Prologue

It was a dark and stormy night. Rain fell in thick sheets, blurring tree, rock, and shrub into one gray mass. The traveler's footpaws squelched in the sticky mud as he fought his way through the storm. The wind whipped him mercilessly and tried to snatch away the cloak that covered him. He was a blur in a landscape of blurs, cloak pulled tight about him and hood up. Not a single hair was left exposed to the storm. Through the downpour, a glimmer of light showed itself from the mouth of a cave. Inside, it was warm and dry. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, its sweet muskiness lending the cave a homely feel.

A shape at the edge of the fire stirred, looking up at the intruder. It was a squirrel, old beyond guess. His once red fur was now a silvery gray, and his nimble limbs now creaked with rheumatism. A smile broke over his features as he waved the wanderer in.

"Come in out of the darkness and storm, my friend. It's been far too long since I've had a visitor. Not many come to hear ancient history, even if I did live it. Settle yourself in, it's quite a tale I have to tell, about slaves, injustice, and split families. Both trust and mistrust play a large part in my story. This tale centers around an unlikely friendship between a prince and a slave." The old squirrel shook his head. "Now there I go giving away part of the story. Let's begin before I ruin the end as well."

"It all began one day in late spring, many, many, seasons ago..."

Crimson Flagstones

"The water is warm today," thought Colan as he kicked upwards off the seafloor towards the surface. Bubbles surrounded him as he spiraled upwards through the aquamarine depths. The pull of the bulging bag on his belt reminded him of the fact that he wasn't here for fun, he had a job. And if he didn't perform well...well, he'd just do his job and not think of that.

He broke the surface, blinking at the bright spring sun. The warm salt breeze sweeping towards the island off the sea tickled his nose, and Colan sneezed. Swimming over to the coracle he had anchored not far away, he pulled himself halfway out of the water. Looking over the opposite side of the coracle, he studied the island he called home. A clean white beach separated the sea from rolling fields of crops. Perched on a hill some distance away was a white stone palace. Colan's father, Athuran, had told him that the finishing touches had been put on the palace when he was sixteen, the same age as Colan. Behind the palace, green-leafed trees swayed in the salt breeze.

The scene would've been peaceful, had it not been for the crack of the whip and the cries of its victims that echoed across the water. Squirrels, mice, shrews, and some otters were working in the fields, pushed ever faster by the whips of their overseers. Colan counted himself lucky that he was a diver; the overseers couldn't push him so hard. Thinking of that reminded Colan that he still needed to work. Captain Ripfur, who oversaw the fishing and diving, and loved to embarrass and needle the slaves under him as much as possible, didn't take kindly to slackers. Well, he didn't take kindly to slaves in general, but he was harsher to those that didn't fill their coracles by the end of the day.

Colan reached down with one paw and unhooked the bag around his waist. Heaving it into the little boat, he upended it, dumping its contents to the floor of the coracle with a clatter to join the twoscore specimens that already lay there. They were oysters, shiny as crystal and black as night. Most of them held only the oyster, but some held pearls that would be added to her majesty Queen Laburnum's personal collection, to be made into pawrings sand necklaces later by slaves that showed skill as artisans.

Colan's stomach rumbled as he stared at the oysters, but he couldn't eat one, not yet. He had to be sure that he had enough to satisfy Ripfur before he began to eat his catch. Colan clipped the bag to his belt and took several deep breaths. Then he dove.

Down, down into the water he dove. Colan remembered the time when he was afraid to go so deep, and settled for the smaller oysters in the shallower areas. He had gotten many a whipping for returning with inadequate oysters before he began diving deeper. Now he dove deeper than anybeast else, and returned with larger oysters.

Colan's paws touched the seafloor and he looked around. The blanket of water above him pressed in all around, but he knew his body could stand it. He didn't want to try pushing his luck much farther though. Colan vaguely remembered an incident some seasons back, when he had just started. Queen Laburnum's son, Prince Alspur, had been out in a boat when he dropped his dagger in the water. He had called an otterslave over and ordered him to fetch it. The slave had pleaded with Alspur to leave it there, it was too far down. Prince Alspur then said that either the slave dove for it, or his family would be locked in their house and burned. The otter had gone down, blood had come up, and the slave joined the Prince's dagger on the seafloor. Alspur had shrugged and commented that he had plenty more daggers just like it back at the palace. This had occurred not much further out than Colan was now.

Colan swam over to an oyster that had anchored itself to a second one. ''Ha, two for one.'' He thought as he pulled his knife from his belt. It wasn't really a knife, simply a ground oyster shell, but it was the only sharp thing he was allowed to carry. Colan braced himself against a rock and pulled on the bottom oyster, slashing under it with the sharpened oyster shell. Colan slipped the oysters into his belt pouch and kicked off the bottom to get a breath of air. He had wasted too much time thinking instead of working, and now he had run out of air.

