Squirrel? Not vermin? Where’s Windrose? Are you here, Wind?”

Fortunately, another healer came over to help Artus, treating the maiden with hawtea tonic and some other mixture. Still mumbling her sister’s name, the young creature was put to sleep.

It was decided to place the sick beasts in Holt Downriver till they recovered enough to sustain the journey to Castle Floret. The otters of the holt vacated several houses to be used as temporary hospital. Southsward healers had to look after a little less than a fourscore of patients, almost half of them being on their breaking point. Much to the grief of every Southswardener, it turned out that not all survived this voyage: along with the sick beasts the bodies of a dozen woodlanders were taken off the ship.

In several days, the beasts started coming to their senses: those laying unconscious finally opened their eyes and those laying in the painful delirium could now talk sense. At that time, the story behind this mysterious appearance of the ghost ship was revealed by a mole named Gritsoil, who served as the newcomers’ leader.

True to Barktooth’s guess, they originated from one of the Northern Islands where the snowy winter was twice as long as the rainy summer. Still, squirrels, mice and moles grew and harvested some vegetables and crops and led a peaceful life – until one day a ship full of ermines moored on the isle. The white-coated vermin rushed the islanders, who had no fighting experience, and conquered them in a single day. The ermine warlord declared himself the King of the Snows, and all surviving isledwellers became slaves to His Snowy Majesty. For several long seasons they worked their paws to the bones so that their slavers could indulge in the relative luxury of royal life. Gritsoil saw an opportunity when another ship arrived to the isle. This ship belonged to a crew of grey rat pirates whose Captain happened to be the old friend of His Snowy Majesty, and for three days both ermines and rats roistered, gambled and drunk. On the third day, when not a single vermin could stand on his footpaws without falling, Gritsoil organized the escape.

The first part of their plan – to board one of the ships and sail away, - went smoothly. But then the problems started. First, the islanders were in such a hurry that they hadn’t taken enough supplies of food and water with them, and the ship’s own stores were dwindled, so the runaways had to distribute them carefully and much too soon stronger beasts started refusing their rations in favor of their weaker companions. Second, none of the runaways had any nautical or seafaring experience, and none of them could work the ship’s rigging or steering wheel. They had no idea where they were sailing to; at first, they tried to orient themselves using the sun, but very soon they got lost and were drifting without any direction. And third, Gritsoil hadn’t thought about damaging the other ship, so the runaways saw vermin on their tails very soon. The ermines and rats were far better seafarers and had almost caught their quarry several times. Fortunately or not, both ships were caught in a strong current that hauled them south. Using their superior skills and numbers, the vermin succeeded in closing the gap between ships.

Gritsoil wasn’t sure what happened next, for he was afraid that he had not been able to distinguish his feverish delirium from reality, but Squirrelqueen Genevieve and other Southswardeners immediately recognized it for the truth. He had spoke of a true nightmare, a gigantic green whirlpool that roared like ten thunderstorms put together and whirled around like a tornado, with a massive hole at its center that seemed to suck into itself all the water from the ocean. The huge waves taller than the oldest oak tree caught both ships and hurled them round like nutshells. Nobeast had known and nobeast would ever know how they survived this Hellgates-like place. Most probably some wayward wave had thrown them aside, as a little babe would throw aside a toy they got bored with. Then even those few who could still stand on their footpaws succumbed to the feverish daze. They hadn’t come to their senses until awakening in the Southsward’s temporary hospitals.

“That’s Roaringburn current that had brought yer ship here,” said Seguro when Gritsoil finished his story. “And that whirlpool you faced is called Green Maelstrom, the most dreadful place in the Western Ocean. Throughout the recorded history of Southsward, no more than half a dozen ships had ever succeeded in passing it, and all of them were skilled seafarers. With luck, vermin that pursued ye are feeding the fish at the ocean bottom now. But if they survived, my otter guard would see to them.”

“Thunk ee, koind mur’m an’ zurs,” said the mole in his thick accent. “We ure indubt’d to ee.”

“Don’t mention it again,” replied the Squirrelqueen. “We goodbeasts should help each other, shouldn’t we?”

