Exeunt Omnes

[Damask the Minstrel]

It was the dead of night, the wood was still,
The shadows leaped with horrors dark -- unseen.
And through the wood there pierced a scream so shrill
Oh, 'twas the wickedest --

The scream that woke Damask wasn't a fiction nor part of his dream. It came from the next clearing over, where the other sentry was stationed. Father's Feathers! The robin blinked hard, shaking his head. I fell asleep again!

Still blinking away the phantasms of dreams, Damask dove from his perch, veering between branches and shying from shadows in the early morn. The brisk air cleared his senses, dispelling the monsters his sleep-addled senses had created. He alighted in an evergreen, above where his fellow sentry should have been.

His instincts screamed, Get out! Fly away! If that sentry hasn't noticed you yet, then that was his death scream! The vermin are upon the group, now, and that means the contract's off. Everybeast for himself!

It sounded so wonderful to Damask. He could feel his grip lightening on the branch, his knees bending as he prepared to launch himself...

Is that really you, Damask? He paused, still crouched on the branch as that little voice from before came back. The great Damascinous? A perpetual failure? You've let down the group once already, planning on a second time? And without this job, how will you scrape together two copper? The crowds sure aren't coming like they used to...

In fear and indecision the bird trembled, eyes scanning the underbrush as he hoped for the young woodlander to appear. After a full minute, where his legs began to burn from his position, Damask straightened ever so slightly and forced a low and shaky whistle. No reply came from below. The entire wood seemed still, except --

He spun to the left in time to see a scabrous snout pop over the edge of the branch he was on. As the sinuous vermin slid into view, the bard-turned-spy took a hop toward the end of the branch, feathers ruffling into a pale imitation of intimidation.

"If yer lookin' fer the wee 'ogmaid, birdie, I cin send yah ta' meet 'er. Jis take a liddle step this way." As the weasel spoke, he tested the branch with a paw, inching ever closer.

The movement under his claws snapped the bird into action. He took to wing, accompanied by a faint barrage of curses. He headed for the outcropping of rock that served as the group's camp. They had planned for an hour's respite from their retreat to the Broad Stream. Still, one beast was standing at the entrance. Damask he banked hard, glad that it was the one beast of this group he had decided that he could trust, "Miss Bellona!"

She hopped back to avoid the robin's haphazard landing,  "What is it, bird?"

"The vermin are here! The other sentry..." he let his voice trail off, gesturing over his shoulder with a beak.

He caught a glimmer in the dormouse's eyes. An expression flitted across her face for only a moment. She was back to her sensible, stoic self within a heartbeat, however. She nodded once, then moved inside the natural shelter, shaking bodies and giving orders.

As Damask caught his breath outside, he dwelled on that image, stewing over its familiarity. She feels responsible, too...

The time for stewing was past, however, and with a shove, the bird took to the air again. An unearthly cry from behind forced his wings to beat harder. The vermin were gaining ground.

------------

As they ran, Damask had one duty: fly ahead and call out the terrain and fly back and call out the enemy's position. What those below didn't realize was that flight was expensive. The night was beginning to take its toll on Damask, and his forays to the fore and aft became shorter and shorter. The curses and stones flung by his pursuers were getting harder to dodge.

"Oi, ye daft feathadooster!"

Damask had begun to dread that voice. He swooped down, gritting his beak against the tongue lashing that always seemed to accompany conversations with Sailpaw. He began to hop from branch to branch above the jogging squirrel. "Yes, cap'n?"

"Ye want I shood take yer place, laddie? Ye cannae fly worth a --"

"Captain?" Bellona interrupted, coming up alongside the pair, "Might I suggest we save the... debriefing... for after we've reached safety?"

Sailpaw gave a snort, but buttoned his lip, veering to one side to help a lagging shrew. Damask began to give a breathy thanks to the leftenant, when a yell from the flank burst forth, "Aaah! Gerroff, ye slack-jawed fleabag!"