Halfway up, Colan noticed another boat near his coracle. This one was a proper boat, with oars sticking into the water. Colan gave an inward groan, why would Ripfur do a surprise inspection? He wouldn't find anything out of the ordinary, he never had, and he never would. For a moment Colan hovered in the water, but then his lungs reminded him that he needed air, and he reluctantly continued towards the surface.

Colan broke the surface and studied the boat for signs of what it might mean. Four otterslaves sat at the oars, looking tired but otherwise fine. In the bow stood Captain Ripfur, a bulky rat with half of his right ear missing. A cutlass hung from his left side, and he held a whip coiled in his right paw. At the sound of Colan's swimming, he turned his steely gray eyes to look at him.

"Git over 'ere, slave!" He barked, "I don't 'ave all day." Colan swam over until he was directly under the bow of the boat, craning his neck to look at Ripfur. "That's better." He said. "Divin's over for t'day, everybeast is ordered t' attend th' execution of th' would-be-assassins of King Alcon." He gave Colan a look of disgust, "Make sure ya get some clothes on first though, yer not there to impress th' females." He turned his back on Colan and shouted to the rower, cracking his whip over their heads. "Put yer backs inta it, ya lazy fish'eads! To th' shore, double time."

Colan had to swim out of the way as the boat lurched over the spot he had just occupied. He felt his face burning as Ripfur was rowed away, laughing at his joke. He knew Ripfur had said that just to embarrass him, but it still sent the blood rushing to his face. It was normal among the divers to wear nothing but your belt, there was less drag that way and diving took less effort, which was important when you did it the entire day. All the divers were males anyway; Ripfur had the notion that females were better cooks and cleaners than divers and fishers. Colan though he was probably right, the few meals his father had cooked had been awful, but he was wrong about the males being better at fishing. He knew a few otterwives that could fish the rudder off any of the males. Colan though about what his friend Cetyl's reaction would be if he went walking around the compound with only his belt on. He imagined it'd be something along the lines of 'Uhh, Colan? You forgot yore clothes.' Not impressed at all_. Besides,_ Colan thought as he began swimming for shore, dragging the coracle behind him_, It's not like I have the muscles to impress anybeast with._

It was true. Colan was plenty strong for the work he did, but it wasn't apparent. He was one of those beasts that didn't appear as strong as they actually were. Colan pushed Ripfur's jibe out of his mind, it was just to get him riled, nothing more. He succeeded in pushing it away, only to have his mind take a more sinister trail. He had heard rumors that King Alcon had nearly been assassinated by his family's personal slaves, but it had only been rumors until now.

Soon his paws touched bottom and he was dragging the coracle up the beach past the tideline. Captain Ripfur was already there. He pointed to a nearby weasel, "You! Check this 'un over."

The weasel, a well-built beast with a black-furred right paw, walked over and frisked Colan. "Well, this is unneeded." Thought Colan as he was patted down. "Where am I gonna hide something? In me fur?"

_ _

"Open." The weasel ordered him sharply, placing a paw on the side of Colan's muzzle. The otter obliged, and after peering around his mouth, the guard stepped back a pace. "Arms up!"

"Swing 'em now!"

"Right footpaw up!"

"Now th' left 'un!"

Colan preformed all the tasks the soldier gave, from holding up his footpaws to waggling his rudder. The process took a whole five minutes, and much of it was unneeded commands that the weasel added just to be bossing somebeast around. Finally the guard got bored and pronounced him clear, after removing the oyster shell blade and tossing it into a basket in the coracle for safe keeping.

Colan grabbed his tunic from the coracle and moved a short distance away from Ripfur. The Captain would think it funny to confiscate his tunic on the grounds that he could strangle somebeast with it. Colan removed his belt and shook himself, getting much of the excess water off. Then he donned the rough homespun tunic and clipped the belt over it. Satisfied that he was now decent, he began walking down the path that led to the main road that stretched between the palace and the docks. He merged with the flow of traffic that moved toward the palace. Most were slaves in the fields, but some were workers at the docks or fishers. He saw a few divers who had been delayed like him, but most were already far ahead. He nodded to a hedgehog that cleaned the tavern by the docks and also to a pretty mousemaid that waited on the tables there.

Colan spotted his brother up ahead, and he broke into a trot to catch up. "How was fishin'?" He asked as he drew level.

"Bad." Muttered Runtha, "Shark attack today, it got Chippen."

Colan missed a step at the news. Chippen hadn't been any good friend of his, but getting eaten by a shark was a horrible way to go. Fishing was notorious for its shark attacks, with the struggling and sometimes bleeding fish that the fisherbeasts hauled out of the water. The news effectively killed any further conversation, and they walked in silence for the rest of the way.

