User blog:ScottyBlue/Little Flower: A Redwall Story

Disclaimer
Special thanks to Meeka for her advice, which inspired this story; the credit for the leading female character goes entirely to her and I beg her indulgence for the minor changes I have made.

Before We Begin
This is a new fanfiction story that I plan to work on once Gingiverian is finished. It is a companion story to Gingiverian so I would recommend reading that one first, though I will try my best not to make doing so completely necessary. I will probably not be updating this until I finish Gingiverian but to give you a taste of what is to come I am going ahead and posting this Prologue and first chapters. Please comment and let me know if you think this will be a good story. God Bless! :)

--Scotty Bluefleck O Sword of Truth! Fly swift and sure, that Evil die and Good endure! 03:00, October 23, 2011 (UTC)



=Little Flower: A Redwall Story=

Prologue
Without a doubt, the best place to be with friends on a windy, clear, winter night is around a fire. There is something hypnotic, almost magical about watching the flames flicker, sending patterns of gold light about the company assembled; something that causes creatures almost unconsciously to relax, to forget disputes and squabbles,and to reminisce about days past and fond memories. Few travelers on this earth would have declined an offer to gather in good company about a fine blaze, listen to the peaceful crackling, sing songs, and swap stories; on such a cold night as this, it would seem almost against nature to continue on ones journey when such enjoyment could be attained.

Stiff winds and rapidly freezing seaspray on the decks and rigging had forced the crew of the good ship Reckless to come to this same conclusion. As he had sailed the area before, the Captain knew there was a large, empty seaside cave nearby; he ordered his crew to drop anchor and put ashore, bringing firewood and food supplies from the galley with them. Within a very short time, a large bonfire was blazing merrily away, with the majority of the chilled and sniffling crew huddled close together about it. Smaller fires had been lit in the back of the cave for cooking and warming drinks, and were being attended to by a few female beasts; the rest settled down to thaw by the bonfire, soon filling the cave with raucous singing and laughter.

As the gold and yellow lights began to cast their spell of languor, and the noise died down to a happy, relaxed murmur, some beasts began to drop off to sleep. The youngest members of the crew, however, were still in a state of excitement, and made it clear they were not about to drop off to sleep any time soon. When it became apparent that no more songs or jokes were forthcoming from the adult beasts, one very determined shrewbabe raised a chant among the toddlers and young ones. "We wanna story! We wanna story! We wanna story!"

They trailed off when a big ottermum named Starburst frowned disapprovingly at them, but gave a hearty cheer when she demanded of the lazing beasts about her, "Well? Ain't ye lazybums got ears? The babes wanna story!"

As it seemed everybeast agreed that a story would be the best way to end the evening, but nobeast agreed on who should tell it, Starburst inquired of the babes. "Who do ye want to tell the story?"

There was no hesitation; the little ones clamored noisily and unanimously, "Cap'n Vac! Cap'n Vac!"

Vaccar Swiftship, Captain of the Reckless as well as official steersbeast, stood and bowed amidst a torrent of applause from his crew. The Reckless was inhabited almost entirely by seafaring, adventure-seeking otters, with one or two small families of like-minded shrews; Vaccar, however, was an exception to this rule. He was, in fact, a very big weasel, though by personality he could have just as well been a particularly peaceful otter. Unlike the vast majority of his kind, Vaccar was a gentle and caring beast, and could by no means be classified with other weasels as a "vermin". Besides his unsurpassed skill as a sailor of ships, he had quite a reputation for getting along famously with little ones; thus, he was very frequently called upon to entertain his young friends, a task he enjoyed even more than they did. He pulled up a stone and sat upon it, rubbing his paws together. "Well, liddle mateys, which story do we want tonight, eh?"

The shrewbabe who had started the clamor thought about this for a moment. "Tella story 'bout you!"

The big weasel's paw was twice the size of the shrewbabe's head; however, Vaccar lifted the little one with as soft a touch as a dove's wing and sat him upon his lap, shaking his head smilingly. "No, no, matey, I told ye afore ye don't wanna hear me own life story. 'Ow bout the "Frog and the Fish"?"

The babes were indignant; one little ottermaid piped shrilly. "We heard dat 'fore a'ready a t'ousing times!"

Vaccar made several more suggestions, but they too were flatly turned down. Starburst decided to speak out again. "Come on, Cap'n, why won't you ever tell 'em your story? Some of us oldbeasts wouldn't mind hearin' it, too."

From about the bonfire came murmurs of assent; the weasel sighed heavily. "Well, I ain't never told it afore an' I ain't so sure how t'begin. Besides, it's really sad an' really scary in parts."

The shrewbabe gave the weasel an affectionate hug. "It gotta happy end, tho, don' it?"

The smile reappeared on the weasel's face as he returned the hug. "'Course it does, liddle matey. Tell ye wot, I'll get good an' started, an' if it's too bad an' scary ye let me know an' I'll stop meself. Deal?"

The last part of the sentence was almost drowned by the little ones' cheering; eagerly, they flung themselves to the mossy cave floor, gazing up at the storyteller with rapt attention. Quaffing the beaker of warm cider a kindly shrewmum had given him, Vaccar took a deep breath and began his tale, his voice becoming more grammatical and less nautical as he progressed.

"Now, this story ain't all about jus' me, cause there ain't no fun in that an' you lot'd get bored. It's about many beasts; some of 'em you know and some you don't. It's about lots o' villains, terrible villains so horrible they beggar description; but it's also about goodbeasts, and how one act of kindness can turn into somethin' momentous that would last a lifetime. Imagine back many seasons, little ones, on a cold winter night much like this, long ago. Imagine a cold shore in the tall cliffs far south of here, covered in little painted tents and filled with weasels, much like myself, only in some ways vastly different....."

Chapter One
He was considered the most dangerous beast in the South. Pitiless, emotionless, ruthless, and savage, he had built such a reputation for slaughter that there were beasts of the opinion it was certain death to even speak his name aloud. Others believed he was not even so much a beast as a force of nature, who could not be beaten by any mortal agency. Even the tribe he ruled, with their reputation for cold brutality, quivered in the presence of Redfang, Master of Destruction!

The albino weasel was neither young nor old, full of muscle and sinew, with long black claws and blood red eyes capable of no emotion save cold dissaproval. Both his upper canines were unusually long, and protruded past his chin even when his mouth was closed; as he had the barbaric habit of eating all his meat raw and uncooked, his muzzle and teeth were constantly stained the horrible dark rusty color which gave him his name. Like all of his exclusively weasel horde, known simply as "The Destruction", he wore fine and intricately designed clothes sewn from otherbeasts hides. It was also the custom of a Destroyer to tattoo red swirls and symbols on his paws, adding a new one for each beast slain to symbolize the blood now on their heads; Redfang's tattoos currently spread from claw to shoulder, and he had recently started on his footpaws by necessity.

Redfang had need of no weapon, as his formidible canine teeth and long claws were weapons enough; however, he always carried a long and fireblackened sword, which he never cleaned, as a symbol of office. He ruled solely by strength and savagery; none dared oppose him now, as the few that had tried now adorned his cape. His latest exploit, now successfully accomplished, had further proved to his crew his might, and firmly established him as an awesome power in the Southlands.

There had once been another weasel with the title of "most dangerous beast in the South"; a beserk female, insane from many headwounds recieved in the past. Her name was Skrugg, and she dwelt in a desolate desert plateau far inland, where she would hide in the sand and leap out to attack any creature who tresspassed in her territory. Her inflamed brain took positive delight in the torture and agony of otherbeasts, and her mangy, disheveled appearance, bloodshot yellow eyes, and mad laughter were said to be able to kill a creature on their own, no extra weapons needed. One unlucky Destroyer had, some time ago, made the mistake of voicing the opinion that even Redfang wouldn't dare to venture into Skrugg's territory. The warlord had overheard; after a rather horrible execution of the one who had spoken, which will not be dwelt on here, Redfang had ordered the entire horde to leave their homes on the southern coast and march inland. The Destruction had assumed their famed and feared leader would seek out and slay Skrugg, as was his usual method of campaign; however, he had astounded them all by wooing her, wedding her, and taking her back to the coast with him, within the space of a single season! Redfang had, with a cunning and suprising move, proved once more that he was a force to be reckoned with; he could keep a reputed mad she-demon in check, and actually take her as a wife! Truly he was a power unlike that the world had ever before seen; truly, he was the Most Dangerous Beast in the South!

Several seasons had passed since this event, and the Destruction was once more encamped in their coastal territories. Redfang sat outside his tent, his cloak flapping in the breeze as he stared flatly at the ebbing sea. Behind him, his tribe argued and squabbled; the warlord payed them no heed. It was only natural, when there were no goodbeasts or rival gangs to terrorize, that the violent beasts would begin fighting amongst themselves, each trying to prove that, aside from the cheiftain, he was the best and strongest Destroyer. This was such an everyday occurance that Redfang didn't even bother to watch the fights anymore; anybeast who might be badly wounded, or lose his life, wasn't a good enough fighter anyway and was therefore expendable in his opinion.

A very fat and very old female rat emerged from Redfang's tent and threw herself prostrate at his feet. The white weasel remained immovable, focused on the horizon, not even deigning to look at her. His voice was harsh rasp, due to a terrible throat wound he had once recieved in his younger seasons. "Get up, ye useless lump, and spit it out, whatever it is."

Thringle the Healer was the only rat in the horde; she was not an official Destroyer, but had been taken captive from her own tribe because Redfang had thought one knowledgeable in herb lore might come in useful around his bloodthirsty band. She rose laboriously, touching her wrinkled ear in salute, showing the shackles and chains that held her forepaws close together. "Master, the babe has been born, and if you don't act quickly, I believe Skrugg might slay it."

Redfang's cold, unnerving glare bored into her. "It it male or female?"

Thringle gulped. "Male, sire."