Both heads snapped around to see the young hare from before, Giddy, tackled by one of the faster vermin, a weedy-looking rat. What he lacked in size, however, he made up for with ferocity. He brought to bear a short spear and he was bringing it around to--

What are you doing? His instincts cried out, as Damask found himself hurtling back to the hare's aid. A mere ten paces away, the rat had missed his first lunge, and as he drew back again, Damask descended on him from a short, hard dive. The robin clung the the rat's ears, bringing his beak down repeatedly towards the vulnerable eyes, all the while flapping his wings, trying to cause as much of a distraction as possible. It seemed a lifetime, wildly pecking his foe while trying to cling as if his life -- or worse, reputation depended on it.

It was only a few seconds later that the vermin went limp below him, however. Damask collapsed forward onto a surprised Captain.

"Weel, laddie. Mayhaps there's more to ye'n meets the eye."

------------

The remainder of the flight for the Broad Stream was like a night plagued with nightmares for Damask. He would almost break from his sleep-deprived, adrenaline-laced state for a minute's peace, then another vermin warcry would pierce the gloom. Or another member of Martin's Shadow would be pounced upon by the attackers. Only one other time were they able to rescue the beast. Three others, however, were simply dragged into the underbrush by leering grins, masks from beyond the Dark Forest. I always used "the dead of night" in stories, but when you can actually see what's about to get you--

Each sound sent another shiver up the bird's spine, sending fresh waves of fear to his mind. And in a cruel irony, each time another beast fell, it fueled him further, giving him the strength to fly farther ahead.

A golden ribbon caught his eye to the left, beckoning him closer as the day finally began to break onto water. The robin gave an impulsive twitter of song, dropping back to the main group and calling out, "Captain, Broad Stream ahead! Only a good hundredpace further!"

"Gud, laddie! Find us a hole t'hide in!"

The bird gave a short nod and powered ahead, renewed with hope. He swept along the bank, eyes flicking across the shore. He knew it had to be deep enough to fit everyone, with a narrow entrance and -- Perfect!

"Captain!" Damask called, working his way back along the shore, "I found it!"

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"I said, 'find a hole', laddie. I was no' serious, ye ken?" The squirrel said, grinning as he swung over the bank's overhang into the entrance of the disused otter holt -- a narrow, perfectly defensible entry that hung right over a tiny harbor in the stream. Sailpaw helped the rest of the party in, now down to a meager eight.

Damask fluttered into the entrance and gave a leery eye to the shelter. It was dark. It was deep. It was underground. He ruffled his feathers nervously, glancing back to the entrance and sweet, beckoning sunrise. "I suppose," the bird began, "I could take a rest outside. In a tree, you know..."

"Oh yes, and be some vermin's supper when they climb it?" The second-in-command moved between the robin and the entryway, her voice taking on a low, commanding tone. "You'll stay in here like everyone else and take your rest. That's an order, Damask."

Hearing her use his name shocked the bird enough that he wasn't able to think of a quick reply. Or any reply. That energy was starting to wear off, too. Being cramped in was causing his eyes to droop. Like when mother used to roost.

------------

Giant worms... working their way through the soil to fill his rumbling belly.

The bird's eyes opened to a dark, blurry chamber. His neck ached from his position -- near the bottom of a pile of fur and stink and -- There's that grinding sound again. Like a worm, only...

Damask gave a high-pitched chirp and extracted himself from the mass of sleepers. His gaze swung around for one of the leaders of the snoozing rabble. At the entrance was that mad squirrel Captain. He looked about again, hoping for the second-in-command. The robin breathed a short sigh of relief upon her entrance from one of the living chambers. As she reclaimed a haversack from the legions of dust, he hopped up to her, "Someone's digging--"

"-- a tunnel. I know," she said, finishing his reply for him. "Nashald's lot only sent two beasts to the front entry this morning. After they fell, they decided to make their own way in."

"What are we going to do?"

"Well," the leftenant began, "there are a few boats in here that are in fairly good order. I'll get the others to outfitting and patching one. You and the Captain should go above and assess the situation. There was a scuffle a moment ago and the digging has..." She paused and listened, eyes turned to the ceiling, before continuing, "...stopped. Fates know what that means. I don't think we should stay a moment longer than necessary."

Damask hopped to the entrance, shaking the dirt of the holt's floor from his feathers. "All right, Miss Bellona."

"Tha's Leftenant t'ye!" Sailpaw's voice took on a hard edge. "Jist 'cause ye did a gud turn afore, dinnae be makin' ye a fine ole friend, birdie."

