One More (Harold Drybank)

[Substitute Author]

"See the soldier with his gun who must be dead to be admired." ~ Gordon Lightfoot



He was going to die.

That was pretty certain at this point. If the vermin and slavers didn?t kill him whatever it was that liked to moan and kill helpless beasts would. Barring that, the crazy cat might just eat him. Now that wasn?t exactly a pleasant thought.

Harold could still hear the maniacal beast purring softly behind him. It was genuinely disturbing.

Feeling a sudden gush of warm air on the back of his head, Harold shuddered and quickened his pace. He didn?t relish the thought of dead sea rat being breathed on him. That was not something he wanted to smell.

His burst of speed was poorly timed. The weasel in front of him had just stopped short. Harold bumped into him and got cursed for his clumsiness.

Holding up his hand, the weasel sniffed the air between curses.

?You smell that, Ashira??

?Of course I smell that,? The ferret replied coolly without even slowing down. ?I told you it wouldn?t be hard for me to get us out of here. This is what I do.?

Without the usual cutting reply, the weasel simply shrugged and walked on after the ferret. Harold followed, sniffing a bit as he trudged along.

He smelled it too. The air was getting fresher.

Three or four more twist and there it was; sunlight. It felt glorious after the long trek in the tunnels.

Without even an announcement of her intentions, the ferret plopped down against a rocky outcropping and laid her head back, a smile playing across her face. The weasel walked a few paces beyond her and gazed across the island absently.

The cat shoved Harold to the ground and sat down near him. Apparently it was his job to make sure the slave didn?t try anything. Harold sighed and let his weight sink to the ground. He hadn?t eaten well in months and this unusual exercise was wearing on him. The vermin were talking amongst themselves but Harold didn?t even bother listening. He?d go where he was told. Specifics didn?t concern him.

Then he saw it.

Not two feet from the end of his nose, attached to the cat?s belt, was a small dagger.

An idea started to form in the young vole?s mind. It was pure insanity, but?

?It may not work? He thought to himself, ?But it?s the only chance.?

Slowly, ever so slowly, he started moving his paw toward the blade. Then, just as his paw touched the hilt, he acted.

With a speed he himself didn?t think he had at this point, he pulled the knife from its sheath and sprung to his feet, brandishing it in front of him. His sought for but a moment before focusing on the object of his rage and the target of his attack.

?the ferret.

?Ferret!? He cried in a voice tainted with rage, ?Face me now in battle!?

The ferret sat up slowly, measuring the vole with her eyes. The smile never left her lips.

?Didn?t we already do this?? She queried, ?Yes, I believe we did. Oh yes, and I bloodied your nose. Does it feel better now??

Harold narrowed his eyes. Grasping the blade tighter in his paw, he started growling. Softly at first, but then growing in volume until he was roaring and shouting.

?Enough!? He shouted, ?Your evil has plagued too many! I will not be one more! I will not sit by and let you treat others as property, as things to be used and done away with. No, I will not be one more.?

Harold stopped yelling. His breath was coming hard and fast. The blade was quivering in his tight grasp. Taking a deep breath, he charged.

?I will not be one more!?

The smile never left the ferret?s face. She didn?t even get up. Just as Harold was wondering about this fact, he felt it.

The cool steel slid through his torso and ripped out his side in one smooth motion.

Without even a gasp of pain the vole sank to the ground, staring up at the weasel standing over him with a bloody blade. Red mist covered his vision and turned it slowly into the black void that welcomed him into death.

Thus passed Harold ? Warrior of Redwall Abbey.