In a swirl of cloaks and furs, Redfang leapt up and entered his tent. Two other female weasels had bound his mad wife to a tent pole, but she had still managed to inflict rather bad wounds upon them. One of them, nursing a bitten footpaw, held the newborn babe. "Lord, your son..."

The midwife got no further, as Skrugg made a lunge and she was forced to leap back. The mad weasel was shrieking and spitting saliva through clenched teeth. "Kill it! Kill it!"

Redfang took the infant and held it aloft; nodding in approval of what he saw, he dismissed the healers, who were only too glad to flee Skrugg's prescence. Redfang's scarlet eyes bored into his wife's; he began chanting hypnotically. "No kill, not now. Easy, easy."

Slowly, reluctantly, Skrugg quieted down. Redfang continued his chant as he drew his sword and cut her bonds. She half leapt up, as if to attack; however, she soon subsided to her husband's wishes. Redfang handed the babe back to her. "If you wish to continue to live, you will not slay my son. Is that clear?" As it obviously was not, he returned to the sporadic language mode she best understood. "No kill my son. You die if kill my son."

She was suddenly like a little babe herself, grinning sheepishly at him. "No kill yore son. I be good."

Redfang beckoned a cowering Thringle to his side. "You, help her to nurse the babe until he is old enough to fend for himself, then do not interfere. Let her treat him how she pleases, short of killing him. Whether he will succeed me as Warlord I do not know, but if he is to be a Destroyer he must learn the ways of violence and death as early as possible."

Thringle bowed. "Your word is my command, Master."

Redfang gave a snort of contempt. "I know that already, you driveling idiot. Get out of my sight and take your useless flowery phrases elsewhere."

As Thringle led Skrugg back to her own tent, the Warlord shrugged, grabbing a raw fish from his food supply and crunching into it. The tribe had too many females - nearly four times as many as males - so any new he-weasels were always welcome. However, Redfang would not devote himself to rearing a son; after today, his paws were washed of the matter forever.

In his mother's arms, the newborn weaselbabe wailed and cried unceasingly, as if already aware of the horrible, cruel, unfriendly, loveless world he had entered.

Chapter Two
Ten seasons is a long span of time; the golden-furred dormouse, esconced comfortably in the crook a large alder bough made as it joined to its trunk, was fully aware of this. It had been ten seasons since the tribe he led had left their old home to come to this gloomy, smelly, treacherous wetlands forest; with hard work and perseverance, they had managed to transform the mess into some semblance of a village, with platforms between the close-knit boughs, and huts and dwelling places constructed within the very trunks of the strongest trees. Fruits, vegetables, fishing, and drinking water were plentiful in the region, and the weather stayed mild most of the year; nonetheless, the fact remained that the swamp was a stinking, dismal, forbidding land, highly dangerous with its bogs, toads, and poisonous serpents. However, neither the dormouse nor his tribe had any desire to leave, or to return to the lands of their forefathers; in fact, it would have been considered a madness of the first degree to suggest such a thing.

For untold generations, the Branchbounder tribe of Dormice had dwelt in the far south, in a small, scrubby, high-altitude coniferous forest. Life was somewhat difficult in the pine groves. Naturally-growing food was scarce, and what few crops could be sustained had to be painstakingly tended to in order to keep them alive. Large pieces of wood were unavailable; proper homes could not be built, forcing the creatures to construct ramshackle tents and wigwams of woven grass and twigs. Because of the dry climate (it only rained heavily during the winter) temperatures rose to a miserable level during the day, then dropped sharply to freezing during the night; however, no large fires could be built, due to the lack of kindling and the danger they posed to the pine grove. Despite these setbacks, the Branchbounder community was thoroughly content with its situation; they would cheerily tend to their work during the day, relaxing in comfy, warm huddles under thick woven blankets at the nighttime, filling the groves with their singing and storytelling on a constant basis.

The Branchbounders, like all the beasts in the Southlands, were well aware of the existance of The Destruction; in fact, the barbaric weasels' camp was located less than a league westward, slightly inland from the coast. However, the dormice and the weasels had not bothered with one another for many seasons, as the distance between the coastal cliffs and the little pine grove was entirely covered by a plateau desert, with no vegetation and very few rocks tall enough to offer any shade. Trouble had begun when a severe drought had attacked the southern lands, drying up all the springs and thin streams for dozens of leagues around into strips of muddy sand. The goodbeasts who inhabited the deserts, being intellegent beasts, had long been prepared for this eventuality; their ancestors had dug many wells, from which the life-sustaining liquid could be raised. The Branchbounders also had a series of wells - half a dozen, in fact. On the other side of the coin, Redfang and his Destroyers' limited brains did not run to preparing supplies for themselves; they were used to easy pickings, and when they could not get what they wanted, they would simply plunder otherbeasts for it. When a large number of the weaker weasels had perished from thirst, and the rest were so ill that open mutiny against their leader had begun to enter their desperate minds, Redfang had decided enough was enough; with the aid of his mad wife, he had bullied The Destruction into marching inland once more, in search of water.

As it so happened, the Branchbounder pine grove contained the nearest sources of water. Walldoh, the young cheiftain of the Branchbounders, had seen the weasels coming; he had immediately ordered his entire tribe to arm themselves with bows and slings, and to surround their pine grove to keep the weasels away. Redfang had known his thirst-weakened beasts did not want an all-out war; though it was foreign to his nature, he had tried to talk peaceably with Walldoh Branchbounder, and to reach an agreement. However, the golden dormouse would never agree to sacrifice his lands, and the lives of some of his beasts, to the cannabalistic weasels, no matter how much booty, protection, and promises Redfang offered.

When it became clear no peace could be attained, the battle had begun. It was a bloody conflict, with severe loss of life on both sides; however, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Walldoh and his remaining creatures had been left with no choice but to flee for their lives, leaving their ancestral homes behind. They had to run, off and on, for over three days before the vengeful Destroyers finally halted and turned back; the pitiful remnants of the once-mighty Branchbounder tribe had continued traveling along the coast, wanting to put as much distance between the now-despised Southlands. For many seasons they had traveled; finally, they had come across the swamplands deep in Mossflower Country. Allying themselves with a small group of squirrels and dormice already living there, who had no leader and were only too willing to let the more experienced beasts take over, the Branchbounders had once again established themselves as a colony. Now, they were a happy group again, though they took encounters with vermin much more seriously than previously, sniping with arrows any creature that seemed to be a threat to the peace of their home.

Alone in the alder bough, a now-grown Walldoh polished his bow lovingly, ruminating on past events. Over twoscore dormice had perished in the Great Fiasco (as he called it), either slain in the attack, or succumbing to the harsh elements in the long, grueling trek to Mossflower. Walldoh was not a vengeful beast, and, unlike most beasts in his position, harbored no desire to someday hunt down and slay his enemy; however, he had for many seasons wished he could have had that season to do over again, and slain Redfang with a well-aimed arrow on the spot instead of deliberating to listen to his horrific wishes. He wished desperately he had instigated the attack, taking out as many Destroyer weasels as he could; had he done so, maybe the fight would have been knocked out of them, and the battle would have gone differently. Now, of course, the brutes' ever-expanding territory now included the lands that his fathers had lived upon for generations; who knew how many beasts they might have in their evil grip even now?

Walldoh's pretty wife, Wardah, climbed up to join him; she noticed the look on his face and sighed frustratedly. "Sure, an' aren't ye the mopey one, Walldoh Branchbounder. Nivver will ye let it go, no indeed ye won't; not even ten seasons since th' day!"

Walldoh threw his bow down angrily. "An' how would ye suggest I let it go? Faith, wifey, t'was near half our tribe we lost, so it was. What if nobeast stops them Destroyer boyos afore they decides t'take over the whole land, eh? They'll jus' continue livin', slayin', breedin' like a batch o' bitin' ants, indeed they will!"

Wardah grabbed her fuming husband's paw tightly, addressing him in a friendly but firm tone. "And so we will, too. T'was a terrible day, an' we should never forget our fallen kin, no indeed. But we must keep livin'; what's past can't be changed even if'n ye wanted to, so it can't. Ye've moped for the dead long enough, Walldoh Branchbounder; now t'is time to rejoice in life, so t'is."

She laid his paw on her fat little stomach; Walldoh suddenly burst into laughter. "Hohoho! Sure, an' that liddle feller's goin' t'be a lively one when he gets grown, I can tell."

Wardah grimaced. "He's got t'be borned first, so he does. An' the sooner the better, says I."

Together, husband and wife made their way through the tree branches. Walldoh retreived his bow, slinging it over his shoulder as was his wont. His good temper had been thoroughly restored; smiling, he accompanied Wardah to the main meeting platform, where the rest of the tribe were gathered, enjoying supper. A squirrel waved at the pair. "Hoi, you two; where've ye been? Supper was getting cold, so we started without ye."

Wardah graciously accepted a wooden platter, with a generous portion of steaming trout seasoned with cress and swamp herbs upon it; the fishing had been particularly good that day. "Oh, the Boss was broodin' again, but I took care of it, so I did."

Good-natured banter went back and forth as the Branchbounders' meal continued. Walldoh grinned as a few of his dormice struck up a dancing tune, tootling away on reed flutes; several others jumped upright and began jigging, bowing, and twirling about the treetops. The Branchbounder Boss had to admit his wife had been right; it was high time he started to enjoy life to the full. What was past was past; from henceforth, he resolved never to brood over the Great Fiasco again.

Late that night, as he lay sleeping, Walldoh was visited by a strange dream. He was walking through a pitch-dark corridor when he suddenly emerged into a mist-blurred, candlit hall with stone walls of a dusty pink hue. Instinctively, the dormouse knew he was in Redwall Abbey; though he had never actually been inside the place, he had seen it many times as he patrolled Mossflower and knew that it was the only building made of pink stone in the area.

