Doomwyte

Anybeast could tell, by the scent of the woodlands, ceaseless birdsong and the burgeoning of fruit, berry and flower, Summer had at last arrived, casting its stillwarm spell over Mossflower Country in placid eventide. Bisky and Dubble were exhausted by the time they arrived back at the five-topped oak. With boulders still hobbling them, burdened by the sacks of produce they had gathered, both awaited their captors’ whim.

Tala, mate of Chigid, and mother of Jeg, threw down a rope sling from the upper boughs. “Lazybeasts, don’t stan’ there, load up vikkles!”

Under the watchful eyes of the Painted Ones, the prisoners loaded the slings with the fruits of their foraging. They stood clear as the sacks were hauled up.

Jeg beckoned the guards to remove the hobbles from Bisky and Dubble, leaving them still anchored to each other by the rope halter around their necks. The young Painted One menaced them with his whippy switch.

“Stan’ there, don’t budge, or I make yer sorry!” The sling was lowered again, and bound jointly around them. They were hoisted roughly up onto the broad limb they had formerly occupied.

Dubble sighed wearily as the guards bound their forepaws to the bough above their heads. He appealed to them, “Oh come on, mates, y’know we can’t escape. Why are ye stringin’ us up like this agin?”

Jeg smiled maliciously. “’Cos yer gotta stay like that ’til I says so!”

The young Guosim shrew snarled back at him, “Ye scringin’ liddle worm, if’n my paws were loose I’d batter ye to a pulp!”

Jeg flogged at the defenceless Dubble with his switch, yelling shrilly, “Well, yer paws ain’t loose, so I’ll batter yew to a pulp. Stoopid watermousey!”

The willow switch snapped, leaving Jeg with only a short stub. Despite the beating he had taken, Dubble began taunting him. “Dearie me, broke yore toy have ye? Go an’ cry to yore mammee for a new one!”

Jeg grabbed some mushrooms from the sacks. He hurled them at Dubble and Bisky angrily. “Hah! That’s all the vikkles yew two are gettin’. I’ll make sure ya starve t’death!” Shoving guards out of his way, the young tree rat dashed off into the higher foliage.

Bisky shook his head at Dubble. “If ye keep teasin’ him like that he will end up beatin’ you, or both of us, to death, mate. Why don’t ye just let him be?”

The young shrew gritted his teeth stubbornly. “I’ve been punished by bigger’n’tougher beasts than that liddle spoiled brat!”

Bisky decided not to provoke his friend by arguing. Closing his eyes, he let his head hang limply.

Night’s starry canopy descended over the woodlands. Both captives sagged, falling into an exhausted slumber. The Painted Ones had eaten; they did not bother lighting a fire down on the ground. Secure in their five-topped oak, and the surrounding trees, the vermin did not mount any guards. Each went to their own group, nestling in the forks of boughs, or huddling on broad limbs. Gradually the atmosphere slid into a relaxed drowsiness.

Bisky felt a footpaw kick him into wakefulness. It was Dubble, the shrew was ready and alert. He whispered to his companion, “Have ye still got yore sharp flint, matey?”

Keeping his voice low, the Redwaller replied, “Aye, for all the good it’d do us. How can I reach it with my paws bound up like this?”

Dubble shook his head. “I got the same trouble, friend. Mine’s in me belt. I’ve got no chance o’ getting’ at it. Any bright ideas?”

For answer, Bisky reached out with his footpaws, by swinging them; he hit Dubble’s stomach. His fellow captive gave an irate snort.

“Didn’t Jeg beat me enough, have you gotta have a go!”

The young mouse cautioned him, “Keep y’voice down, mate, I’ve got a plan. Now, shove yore belly out toward me, so I can see that flint in yore belt.”

Dubble obeyed wordlessly. Bisky started to swing his body to and fro, each time touching his friend’s stomach. He could see the glitter of the flint in the starlight. Making an extra effort, he swung harder, grunting as his footpaws trapped the shard of flint between them.

Dubble hissed excitedly, “Hah, ye got a good grip on it there, mate. Well done, matey. Wot now?”

Arching his back, Bisky groaned in pain. “Ooohh, my paws are all swelled, with jiggin’ about on this rope, it’s really hurtin’ me. Listen, I’m goin’ to rest a moment afore I carry on.”

The Guosim shrew gnawed his lip with concern. “Don’t let go o’ that flint, Bisky. Is there anythin’ I can do t’help ye, bucko?”

Trying to ignore the stinging numbness in his tightly bound forepaws, the young mouse gasped, “Aye there’s two things ye can do. When I give the word, suck yore stomach in. It’ll make it easier for me to pull the flint out with my footpaws. Once I’ve got it I’ll try a high kick. D’ye think ye could catch the flint in yore mouth if I could lift it that far, mate?”

His companion chuckled. “You just try me!”