Damask gave a little nod, seething on the inside. That arrogant, ungrateful...

Before his imagination could come up with further pleasant descriptors, the squirrel was out of the entrance, climbing up the overhang above. Damask followed, making sure to fly out over the middle of the stream, out of paw's reach, before circling back. What met his eyes was an odd scene indeed. Sailpaw was menacing a rat with his sword, the point of which was bobbing less than an pawslength from the vermin's throat. The vermin, in turn, was pointing to a body at its feet with a spade, offering a few unsightly expressions to enrich his explanation.

The bird landed to: "Ye'd best have said yer prayers, scoombag."

"Look, ye' batty ol' treehopper -- I ain't yer vermin!"

"Gentlebeasts!" Mind, the yell didn't carry a lot of weight, and it certainly came off on the treble end of the spectrum. However, Damask had summoned every ounce of indignation he could to get their attention. "Someone had better start explaining things."

The rat was quicker on the uptake, or at least not spitting mad like his adversary. "So I was walking along th' bank, right? Th' weasel here," the vermin pointed at the beast at his feet, "decides he's gonna gimme his job. Well, doesn't much matter if'n I refuse, 'cause he starts in with th' kickin' an' cursin' at me. Well, I've had a bad day already, so I don't feel much like helpin' out with his sandcastle. One thing led to another an'... An' then yer mighty warrior here--"

"Warrior, aye! Now, look here ye foul sack o' --"

"Captain!" The mere fact that the bird interrupted his tirade again caught Sailpaw short. The already russet squirrel seemed to turn crimson about the ears, quivering with rage. The fear from the past day, coupled with irritation, fueled the bird as he began to lay into the pair. "Now gentleman, I can see that the pair of you are certainly busy comparing gutter slang, but let me interject for a moment. Captain, we are currently a good moment's away from death. If the group after us sent one digger, then there is bound to be a party to check on him, aye?"

"I think..."

"I know you do, Captain, I know. You're always thinking ahead, aren't you. Like during our escape, when you had us sighted dead on the Broad Stream even during nightfall. And you, mister Rat. I can see we've a case of mistaken identity, yes? You've no dirt about your paws and you look about as at home holding that shovel as a -- pardon the expression -- bird underground."

"Well, yer right there..."

"I know I am. Am I right, of course! Now, I realized that the two of you have your reputations to consider --" As the pair moved to interject, Damask held up his wings again. "Now, just a moment. See, you've got a uniform of sorts, Mr. Rat. And while I don't see a horde about that shares said uniform, I've got to wonder. Is this vermin all by himself a runaway? Mr..."

"Deadtail. Err..."

"Ah, I understand if it's embarrassing, Master Deadtail. Now, I see a chance to, shall we say, scratch each others' backs." Though certainly not until after you've trimmed those claws back a ways.

"Jist a minnit, laddie. He's a --"

"I know, Captain, he's a rat. But he did, in fact, just save our little hides, didn't he? I mean, what kind of noble Officer would you be if you didn't pay back a debt, eh?"

"I'd never be indebted t' --"

"And, of course, you have your honor to consider. Why, I've always said, 'That Sailpaw's the most honorable beast ever did fight for Mossflower,' so smite me if I haven't." The bird tried his hardest to keep his voice soft and wheedling -- sweet but not saccharine.

"Have ye? But I ken..."

"I know I put on a face or an act, but --"

The diplomatic masterclass was interrupted by a sharp whistle from stream below. A voice called out, "Sir! There are vermin moving up the beach toward us. I heartily suggest you join us down here!" As if to punctuate her warning, a thrown spear landed only a few paces from the trio.

Damask gave the two one last look. "Well, lads, if you want to continue your conversation, far be it from me to interrupt you. Continue with the stabbing and whatnot."

He took to the air, flying as high above the stream as he could easily muster -- and out of range of slings, in case the vermin had grown wiser. Two figures below him jumped over the edge of the bank and began to make their way towards a small longboat that barely held the ragged band -- the last of Martin's Shadow. Damask gave a little chuckle as a sodden Captain was pulled aboard, So it may not be as exciting as attacking another beast, but my... I love working an audience.