Blundering his way through the misty vision, the dormouse came face to face with a wall hanging; upon it stood a noble-looking, armored mouse, with vermin fleeing from him in all directions. At first, Walldoh had thought the creatures were merely images; however, when the vermin sprang forth from the tapestry and fled into the darkness behind him, he realized otherwise. The mouse descended from the wall, sheathing the magnificent sword he bore over his shoulder. He stood facing the dormouse, a warm, fatherly smile upon his battle-scarred features. Though his mouth did not move, his voice seemed to come from everywhere about.

"I am Martin the Warrior; I too lost loved ones to vermin, many seasons before you were born. Heed now to my words; share them with your family.


 * ''To the south shall ye never return;
 * ''T'is forbidden that ye should go.
 * ''Redfang's rule will not last;
 * ''T'was written that it should be so.
 * ''Your children shall not face that foe;
 * ''But another will arise;
 * ''Be prepared, when they are grown
 * ''To fight, and maybe sacrifice.
 * ''Do not be overkeen to slay;
 * ''Forgiveness is a virtue great;
 * ''There will indeed arise a day
 * ''When ye must overcome your hate.
 * ''Ye must never slay the son
 * ''Of the killer and the mad-brained one!"

Walldoh was baffled; he tried to speak, but he was suddenly very drowsy, unable to gain control of his heavy tongue. The room about him dissolved into a rosy mist; as he slowly sank through it, his heavy eyelids closing, Martin's voice spoke again. "Wake now, Walldoh; look to your family! Wake up!"

"Wake up, Mista Walldoh, wake up!"

The dormouse jolted awake, struggling with the enveloping folds of the sack blanket he had been tangled in.

"Who!..Wha...where...?"

A very young squirrelbabe bounced up and down at the foot of the Branchbounder cheiftain's hammock, nearly capsizing it; his chubby little face was a mask of urgency. "Cummon, wake up; dere be a 'merjensee!"

Walldoh grabbed the babe and steadied him. "Sure, an' give yore liddle paws a rest afore ye h'injure th' both of us, Gareth. Now, be after takin' a deep breath an' tell me all about it, eh?"

The serious-faced squirrelbabe inhaled loudly and noisily, then shouted, "I say dere be a 'merjensee, you come-a quick!"

He leapt from the hammock onto the branch it hung from, and shot off into the foliage. Disentangling himself from the blanket, Walldoh followed at a more sedate pace; he had long since learned that little Gareth's "emergencies" were always of a much less frightening nature than the squirrelbabe made out.

As Walldoh neared the tree-trunk hut Gareth was charging for, a chubby Squirrelwife emerged. She was Gareth's mother, and the community healer; paws akimbo, she berated her son. "I told ye not t'bother the Boss, you liddle nuisance; 'e would've found out in the mornin' like everybeast else!"

The dormouse descended to earth. "Sure, an' I'm awake now, me darlin'. Wot's the news?"

Smiling, the squirrelwife pulled back the vine draperies that formed the door of the hut. "Cummon in, Boss; ye might as well be the first t'see him, it bein' yore son an' all. Was born about an hour ago..."

She suddenly realized she was talking to empty air; Walldoh had practically materialized inside the dwelling. Side by side with his wife, he peered down into the cradle at the newborn dormousebabe; the tiny fellow had little to no hair on most of his body, but what downy fur was visible was as golden as his father's. Eyes closed tight, sucking on his paw, he looked as if he had no cares in the world. Wardah put her paw to her husband's lips. "Shhhh, he's sleeping, so he is. Sure, an' ain't he the peaceful one, though!"

Walldoh, remembering his dream, wiped a tear from his eye. "An' let's hope he lives 'is days long an' peaceful, even if troubles come."

Chapter Three
The Destruction had indeed grown in numbers vastly since the encounter with Walldoh ten seasons ago; the dwelling tents covered the shore beneath the Southern Plateau Cliffs for nearly half a league, and the lands encompassed by the conquerors' territory now spanned dozens of leagues. However, the weasels had not done much traveling throughout their domain of late; the long string of slaughter and successful conquests had temporarily sated even their bloodthirsty appetites, and they were content to remain in the main camp for a season or two to try to relax. The fishing and the seabird hunting had been very good of late, as had been the foraging of food from poor Southlander's gardens and the rains which fed the clifftop springs, which kept the tribe happy. Admittedly, there were still quite frequent (and bloody) battles to be fought; some were instigated by would-be pirates and coast raiders, or small forces of goodbeasts rejecting Redfang's rule; others by rival vermin gangs seeking to establish their territories in the south. As the skirmishes always ended in a Destroyer victory, none of the weasels complained; Redfang himself summed up the general attitute of his band thus - "Better to have a good fight on our own territory than to traipse all over creation looking for one!"

Even though ten seasons had passed, the big white weasel was still comparitively young, and most definitely still a force to be reckoned with. True, time and battles had ravaged his features with scars, and diminished his eyesight and hearing a bit; however, he could outrun, outmaneuver, and outfight any five creatures singlepawed and weaponless - a fact he had proved yet again this particular morning.

Bent on plundering from the vast treasure store the Destruction had amassed over the seasons, three boatloads of searats had attempted to sneak in during the wee hours, while it was still dark. Seeing no sentries posted, and seemingly nobeast about, they had marched boldly into the ring of tents and begun looting. They were about halfway through the slumbering camp when Skrugg, her senses sharpened to a ridiculous level by her madness, had heard and scented them. She and her husband slew about a score of the searats between the two of them before the rest of the Destroyers heard the alarm and joined the fray; the rats vanished beneath a tide of pelt-clad, red-tattooed bodies, their screams drowned by the laughing screeches of the sadistic, brutal weasels.

Standing on a large rock, his whole body illuminated pink from the sunrise, Redfang surveyed the aftermath of the battle, with his usual indifferent expression. The scattered pieces of the three smoldering shipwrecks and the bodies of the slain littered the dark sands as far as the eye could see; inbetween the wreckage, the Destroyers scrabbled and fought amongst themselves for the trinkets the searats carried. The Chief Destroyer shook his head as if in pity as two female weasels drew knives and began threatening each other over a pretty purple scarf; he addressed his healer. "Look at them, the fools! We have enough gold and jewels to last a lifetime and they squabble over a ragged piece of cloth! All females are fools, obsessed by pretty things, even you, you old worm!"

Thringle, looking older and feebler than ever, cowered by her master's side; she smiled ingratiatingly. "I care not for gold; what need has a healer of trinkets when the earth has so much treasures to..."

"Shut your trap!" The warlord's voice was dangerously calm and low. "You old fool, don't you realize my horde's been overrun by driveling, stinking females and whining, mewling babes! There's hardly a decent adult male fighter in the bunch."

It was true, that of the force of nearly a thousand, about seven out of every ten of the weasels was female, and a further two out of that same ten was less than fifteen seasons old. However, as the fight of the night before had proved, the female weasels were just as good a fighters than the males, if not better. Thringle knew better than to mention this fact to Redfang in his highly dangerous mood; she gestured across the beach at the horde, trying a different tactic to please him. "Many of the young are male; some of them show great potential to be fearsome fighters when they are grown."

He turned his head slowly, his red eyes boring into hers; she gulped and stepped back a pace, nervously fiddling with her chains. The warlord's lips barely moved. "And what of my son?"

It was a question Redfang had only asked three times before in his life; most of the time, he forgot he even had a son. Nonetheless, Thringle always dreaded his asking, and her having to answer. She swallowed hard, knowing that what she was about to say would not be recieved well. "He is at that awkward stage between adolescence and infancy, Lord; he is rather lanky and thin for his age, but by the size of his paws I should say he should surpass you in size when he is grown. Unfortunately, he still shows that strange aversion to death and violence that we noticed when he was a babe; in fact, Skrugg beat him only last evening for setting a bird free."

"He did WHAT?" Redfang stared at her as if she had gone mad.

Thringle stepped back a few more paces; she dared not lie, but she knew the truth would bring about a result just about as bad. "He caught a bird in a snare; Skrugg wanted him to slay it but he could not. Never before have I beheld such cowardice in a beast; he was shaking like a twig in the wind after he caught the gull, and when it tried to fly away he dropped the net and let it go free. The same thing happened two evenings ago with a sand lizard..."

"Enough! I will hear no more." Redfang swatted the old rat's face with the back of his paw so hard she fell smack on her substantial rump. "I should have allowed his mother to kill him the day he was born; the little cur's not fit to have my blood in his veins!"

Trying to staunch her bloodied nose, Thringle murmured, "Doth tha mee you ord' hith ethekution, thire?"

The albino weasel glared at her. "Redfang does not order executions; he carries them out himself! However, I have vowed to keep my paws out of my son's buisiness, and that's exactly what I intend to do; he'll be dead soon enough anyway. A weakling like him won't survive around here for very long, take my word for it!"

Further down the beach, about a score of young Destroyers were gathered about a fire made from burning shipwood, bragging about the spoils they had managed to snatch when their parents weren't looking. In the weasel horde, young ones were often left to fend for themselves as soon as they could walk, and were ignored by their parents most of the time thereafter. Some did not survive their first few seasons; the ones that did were usually the sly ones, the strong ones, and the bullies. There was not a one of the group older than twelve seasons - some were as young as six or seven - but anybeast could see with a glance at their eyes that here was already a band of hardened cutthroats and theives, evil to the core and ready to lie, cheat, steal, and attack at a moment's notice. The eldest already had red tattooes on the backs of their paws; this was a cermony done for every Destroyer on his eleventh season, provided they had slain at least one creature for food by that time.

Stunty, a female very small for her age, showed off a silver tailring she was wearing. "Looka dis, ain' it a beaut?"

A very young male named Scrapp held up a bleached fish skull necklace hopefully. "Tra' ja for dat..oof!"