Artus and Targ were with their parents when Gritsoil had recalled the story of their ordeal. Once the mole closed his eyes, settling into healing sleep, two friends tiptoed their way out of the house. The moment they were outside Targan slammed his fist in the palm of his other paw. “Grr, how I wish these scurvy blaggards survived the Maelstrom after all!”

“Do you, Targ?” said Artus rather absent-mindedly. “Why?”

The young otter repeated his gesture. “The Maelstrom is too easy for that scum! Wish I could meet them sword to sword and show them how the otter guard fights, for all that they did to those poor beasts! I’d… Hey, what are you doing, Squire?”

As the two youngsters slowly walked down well-trodden path Artus took care to peek into every house they had passed. “I’m looking for somebeast,” he explained. “I want to talk to… Ah, there she is! Wait a minute, will you?” The Squirrelprince slipped into one of the houses, treading lightly among the beds so not to disturb the sick.

After a momentary hesitation, Targan followed him. “Squire, wait for me,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

The beast Artus was looking for lay in the bed some distance away from the door. The young squirrelmaid wasn’t asleep and followed Artus’s approach with her light blue eyes.

“Hi,” whispered Artus, suddenly nervous. “You probably don’t remember me; I was helping healers back on the ship…”

“I do remember you, though vaguely,” the maiden said just as quietly, glancing round to make sure they didn’t wake anybeast.

“Oh, that’s good. I brought news of your sister.”

The squirrelmaid bolted uptight, her paw gripped Artus’s with a force. “Windrose! Where is she? Why is she not there with me? Is – great seasons, is she alive?”

Targan patted the maid’s grey shoulder. “Whoa, missy, not so loud, or old Barktooth will send us to scrub dishes for a month.”

She barely noticed him; all her attention was on Artus. “Wind is the only family I have. Tell me about her!”

“She’s alive and well, and recovering fast,” Artus reassured her. “I asked Barktooth about her health just this morning. The only reason you couldn’t see her was that she had been placed into the ward for recovering beasts, and you lay in the one for seriously injured patients. Barktooth said that your sister was in better conditions than most.”

“I’ve been giving her my share of food and water,” the squirrelmaid whispered. “But I was afraid it wouldn’t be enough. Great seasons, she’s so young and small…”

“She is well,” Artus said firmly once more.

“Thank you for telling me,” said the maiden. “I’m Skylily.”

“Skylily,” Artus breathed out. “It suits you.” The squirrelmaid was graceful and delicate, almost like a flower, and her fur was light grey, the color of a winter sky. Out loud, he said, “I’m Artus, and this ruddertail here is Targan.”

“Hmm, I thought your name was Squire?”

Targ chuckled, and Artus had to elbow him. “That’s more of a nickname this riverdog calls me, short for Squirrelprince.”

“Prince? Wait, you – you’re a prince?” Both young beasts nodded, and for a moment Skylily looked at them wide-eyed. Then she laughed nervously. “Ha, I see now, it’s a joke. Is it a joke?”

“We there in Southsward don’t cling to formalities,” explained Targ. “Squire doesn’t wear fancy mantles or crowns, and nobeast wastes time to bow and scrape, but he’s the real prince.”

“Ooh. Then I’m pleased to meet you, Your Highness.”

Targan couldn’t leave it without comment. “Highness, you say?” He patted his noticeably shorter friend on his head indulgently. “Afraid Artus is a bit short for ‘Your Highness’, haha!”

Indignant, Artus stomped on the otter’s rudder, and Targ jumped up, the comical expression of the infinite suffering on his muzzle.

Skylily smiled, her good mood returned. “You aren’t like the other princes I knew.”

“And how many other princes did you know?” Artus regretted asking that just as this question had left his mouth.

“Only one,” the maiden said tautly. “He ordered my mother whipped for not bowing to him fast enough. His executioner had beaten her to death.”

“I’m sorry,” Artus said just as Targan clenched his fists, growling, “Great Salt Seasons, I would soo much like to strangle that blackscum with his own entrails!”

Artus tactfully attempted to change the topic. “Skylily, I’ll ask Uncle Barktooth if Windrose can visit you once she recovered enough. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind her coming over.”

“Thanks again.” Skylily smiled and added a bit shyly. “Will you two come visit me with her?”

Artus smiled back. “Of course we will.”