Stunty had struck his gut with a still-burning plank. "Keep yore eyes offa my plunner!"

Scrapp bounded back upright and stuck his tounge out at her. "Nyah, ya didden hurt me!"

A voice cried out suddenly. "Hey, Scrapp, you on fire!"

Sure enough, the young one's ferret-tail tunic was beginning to smolder. He went into a frenzied jig, trying to beat out the sparks and remove the burning article at the same time; hoots of derision came from the gathering as he leapt frantically about.

"Looka him, he bees dancin'!"

"Hahaha, dat warm 'im up good!"

"You show 'im to mess widja, Stunty!"

"Get inna water, shoopid!"

Small flames began springing forth from the tunic; with a yell of panic, Scrapp heeded the last speaker's advice and flung himself headlong into the sea. Enraged, Stunty repeatedly kicked the one who had spoken. "Whatja do dat for, you ruin alla fun!"

Vaccar, son of Redfang and Skrugg, scrambled to get out of range of the blows. It was anybeast's guess as to how the Warlord's offspring had managed to survive to nine seasons of age; with his seemingly unnatural hatred of killing, gentle nature, and total lack of deceit and cruelty, he had earned so many beatings and nights without food as punishment for cowardice that it was quite frankly a miracle that he was still around to tell the tale. The tall, gangly young weasel looked nothing like either of his parents; his fur was neither white nor prematurely grey and matted, but an almost glaringly mundane tan. His eyes were deep brown, not yellow or red; and his fangs were of regular size and in perfect condition. Only the size of his paws showed that he was going to be a bigbeast like his father; floppy and awkward, they gave him the look of being totally off-balance whenever he moved. He spent most of his time wandering off on his own and minding his own business, hoping to avoid a beating; however, he could not totally avoid interacting with others of his species, due to the massive size of the horde; he had been dragged along with the looting party against his wishes, and had tried to keep silent and out of the way. Unfortunately, the thought of seeing somebeast potentially burn to death had terrified him so much he could keep silence no longer, and he was now paying for it.

Stumbling over his own footpaws, Vaccar trod upon the burning plank; he fell to the ground hugging his burnt claws, whimpering. "Stunty, cummon, I didn' mean ta ruin it, lemme 'lone!"

She kicked him again, drawing blood with her sharp little claws, hoping to goad him into a fight; when he stayed down, she flopped back to the sand moodily. "Ya liddle snivlin' cowwid, you no fun. Hey Bagnose, wotja plunner t'day?"

As the exchange and bragging about looted items carried on, Vaccar tried to scuttle out of the ring on all fours, backwards; he had made it about three paces when a heavy paw descended upon the back of his neck. A quiet, sly-sounding voice murmured pleasantly in his ear. "Goin' someplace, ploppypaws?"

The ring of young ones immediately ceased talking, drawing in their breath sharply. Vaccar closed his eyes and groaned; the silky voice could only belong to one beast. "Gree, go 'way, lemee alo..urghk!"

Gree pressed his footpaw harder, nearly throttling his victim. The twelve-season-old was about a head taller than any other young weasel there; with his sinewey frame, dead black eyes, and thoroughly evil-looking smile, it was obvious that he would be quite the formidable foe when he attained his full growth. Moreover, Gree was already a bully, a theif, a cheat, and a proficient knife-thrower; he was feared and respected by nearly every young one in his circle of peers. He especially enjoyed picking on Vaccar, even more so when he found out that he was Redfang's son.

Scrapp, who had just managed to struggle back to shore, broke the tense silence that had fallen with a nervous giggle. "H-hullo, Gree; we been wundrin' when ya show up."

Gree gave him a look of disdain, speaking in an unusually mature voice. "Tide's a bit rough for a swim, don't ye think?"

Stunty sniggered. "Hehehe, I catch 'im on fire an' 'e go put it out."

Gree gave her one of his dangerous smiles. "I know, I saw him trying to steal some of my loot." (He put a good deal of emphasis on the word my) "Come on, let's have it!"

Stunty's fierce little eyes glared hatred at him; she surrendered the silver tailring with very bad grace, throwing it vehemently at him. Gree turned his smiling face to the others. "Let's see if anyone else picked up some of my things by mistake." There was a pause; he drew his knife and made as if to throw it. "Come on, let's see it!"

Rings, scarves, bracelets, broken bones, small pearls, and other little baubles the adult Destroyers had missed fell out upon the sand; Gree inspected them, his good humor restored. "That necklace, those three purple pearls and that glass teacup are mine. Oh, and that pretty red silk scrap of whatever-it-is." He glanced slowly around the ring, enjoying the effect of terror his mere prescence produced. "This is all you found, hmm? Nobeast else has anything hidden I ought to know about?"

Bagnose, his namesake flopping, pointed at Vaccar, who was trying to sneak off again. "Hoi! 'E didn't give ya nothin!"

With a bound, Gree had grabbed the younger weasel by the scruff of the neck, and was pointing his blade at him. Again, his voice dropped to a silky purr. "When I say 'let's see it', I mean all of it. What did ye find?"

Vaccar was too terrified to articulate. "Ah..b-b-but I...um..."

"What did ye find, ye little worm?!" Gree snarled into his face, shaking him like a rag doll. Vaccar was still stammering when something fell from beneath his vest onto the sand; flinging Vaccar down, Gree picked up the object; his face suffused with wrath, and he advanced threateningly upon his cowering peer, punctuating each word with a wave of the knife. "This is a solid gold button; you cheat, ye were holding the best treasure in the lot from me, weren't ye?"

"N-no, I..."

"Ye were gonna take it an' hide it in yore secret place, weren't ye? You were gonna have a good laugh behind my back, weren't ye? You were gonna make me look like an idiot, weren't ye?! Weren't ye?!!!"

Vaccar was petrified beyond speech; Gree, however, misinterpreted the silence, and allowed his true, brutal, Destroyer nature to surface. "Oh-HO, so ye already think I'm an idiot! Don't deny it, I can tell! That's cost ye yore eye; hold still!"

He lunged with the knife; instinctively, Vaccar jerked his paws in front of his face, accidentally striking Gree a blow to the wrist that knocked the knife away. Every one of Gree's teeth showed. "So it's a fight ye want, is it? Haharr, ye've got it!"

He pounced upon Vaccar and began clawing at his face, dodging Vaccar's wildly waving paws as the younger weasel tried any measure he could think of to get free. Over and over they rolled, locked in a wild struggle; the ring of young Destroyers set up an excited chant. "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Gree's long tail strayed into the fire; he jumped bolt upright with a shreik. Vaccar, hawking sand and grit, also leapt upright, running for freedom. By now many more weasels, young and old, were gathering to watch the fight; the unwilling combatant was shoved back into the ring, just in time to spot Gree charging full tilt at him. "Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"

Vaccar neatly sidestepped; unable to stop his headlong charge, Gree chrashed through the ring, flattening several smaller weasels. Realizing he was very likely fighting for his life, Vaccar used the brief respite to grab the first thing that came to paw: the now-extinguished plank Stunty had pulled from the fire. Gree's knife was by now hopelessly lost, buried somewhere in the displaced sand; notwithstanding this drawback, he grabbed up a searat's bone and charged again.

WHACK! CRACK! Bone struck wood as the two flailed madly at one another; as this was the first duel he had ever participated in, and as he had no real desire to hurt Gree, Vaccar had no idea what to do; blow after blow rained down upon him as the more experienced fighter dodged his half-heartedly waving stick. The bone finally broke with the onslaught; by now, Gree was close enough to leap upon Vaccar bodily again. Ignoring two smacks to the nose, Gree sprang towards his foe; he was still in mid-air when a hastily retreating Vaccar tripped over his own paws and fell head over tail backwards.

A great whoosh exploded from Gree's mouth as his stomach landed squarely upon Vaccar's fear-stiffened footpaws; he fell off sideways with a groan, clasping his seriously bruised midriff.

The "Fight! Fight!" chant stopped abruptly; his whole body a throbbing mass of pain, Vaccar slowly stood, staring in horror at his downed foe, who was still glaring at him.

"I...I sorry, I didden mean ta do it, Gree."

Derisory laughter, gasps of shock, and uncomprehending murmurs broke out; to apologize after winning a fight was unheard of in Destroyer circles. Coughing and wheezing, barely able to speak, Gree rasped out, "Sorry? Ye cringin' coward, ye ain't sorry, ye just don't wanna fight me anymore!"

From the crowd came more jeers. Vaccar was forced to duck as stones and sand were thrown at him - a traditional Destroyer way of showing disdain for anotherbeast.

"Cur, drivelin' liddle cur!"

"I hopes the gulls eat ye!"

"Hahaha, what a liddle idiot!"

A loud blast from a conch shell horn silenced the clamor. This was a signal that all the Destroyers were to gather at Redfang's tent; the cheiftain wished to address his creatures. The ring broke up hastily, as nobeast wanted to be left behind; totally ignored again, Vaccar made a beeline for the nearest large rock, which he hid behind in a huddled heap, weeping as though his little heart would break.

Chapter Four
Staggering along the beach, supported by Bagnose, Gree made his way with the other weasels to the meeting place. His face creased in a grimace of agony as his injured gut gave a stab of pain; Bagnose, who was about the same age as Gree and was his nearly constant shadow, slowed his pace. "Are ya all right, Gree? Maybe we oughta stop..."

Gree's voice was a strained growl. "Keep moving stupid; nobeast's going to have the satisfaction of seeing me unable to walk!" He broke off with a gasp as his next step foward brought with it another agonizing twinge; when he regained his breath, he bared his teeth, spitting out the words with all the vehemence he could muster. "Aaargh, this hurts like blazes! I'm going to kill that Va..v.. whatever his stupid name is, and I don't care if he is the chief's son; nobeast does this to Gree and gets away with it!"

Bagnose was horrified. "You can't do dat; dey h'execute ya, 'cause if Redfang ain't killed 'im already 'e must want 'im alive."

Pain and desire for vengeance had not improved Gree's temper; he shouted at Bagnose. "D'ye honestly think the great and mighty Redfang even worries about scum like that? Even if he did want him dead, he wouldn't soil his claws with that liddle coward's blood. He probably figured one of us would've killed him ourselves by now; which I'm going to do as soon as this meeting's over, believe me!"

Bagnose, realizing further argument would be futile, adjusted his grip on his badly limping companion and quickened his pace to the meeting site.

Aside from a few searat carcasses, picked clean by gulls and the cannabalistic weasels, the beach north of the Destruction's camp was deserted. Only one living beast was in the vicinity; an abandoned, friendless, bewildered and badly frightened young one, still hiding behind a chunk of cliff that had fallen to the beach countless ages ago.

Curled up miserably behind the boulder, Vaccar sobbed violently, his whole body shaking with the force of his tears. His mind was a turmoil of questions, the first and foremost being, "What on earth is wrong with me?!"

For seasons upon seasons, he had suffered from this unaccountable, total dread of harming anything; whenever he even came close to doing so, it was as if his mind hit a stone wall of opposition. He had no control over his emotions at these junctures; it was as if there was anotherbeast inside his being that would refuse to allow him to carry out any serious violence. Threats, beatings, and attempts to kill him had no effect on this idiosyncrasy of his; many beasts had tried to force him to join them in hunts and fights, trying to get him his first taste of blood, but to no avail. His own mother was the worst offender in this sense; he could almost constantly hear her enraged screeches of "Kill it! Kill it!" - which would later turn to "I kill you! I kill you!" when he disobeyed her - even in his sleep. Being too young to understand insanity, Vaccar could not fully realize just why she so strongly wished to kill him; he did, however, know he owed the fact that she had not yet done so to the old rat Thringle, whose job it had been for seasons to keep Skrugg in check. Thringle was just as bad as the rest of them, though; she flogged him with the chains that kept her paws manacled whenever he so much as tried to strike up a friendly conversation with her.

Fresh sobs shook his body as his brain ran over the memories of his terrible upringing; new questions entered his tormented mind. Why? Why did everybeast have to be so hateful? Why did they have to always pick on him? Why couldn't he just be left alone, if he was so different nobeast could stand him? He already had no friends, no family, nowhere anybeast would let him stay, barely even a few trinkets to his name (thanks to Gree and his lackeys contantly stealing his things); why did they have to try to take away his health, his sanity, and his life as well? And above all, why did he have to be born such a coward, thus causing all this misery to heap upon himself in the first place?

Had he been raised around any goodbeasts, or been around his mother before the massive headwounds and the loss of her sanity, Vaccar would have realized what his "problem" really was. However, good vermin usually do not survive very long; once those creatures with normal vermin attitudes discover one, they usually kill them for treachery or cowardice. Because of their friendly characteristics, Skrugg's family had been slaughtered, and she had been left for dead with the horrible wounds that had driven her mad; however, Vaccar had inherited her sane side, which she had herself forgotten, and which no Destroyer had ever encountered face to face before. Therefore, from the day one, the gentle and friendly Vaccar had been raised in a society that had taught him that killing and violence were signs of toughness, and that emotion, caring, and such like were signs of cowardice; it was no wonder he could not understand why his heart and mind worked the way they did. The dry sandy patch grew damper as he watered it with unchecked tears, engulfed in his own misery, bewilderment, and self-loathing.

A second blast from the conch shell horn rang out over the sea breeze and hissing tide; this was the last call for any stragglers before Redfang made his announcement of the day. Vaccar half made as if to rise, then slumped down to the sand again. Why bother? Everybeast would see him if he came in late, and all he wanted out of life at this point was to be ignored as much as was possible. Also, Gree would most certainly be there, and it was almost as sure as night followed day that he would be out for revenge after that morning's fiasco. No, it would be far better just to stay out of sight; all day and evening, if necessary, until that morning's events were forgotten. Besides, a little peace and quiet would make a welcome change.

Vaccar's hopes were shattered when a pair of hungry gannets spotted the huddled little figure far below; the predatory birds dove at their intended victim, shrieking triumphantly. Vaccar saw them just in the nick of time; narrowly avoiding being flattened by the two pouncing hunters, he took to his paws and fled for his life. The birds, furious at missing their prey, took off again and came sailing after him, their angry squawks ringing in his ears.

One thing was for sure; for all his awkward appearance, and his tendency to stumble when nervous, Vaccar could run. Having the strength of his father's blood, with the added blessing of youthful suppleness, the young weasel could win most any race quite easily. Fear lent extra speed to his rapidly pounding paws in this instance; he streaked across the sand northward, parallel with the sea, with the pursuing gannets right at his tail, which was sticking out like a long streamer behind him.

Some distance to the north, a good way from the Destroyer camp, a narrow, steep slope like a buttress projected from the cliffside, slanting diagonally downward to join a rocky outcrop that extended into the sea a short way. This massive, foot-shaped projection of stone was nearly impossible to swim around, and very difficult to climb; thus, the route northward along the beach was cut off at this point. In his seasons of fleeing beatings and trying to keep out of everybeast's way, Vaccar had found a difficult but passable route over the smaller part of the hill, which he now mounted and scrabbled up as frantically as he could. The large, scrubby coastal forest on the other side was Vaccar's "secret place" that Gree had earlier referred to; no other Destroyer knew where Vaccar went when he ran off, but they knew he must have some place to disappear to when he couldn't ever be found.

Slowed considerably by the difficulty of scrambling over the "buttress", Vaccar was about halfway up when he found himself beset by the gannets; they dove and pecked at him again and again, wheeling off into the blue after each strike. Frantically, he tried to ward them off with his paws; they could dodge him with ease, and squawked mockingly at him as they did so. Still climbing as he swatted about at the birds, Vaccar had just managed to make the summit when they decided to strike with full force; both feathered bodies slammed into him, knocking him off of the path he had created down the slope of the other side. With a cry of triumph, the two predators swooped down for the kill in pursuit of the huddled figure bouncing its way down the side of the hill.

Suddenly, the gannet's calls of triumph turned to those of baffled fury; the young weasel had vanished into thin air! One minute, he had been sliding and careening down the slope; the next, he had simply disappeared from the scene without a trace. Angrily, the gannets circled about, alternately cursing at each other in their strange tounge or screaming for the loss of the meal that had been so close within their grasp.

Vaccar could hardly believe his good fortune; he had discovered a second secret hiding place! As he had crashed his way down the hill, he had suddenly fallen into a narrow cave opening, nearly invisible from the outside but leading to a few wider passages and chambers inside.

Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he glanced about the small cave system; the floor was slightly damp but the rest of the cavern was bone dry, indicating that even on very high tides only a little bit of water would trickle its way inside. The ceiling was not very high; in places, Vaccar could touch it if he jumped. Ledges carved into the wall, a crude stone fireplace with an outlet hole for smoke, and a few old broken objects about indicated that the caves had an occupant; however, there was not another beast in sight.

Realizing suddenly that his find was some otherbeast's home, Vaccar nervously spoke. "H-hullo?"

Echoes of his own voice met him, but no other sound was forthcoming. Cautiously, he began to search the area, becoming more and more unnerved as he explored bare chamber after bare chamber and nobeast's voice met him. "I didden mean ta fall in, I sorry! P'ease cummout, I not gonna hurt...yeeeh!"

He leapt back with a squeal of fright as he realized the large "stone" he had very nearly trodden upon was an ancient sea otter; the withered creature was huddled up on a feather-stuffed sack that served him as a mattress, wrapped in a tattered cloak for a blanket. He was breathing raggedly, eyes closed tight, apparently sleeping. Having never before seen an otter, Vaccar knelt beside him to get a closer look. The old one's eyes were leaky, his pitifully thin figure coated in beautiful silver hair. Though he was obviously ill, and not long for this world, the old hermit seemed to be quite happy and at peace. Vaccar had not the heart to wake him; he backed away slowly, being very careful not to make a sound.

"I know yore there, young 'un; come over 'ere." The otter had not moved or opened his eyes, but there was no doubt that it was he that had spoken. Obediently, Vaccar obliged; opening rheumy, clouded eyes, the otter reached out a wrinkled flipper to the young weasel's face. He smiled, tears coursing down his cheeks. "Ye young scalawag, I knowed it was you!"

Vaccar was confused. "But, I don' know ya, oldbeast."

The otter chuckled feebly. "Heeheehee, don't kid yore ol' dad, I knowed ye'd come back. Lemme see, twelve seasons its been, ain't it..or was it twenny? Big handsome feller ye was then, though they say they allus come back younger than they was. I been waitin' for ye, ever since they said ye got yoreself killed; heehee, shore took yore time on it, didn't ye!"

The young weasel suddenly realized the senile otter thought that he was the ghost of his deceased son; he was about to correct him, but the look of absolute delight on the old one's face told Vaccar that it would be a bad idea to shatter the illusion. The sea otter coughed, gasped in some air, and relaxed back on his mattress. "Ye young rip, I knowed ye'd be back, I jus' knowed it! Give yore ol' dad a hug now, afore we shove off."

Vaccar had never heard the word "hug" in his life; when the otter reached out a pair of shaking paws and embraced him, the young weasel was dumbfounded. This was the first time anybeast had ever shown him genuine affection; his first feeling of happiness, that first time he knew what it was like to have somebeast actually want to have him near, was too overwhelming to describe in words.

The effort had sent the ancient otter into another fit of coughing; his paws slipped back down and his eyes closed again. Sudden panic at losing the one beast who had ever been nice to him seized Vaccar; he grabbed one of the old one's flippers in both his paws. "Don' go 'way, p'ease don' go 'way! Stay wid me, here; don' go!"

The silver otter shook his head weakly, still smiling. "We both gotta go, young 'un; you ain't supposed to be here any more'n me, y'know."

His paw went limp; fresh tears welling in his eyes, Vaccar grabbed the ancient otter's shoulders and shook him. "No, no! Stay here, p'ease! Don' go!"

But the old otter, having seen what he wanted to see, had followed his son to the land of sunny streams and quiet forests, his face locked in the smile of eternal happiness. He would never know it, but his last deed on this earth had started a train of events that would affect thousands of others; for he had shown Vaccar what it was like to love anotherbeast, and how much more happiness could be gained from it than any Destroyer could get from a battle. This thought would stay in the back of the young weasel's consciousness for the rest of his life, and dictate his actions from this point onward; actions that, as this story will show, practically changed the very course of history.

Chapter Five
It was indeed a most unusual sight that would have greeted any visitor to the far Southern shores that day; the masses of Destroyers, usually an argumentative, savage, wild band, were in a state of complete stillness and silence. Every weasel in the mighty horde of the Destruction, male and female, young and old, knew that to appear uninterested in their leader's announcement would result in Skrugg's being let loose upon them - or, even worse, Redfang himself might decide to carry out the excecution. The barbaric weasel allowed his tribe more leeway than most warlords when it came to squabbling, theivery, murder, and deciet amongst each other, but every Destroyer knew that to show the slightest disrespect to their leader, especially when he was informing the tribe of a new law or rule, meant instant death.

Resplendent in his best fur robe, embroidered with pilfered gold thread, and sporting new tattoos depicting his success of the raid the night before, Redfang made his appearance, striding importantly out onto the top of the pointed boulder that was the horde's main meeting place. He raised his rough, rasping voice so everybeast could hear; not being one for long introductions or unnecessarily lengthy speeches, he went straight to the point.

"First off, all valuables and loot; get 'em off the beach, immediately. Put 'em in the tents, throw 'em in a cave, bury 'em, I don't care which. These seas are rank with pirates, and no filthy, bilge-slimed, boat-bottomed seabeasts are going to have one bauble of Destroyer property left out for easy pickings. Ye are all well aware what will happen if I find one, just one, trinket left loose after this meeting.

"Secondly, Yellowback and his patrol have returned from their weekly trip to our wells. They have brought back prisoners from a so-called robber horde who attempted an attack in the desert. They are to be looted, slain, and eaten, every one of 'em, except!...." He raised a threatening claw. "The male weasels, all of 'em, any age, are to be tatooed up accordingly and integrated into the horde; I'll see to it personally. Which brings me to another important point."

The Destruction, every weasel of them that was present, were very interested now, especially after this last unusual command. Redfang gestured dramatically across his horde. "I'm sure I am not the only one of us to notice that our horde has far more females than males. Some of ye..." (here he glared down at Thringle, who gulped nervously) "...might have been thinking that this is not necessarily a problem. Has it never occured to any of ye that such an imbalance of males and females means little breeding, and, after some seasons, no horde at ''all?"

Murmurs of shock and panic broke out among the gathering; none of the Destruction had ever thought about the situation in that light before. Redfang nodded, pounding a fist repeatedly into his paw to give emphasis to his words. "Aye, now ye see the seriousness of the problem, now that I've done all the thinking for ye stupidbeasts. There's only one way I can see to fix this. From here on in, until we regain some sort of balance and I lift these rules, I decree that we keep only male prisoners when we bring new weasels to our horde; all new females, including those born to members of the Destruction, will die unless I say otherwise. Furthermore, no male weasel is to be slain by any Destroyer, for any reason whatsoever. For now, I alone have the right to decree the death of a male, even a newborn whelp; anybeast who defies this command will die the way he did." He gestured to the remains of a searat, who had been torn practically to shreds by Skrugg and Redfang together. "Is that clear?" The horde raised their weapons and chorused the traditional reply. "Your word is law, Mighty Redfang, Master of Destruction!"

Redfang descended from his perch, calling over his shoulder. "The prisoners will shortly be staked out on the beach by that wrecked ship; after the beach is cleaned of trinkets, gather there and we'll begin our feast. Yellowback, Thringle, attend me!"

The weasels, so dismissed, hurried to do their master's bidding. All, that is, except for Bagnose and Gree. The latter stood rooted to the spot, furious with blinding rage. Bagnose breathed a sigh of relief. "Good job ya nevva kill dat cowwid. Redfang'd kill ya dead, in liddle pieces, if'n ya'd done it!"

Having regained most of his strength, Gree whirled around and delt his subordinate a crushing blow to the chest, which sent him reeling backwards for air. "Shut up! I'm still gonna have my revenge on that stinkin' liddle cur; there's other ways besides killing to make a beast crawl. Cummon, let's go find 'im; let the others clean the beach like shell-combin' mousewives t'please his high an' mighty majesty."

Bagnose was frankly horrified. "Shhhhhh, Gree! Ya shouldn' defy th'boss, ya gonna get killed dat way!"

Gree stared at him in mock pity. "Redfang's not a evil spirit, he's a weasel just like you 'n me, and he certainly isn't gettin' any younger. Ye just wait, he'll be finished one day not to far from now, and some otherbeast'll take over for him."

By the way he worded that sentence, it was obvious Gree thought he was the ideal the beast to do so. Bagnose was impressed by his audacity. "So, whatta we do?"

Gree smiled his dangerous smile. "We'll grab a few things so it looks like we're working, but then we'll sneak off and have a little fun with the boss' son. Nobeast will suspect a thing."

Bagnose readily agreed to this; he was none-too-bright, and easy to convince. He grabbed up a pair of discarded daggers from the body of a nearby Destroyer slain in the fight of the night before, tossing the better-looking of the pair to Gree. "I be widja, mate. Let's go!"

Yellowback was the father of the little weaselmaid Stunty, and was one of the few Destroyers who were strong and intellegent enough to be considered an officer. He and his lackeys led the pitiful line of skinny, bedraggled male weasels into the massive stone, stick and canvas structure that was Redfang's makeshift palace, prodding them with claws, weapons, and footpaws. Having done his duty, Yellowback shouldered his long pike, smiling triumphantly at his cheiftain. "All present and acounted for, like you asked, Boss!"

Redfang wilted his smile with a mere look, before turning to the erstwhile band of robbers. They were hardly an inspiring sight; stripped of all clothing and jewelry, emaciated, weak, and wretched. Though Yellowback had warned them viciously that any weeping and whinging was futile, and might result in instant death, many of them still had the odd tear escaping to trickle down their frightened muzzles. Redfang curled a lip ever so slightly in disgust. "A sorry lot, but they'll have to do. Yellowback, the robes! Thringle, mark them!"

As Yellowback distributed basic smocks made from some of the searat's pelts among the former robbers, the old rat grabbed a needle and dye and began her work, swiftly tattooing a small, fancily stylized sunburst on each prisoner's forepaws. As she worked, Redfang addressed his new horde members. "These are the marks of the weak; newcomers to this horde always wear these. As time goes on, and ye prove yourselves as true Destroyers, ye may add to these designs more fearsome ones." He pointed to each robber in turn. "You are now and forever members of this horde, marked for life; in the unlikely event you manage to escape, otherbeasts around the land will kill you without asking questions first, so feared are we in these parts. Your only hope for survival is to stay with this horde; they have strict instructions not to kill ye, though I will not necessarily conform to these instructions, as I made them. From now on ye obey me implicitly, is that clear?"

Most of the prisoners (those who were not busy dressing) nodded furiously as Redfang continued. "These are the rules ye will abide by, under pain of death. Our tribe is in sore need of malebeasts; you will be trained by my officers, but your main purpose here is not to increase our fighting force now, but to help keep this horde alive in the long run. Before the day is out, ye must each take a wife from my horde. You are to be fathers first and foremost, not fighters. Do ye understand?"

Again, he was met with a mass of furiously nodding heads. One of the prisoners, perhaps a bit more brave (or stupid) than the rest, raised a timid paw. "Er, I already got a mate an' liddle 'un, yore lordship..."

Yellowback sniggered; he could hear the weeping of the other prisoners being led to the excecution site as they passed by. "Not for long, ye don't; all you lot's females an non-weasels is Destroyer food now!"

Horrified gasps broke out from the newcomers; some fell to their knees, begging that their families be spared. Redfang's deadpan expression did not change. "It is necessary for the survival of this horde; if any of you father female babes, they too will die. Yellowback, lead them outside to watch when the time comes, so they know what will happen if they further disobey or disrespect me."

The cold, dispassionate way in which he made the pronouncement sounded like a death knell; still begging and pleading, the new Destroyers were fairly dragged outside by their more brutal comerades.

Late afternoon shadows began to fall over the Southern Shores, turning the already reddish rocks the color of blood in the darkening sunset. The Destruction's camp near the base of the cliffs was still fairly empty, as every weasel was either still cleaning up the debris of the battle before or gathering at the excecution site early in hopes of getting first pickings. Only three beasts were wandering about the tents at this lazy time of day - two bent on vengeance, and one bent on finding food.

Vaccar did not feel well. Two long spells of weeping is unhealthy in the extreme, for anybeast; as the weak and half-starved warlord's son had also spent most of the day digging a hole to bury the old sea otter in, he was worn down to a state of exhaustion. He had managed to climb back over the projecting rock, but now it was all he could do to stay awake as he sneaked around the deserted camp in search of a meal, hoping desperately not to be noticed.

As usual, he failed to hear his enemies approaching until it was too late; a long, thin knife sailed through the air, raking a long furrow down the side of his forearm. Gree's voice rang out sharp and clear. "Don't move, or the next one guts ye! As for you..." He dealt Bagnose, who had thrown the dagger, a hefty slap. "Ye weren't supposed to hit him, numbskull, just give him a warning!"

Vaccar tried to turn around, but Gree was upon him, flattening him face-first to the sand and twisting his paw behind his back painfully. The cold tip of the dagger tickled Vaccar's ear; Gree's voice was soft, silky, almost soothing. "Well, my cowardly friend, ye certainly have all the luck, don't ye? Redfang has ordered no malebeasts are to die for the next few seasons. But there's more ways than merely killing ye to have my vengeance, isn't there?"

Bagnose giggled naughtily, grinding Vaccar's muzzle viciously into the sand with his footpaw. "Heehee, dat's right!"

Gree glared at him,. "Shuddup, oaf and gimme that rope!" He rolled his prisoner over and tied Vaccar's forepaws in front of him, making sure they were secured, before hauling him upright. "Now, on your paws. March!"

Vaccar, painfully blowing sand from his nostrils and mouth, managed a weak gasp. "Where ya take me, I not do nuffin'...Ow!"

Bagnose had retrieved his dagger; both he and Gree prodded the warlord's son hard in the ribs with the bladetips. "Git goin', shoopid!"

Gree smiled slyly. "He's got a right to know where we're takin' him, Bagnose." His voice hardened, and he jabbed harder with the dagger. "In fact, yore the one doing the takin', friend. Yore gonna lead us to where all yore valuables and posessions are kept within the next hour, or ye'll lose both ears, both eyes, all yore whiskers, an' yore tail. Now move!"

Had he been wiser, Vaccar would have realized that there was no way Gree could actually carry out the threat without getting in trouble after this new law. However, he, like most other youngbeasts, was mesmerized by the spell of Gree's sadistic but smooth nature. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he had lead them to the tiny stick lean-to that he had built for himself, as no otherbeast would allow him in their tent.

Gree took a look inside, nodding with satisfaction. "Bagnose, watch him. Don't let him move a muscle!"

He squeezed his way inside; shortly thereafter, the special little trinkets Vaccar had managed to save over the seasons without being stolen flew, one by one, out of the lean-to onto the sand. A few scraps of colorful cloth, some seashells painted with plant dyes, half of a shattered wooden sheild, two or three dull metal objects that might have been buttons, and part of a ripped ship's map. Gree ducked back outside, his smile gone. "Well, this is a fine mess I've gotten into. Nothing here worth taking, eh, Bagnose? I guess we'll have to leave them here."

Vaccar gave a sigh of relief. The items were trash merely, but that wasn't the point; they were his, the only things he owned in the world, and almost as dear as life itself to him. He gasped in shock, though, when Gree laughed loudly and kicked the lean-to hard, causing it to crash to the sand in little pieces. He flung the meager belongings onto the pile, smashing or ripping the breakable ones as he went; then, to Vaccar's horror, he sprinted gleeflully across to an abandoned cooking fire, grabbed a burning stick, and flung it into the pile. The drought-dried wood went up like an inferno almost instantly; still laughing fit to burst, Gree and Bagnose flung Vaccar to the sand again. The older of the two weasels stabbed him hard in the nose, drawing blood. "Let that be a lesson to ye; nobeast hurts Gree an' gets away with it - especially a nobody like ye who had no right owning anything at all in the first place! From now on, I'll be watchin' ye; nothin' belongs to ye anymore. Anything ye find or pilfer gets burned or goes to me an' Bagnose. Any objections?"

Vaccar was too horrified, disgusted, and crushed emotionally to even weep, let alone respond. Bagnose was about to put his two cent's worth in, when the sound of a horrific scream rent the air. "Gree, they start, we gonna miss out!"

Gree clapped a paw to his forehead. "Oh NO, we're late! Come on, useless lump; I'm not leavin' ye here to pick baubles from the fire!"

He hauled a wildly struggling Vaccar upright by the bound forepaws, dragging him forcefully to the excecution site.

Chapter Six
There were beasts who would scarce believe the evil and horrors inflicted by the Destruction on otherbeasts, had they been on the beach that terrible sunset. The remainder of the former robber gang, sixty-five beasts in all, had been tied with their paws behind their back to a set of stakes, lined up side-by-side in front of the wreck of a burned ship on the southeast end of camp. Destroyers gathered about, mocking and laughing at the whinging, weeping, begging beasts who knew all too well they had been condemned to die. Skrugg, watched closely by Redfang and kept somewhat in check because of this, wandered about the prisoners, taunting and torturing them slowly with her claws to see the looks of abject terror on their faces; it was her idea of fun, and Redfang saw no reason to hinder her. Trying to ignore the feared mad wife of their cheiftain, Yellowback and another captain named Ratbane went to each bound beast in turn, like some demonic sellers of wares, offering them up as food to whichever Destroyers desired them. Once any agreement had been reached, the winning Destroyers would fall upon their victims and slay them then and there; thus, the horrible screams that rang out periodically across the beach.

Gree, Bagnose, and Vaccar arrived on the scene just in time to see Ratbane cut a stoat's bonds. "...An' This one goes to Chopp's family, then. Run!"

The female weasel so named and her three young ones chased down the fleeing stoat, leaping upon it and slaying it in a rather brutal manner. Vaccar was mortified, having no idea what was going on; fortunately for him, his sob of horror was drowned out by the cheering Destroyers. Yellowback slapped the fox next in line. "Aw, stop weepin', ye deadbeast. All right, who wants a fox? He's got a lot of meat on 'im!"

A short silence fell. Many of the weasels already had their appetite sated by the searats that morning; furthermore, foxes were not considered good eating by most Destroyers. When it became clear no prominent or strong horde members were interested, a pair of adolescent sisters finally stepped foward, paws raised. Yellowback gave a malicious snigger, slicing the fox free. "All right, run, fox! Ye might just get away from them two young 'un's, go on!"

The fox took off like his tail was afire; the sisters gave chase, closing the gap with amazing rapidity. Gree and Bagnose joined the other weasels in cheering them on, giving a loud "Hurrah" when the unfortunate victim stumbled and his executioners finally caught him. Vaccar wanted to look away, but was unable to tear his eyes from the bloody spectacle. He felt like he would vomit; how could anybeast think this was fun? It was abominable!

Skrugg spotted her son; she came bounding over to him, grinning fiendishly. "Look, look, they kill! See blood, become killer, like them, now?"

Vaccar shook his head sadly; Skrugg's face turned back to the furious snarl it habitually carried. "Grrrrr, I kill you! I kill..!"

Thringle interceded, as usual. "No, no, he is male. Redfang alone kills malebeasts now."

With a growl, Skrugg kicked a mass of sand at her son and walked away behind the old rat. Vaccar did not bother to rise; he stayed where he was on the ground, ignored again, mentally and physically exhausted.

Ratbane and Yellowback released another prisoner, a ferret this time; Vaccar abruptly turned his head, unwilling to watch. His brown eyes roved down the line of remaining prisoners, sadness and pity mingled in them. There wasn't a single one who was not whinging, begging, pleading for mercy, offering all sorts of betrayals, loot, and goods in a desperate attempt to save their skins; they were even more cowardly than he, yet he still could not bring himself to accept the fact that this mockery of an execution was fair. But, what could he do about it? None of the prisoners would trust him if he tried to help; and besides, Redfang would not let him live, in all probablity, if he tried anything.

Then, he saw HER.

In glancing along the line earlier, he had missed her, owing to her small size, and the fact that she made no sound. She was a weasel, no more than a season of age, if even as old as that; fuzzy-furred, bareley able to toddle or even stand upright, probably unable to even speak, almost as thin as the metal rudder pin she was bound to. Vaccar's eyes were riveted on the infant; she did not struggle, or weep, or beg, but stood there in terror, in horrified, shocked silence, watching her parents and tribe members die. There was no cowardice or pleading in her huge, watery, golden-brown eyes; just pathetic bewilderment as she stared, appalled, at the carnage raging about her.

Vaccar's first reaction was one of suprise. Surely, surely the Destroyers weren't going to slay a weasel prisoner? Weasels were always forced into joining the horde, unless they had committed some crime. What could a babe like this possibly have done?

The babe's eyes met his then; Vaccar's breath choked in his throat. The expression on her face spoke volumes; Vaccar heard the words as plain as if she had spoken them. They were not unfamiliar to him.

''"Why? Why does everybeast have to be so hateful? Why?!!"

Vaccar realized with a jolt that here was a kindred spirit; an unwanted beast cast aside, who did not fit in the society of theives and killers. But, no...he couldn't become attached to her; she was condemned! As if to emphasize the point, Ratbane began offering the little one to the gathering of murderers. "An' which one of ye'd like the honor of destroyin' this liddle whelp?"

The Destroyers mereley laughed and jeered; Yellowback spoke up. "Cummon, somebeast's gotta do it; it won't soil yore claws too bad."

More laughter rang out. Choking back sobs, he tried to tear his gaze away; the babe was going to die, be destroyed, just like everything else he'd ever cared about. It wasn't right; it just wasn't ''right!

Suddenly, Skrugg blocked his view; as no otherbeast wanted to do it, she had taken on the babe's execution herself. However, a quick mauling was not Skrugg's style when she was in the torturing mood. Otherbeasts winced at the high-pitched squeaking sound as the insane weasel's claws slid slowly down the metal pin; she laughed wildly, ripping tufts of fur from the babe's chest with her other claws, smiling broader as the little one began to shriek in fear. "You gonna die! Haharrr, you gonna die, little diddy bit an' little diddy bit you die! Haharrhahaharrhahaah!!!!" She raised her claws for a downward swipe.

"NO!" The strangled scream ripped unbidden from Vaccar's throat. All the trauma of that day's incidents suddenly built up to breaking point in his mind; the fight with Gree, the old otter's death, the loss of everything he owned, the horrible executions...and now this. He had no idea what he was doing when he did it; like the times he had released birds and refused to kill otherbeasts, it was as if another being was in control of his actions. Snapping the ropes binding his paws with a single chomp of his fangs, he flung himself between Skrugg and the babe, just in time to catch the raking of his mother's claws down his back.

Instant silence fell; Vaccar grabbed the babe tight to him, his tear-reddened, pain-squinched eyes staring pleadingly up at his enraged mother, who looked like she might explode.

Redfang had not been present at the execution, but had been dozing in his tent nearby; sensing that something momentous had occured when the noise ceased, he came out to see for himself, causing further consternation among his followers. "What, may I ask, is going on here?"

Yellowback, caught off guard, stammered, "Ah, er...I'm not sure, Mightiness."

Ratbane was more articulate. "That liddle 'un, yore son, 'e just stopped Skrugg from executin' that female babe there. I dunno as I've seen that happen afore."

Redfang strode over to where Skrugg stood, trembling with rage, by the bound babe. Redfang had not seen his son face-to-face since his infancy; he showed no sign of excitement, or any emotion whatsoever. Skrugg grabbed her husband's paw, begging. "Please, I kill him? Please!"

Redfang merely shook his head, ruffling his insane wife's headfur. "No males die. Let him live; go torture the prisoners some more. As for this one..." He addressed the company at large, "He knows the law; any Destroyer who tries to stop an execution either dies or carries it out himself. I have decreed that he must not die, so he must slay this babe himself." He transferred his gaze to his son. "Well, how about it?"

Fortunately, Vaccar had somewhat come to his senses, and realized the seriousness of the situation, moments before. He had been thinking quickly the whole time Redfang was speaking, and had come up with what he fervently hoped was a solution that would save him from having to kill the babe himself, and give him time to consider what was best to do next.

"But, dat's no fun!" He lied, trying to sound like a spoiled brat. "I wanna kill 'er slow, not fast like dat!"

It worked like a charm; several beasts seemed suprised by this turn of sympathies, though none of them seemed to doubt his word. Redfang was interested, though his face still betrayed nothing. "And what did you have in mind?"

Emboldened by his success, Vaccar pointed. "I tie her to toppa pole; gannets git 'er inna mornin'! Dat be fun t'watch, eh?"

Murmurs broke out in the gathered horde. Varied opinions were given on the subject, but the general consensus seemed to be that this was an unusual and somewhat undignified method of execution; yet, it being Vaccar's first time, would not be that terrible of an idea. Redfang nodded his head slowly. "Very well. But if the gannets haven't slain her by mid-morning tomorrow, ye must kill her some other way. I have no desire to listen to a babes wails and whines for any length of time. Ratbane, help him tie her to the top of that pole, then continue the execution of the rest of these beasts!"

Ratbane untied the little one and passed her to Vaccar, then hoisted the young weasel onto his shoulders. "Hurry up, we ain't got all day!"

The little one, now frightened into wailing by the terror of heights, stared pleadingly at Vaccar, almost accusingly. As he tied the cord about her, he whispered softly in her ear, trying desperately not to start weeping again. "I sorry t'do this. I sorry."

"Mama, wan' mama!" The little one's frantic cries tore into Vaccar's heart; he had never felt such a heel, such scum, as when he tied a rope gag through her mouth at that moment.

Ratbane was not gifted with patience; he dropped Vaccar to the sand. "That's good enough, she ain't goin' noplace. Now, which one o' ye wants a ferret? Bit skinny this one..."

As the gruesome spectacle continued, Vaccar fled the scene, dashing into one of the abandoned tents. Bagnose started to go after him; Gree halted him. "Let 'im go. The coward's just trying to buy time. He won't kill that babe, you'll see. This saves me the trouble of torturing him; Redfang'll kill him himself when he realizes what's going on."

Bagnose giggled his malicious giggle again, and returned his focus to the grisly task at hand. "Heehee, Ya smart, Gree. Wanna get t'next wun, t'ferret? I hungry."

Gree smiled his dangerous smile, raising a paw to get Ratbane's attention. "Fine by me!"

By pure luck, Vaccar had entered the tent of a Destroyer who had been slain the morning before in the battle with the searats; this became apparent when nightime wrapped the land in its dark embrace, and nobeast returned there to sleep. Alone and undisturbed, the young weasel had alternated between dozing with exhaustion and wracking his brains for a solution to his problem. The babe's wails still echoed in his head, her face was burned into his brain and came into view when he tried to sleep; she was going to die a terrible death if he didn't do something!...but what? If he freed her, they'd both die. If he didn't free her, she'd be picked apart by gannets. If the gannets didn't find her, somebeast would probably torture her to death, to set an example for him, if they didn't kill him first. What in the world could be done? Long hours of thought did nothing to enlighten him; it was a hopeless situation.

During the hours of thinking, and avoiding otherbeasts, Vaccar had completely forgotten that he was hungry; a sudden loud rumbling in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since the previous night. He peeked out of the tent; it was now well after the midnight hour. Everybeast was asleep - sentries were never posted, or thought necessary - but a few cooking fires still smoldered. Maybe there was a bit of burnt fish, or some uneaten vegetable matter thrown aside by a pickier member of the horde, that he could pilfer.

Though he was only nine seasons, Vaccar had aquired quite a skill in silence and subterfuge; it was necessary when keeping out of trouble. He could sneak about camp unheard and unnoticed, even by Skrugg's highly sharpened senses, and do as he pleased during the night hours; it was the only way he ate, sometimes.

As he made his way gingerly through the camp, Vaccar sighed repeatedly as his search for food turned up naught; it seemed the Destruction had been particularly studious in eating every scrap of food there was to be had that night. There was nothing else for it; he would have to steal something.

Hardly daring to breathe, he made his way to Ratbane's tent. He knew this was the best option; Ratbane was a voracious eater, and kept his tent well-stocked at all times with any edible that came to paw. The warlord's son was in and out like a moonshadow, without so much as a footfall to betray his presence; fumbling with a double pawful of gull's eggs, he made his way back to his temporary dwelling.

A muffled cry from the babe tied to the pole nearby caused him to wince; he looked up sadly at the pathetic figure doomed to die, his heart breaking in pity for her. She saw him; her face took on that look of accusing terror again. Nobeast had ever looked at Vaccar like he was actually vermin before; it made him feel ill, terrible, a monster, just like one of them....

Vaccar couldn't stand it. Flinging the eggs into his tent, heedless of whether or not they broke, he leapt upon the pole and scaled it. It took almost every ounce of strength left in his feeble body; nevertheless, he bit at the cords, one by one, severing them with his small fangs. Loosed, the babe fell to the sand with a bump, winded but unharmed; Vaccar leapt off the pole and did likewise, lying there in an attempt to catch his breath.

Crawling on all fours, the babe made her way to her rescuers side, a questioning look on her face. "Mama?"

Vaccar grabbed a nearby scrap of sailcloth and bound her up in it, staggering upright. "Shhh. No talk."

He scurried off from the beach with his burden, to the zig-zag path carved by some more intellegent beasts countless seasons ago in one of the cliff faces. Up the winding path he ascended, struggling over the rockier bits, until he reached a grassy ledge protruding about halfway up. It was a long way down; no mortal beast could survive the dizzying drop. Vaccar knew what he was going to do; it was what was best for everybeast. He could spare the little one a more terrible fate if he simply knocked her out and dropped her from the cliff. She wouldn't know a thing about it, know the terror or fear of the event at all. He took a breath to steady himself, reaching for a rock. "I sorry, baby. I very sorry."

The babe, nestled against Vaccar's chest, looked quizzically up at him, not understanding what was going on, but no longer afraid. Vaccar's paws felt weak and shaking; he realized that he was entering that state of paralysis that didn't allow him to kill a beast. He shook himself, repeating mentally that it was what was best, best for the babe, best for him, best for the whole situation. For the first time in his life, he actually started to kill a beast, actually planned to go through with it, without reservations...

The babe yawned wide; her eyes drooped sleepily. The warmth of the sailcloth swaddling, and being near to Vaccar, was about to send her to sleep. Vaccar reached again for the rock; the babe was startled awake, and her eyes met his again. The young weasel took a deep breath, held up the rock, planning to bring it down; the baby giggled, and reached up her paws for it. Reached up her paws, with the same delighted look on her face as the old sea otter.

Vaccar collapsed with a sob, dropping the rock as if it were afire. What had he almost done? This was the only living beast that wanted to be near him, and he had come dangerously close to killing her, without thinking twice! He hugged her close, shaking with the aftershock and realization of the horrible things he could have done.

Glancing out over the beach and sea, the breeze ruffling his fur, the young son of Redfang and Skrugg set his jaw determinedly; a new, fanatical, possessive light entered his expressive brown eyes. Then and there he decided; she was his baby. She was his and his alone; nobeast - not Redfang, not Skrugg, certainly not Gree and his lackeys - would ever take her away, or hurt her, or claim her as theirs, or defile her with monstrous killing desires. A fantastic plot sprang into his mind; he would fling a dummy baby, weighted with rocks, into the sea the next morning; then the others would be conviced she was truly dead. He would keep her in the old otter's cave; nobeast knew of its existence save him. He would play with her, feed her, and raise her in that cave and the secret woodlands about; he would keep her for himself, where nobeast could find her. Oh yes, she was his; she was the only thing he had in the world; she would not be burnt or taken away - she was ''his!

"Do ya hear, Gree? It's mine!" He shouted into the night, laughing hysterically, holding his baby aloft. "It's mine, d'ya hear? MIIIIINE!"

The cries were drowned out by the crashing sea and howling wind, which proclaimed a rainstorm due the following morning; nonetheless, Gree's dreams that night were suddenly disturbed by a thought of Vaccar pulling one over on him, making him really look like a fool.

Little did he know what an understatement that was!

TO BE CONTINUED...

Thank you for reading this preview; the rest of the story will eventually follow, though probably not until I've made a decent headway in finishing my story Gingiverian''. Please comment!