Soon they were walking through the town outside the gates of the palace. The wooden houses lined the dirt street, blocking out much of the sunlight. Across the street, a boor banged open and a rat stumbled out, followed by a pot, which bounced down the street. A ratwife stepped into the doorframe, waving a knife threateningly.

"Come back when yer sober, or not at all!" she shouted after the rat as he staggered down the street. "Yer too pushy an' bossy after th' score o' flagons yew've 'ad."

Colan ducked his head to hide his smile. It wasn't every day that he saw a rat get his tail whipped by his mate. Now they were walking next to the high wooden palisade of the slave compound. Guards patrolled the walkway that encircled the top of the palisade. Each night Colan reported to Ripfur at the gate, who, after a few more jibes, checked him off his list and let him in. The houses inside were more ramshackle huts than proper dwellings, and they were small and crowded. The meanest soldier could get a five room, well-built, cozy house easily while the slaves who built the house shivered in their drafty, one-room huts.

"Colan!" Runtha's voice brought him back to reality, making him jump and look around. He hadn't noticed the crowd pressing in around him, nor the gate of the palace looming high above him. Even now he was beginning to cross the drawbridge, the river running below him. The white stone towered above the crowd, making Colan feel small. As he passed through the gate, he glanced up at the portcullis hanging above him by thick iron chains. It was a sight that made him uneasy. Hundreds of pounds of iron hung above him with large iron spikes pointing downwards. He wouldn't put it past one of the soldiers to send the portcullis crashing down for fun, the only punishment would be a few lashes for the destruction of royal property.

Colan moved with the crowd down a dark stone tunnel that burrowed its way through the thick wall. Suddenly he was in the palace courtyard, blinking at the bright sunlight. Colan hesitated; he wasn't sure where to go. He was of two minds about the execution of these slaves. Yes, they had tried to kill King Alcon, but they had also been terrible snitches. Their reports had gotten slaves executed on more than one occasion. Runtha moved up towards the middle, motioning at him to follow. Colan reluctantly went with him. When Colan stopped moving, he got his first glimpse of the condemned.

They were a family of four mice, dressed in finery, now tattered and bloodstained. The backs of their clothes were almost gone, slashed to ribbons by the whip. One was missing an ear, another an eye, and a third his forepaw. All of them had their footpaws bound tightly together and their forepaws tied to a beam above their heads. They were covered from head to tail with bruises. Silently they hung, whiskers and tails drooping, in front of the jeering mob of vermin. Colan stirred with unease as he heard a few slaves shouting in the crowd as well.

"Th' sunset's supposed t'be beautiful tonight mousie. Too bad yew won't live t' see it!"

"Yah, th' royal fishies are gonna 'ave flayed mousie t'night."

"Harr, harr, keep th' cleanin' crew ready, mates! They'll be moppin' up mousie soon!"

A shrill voice shouted out from behind Colan, "Now ye'll pay for yer tattlin'! My Vertal well be avenged by yer death!"

Suddenly a beat of a drum rolled out over the crowd, its bass boom reverberating in Colan's chest. The shouts and jeers of the crowd died down until only the low murmuring of whispers remained. The doors of the palace slowly opened and Captain Markul, the overseer of the palace slaves and the spokesbeast for the royal family, stepped out of the palace and walked forward to stand on a raised platform next to the trussed-up mice.

"Silence for King Alcon, Ruler of Aguinal, Terror of the Western Sea, countless riches fill his treasure chambers, grain overflows his storehouses, all the treasures of the sea belong to him, may his name outlast the seasons!"

"Except for the one pearl Runtha stole from Father a few weeks back." Thought Colan, "That 'un'll never make it to...wait. Oh yeah, Runtha gave the pearl to a soldier in exchange for extra rations for himself."

A hush fell over the crowd as four more figures emerged from the palace doors. The first was a large, heavy-set male ferret. He wore a shirt of chainmail, with plates of iron inlaid with gold on his shoulders and chest. A heavily-muscled paw rested of the hilt of the ornate broadsword at his side. The hilt was solid gold, inset with many types of precious stones. The scabbard was iron, heavily inlaid with gold, a line of gems set down the middle, sending the sunlight that hit it in a thousand different directions. An ornately crafted gold crown rested on the top of his head. Colan couldn't see the designs, but he didn't need to to know that it showed the royal house killing and enslaving otters, mice, shrews, moles, hedgehogs, squirrels, and all manner of woodlanders. As much as Colan hated the king, he couldn't help admiring his strong figure. This wasn't a beast that, just because he was king, sat around getting fat. There was only muscle on his frame.

After King Alcon came Queen Laburnum. She was the opposite of her mate in body frame, almost a head shorter and of slight build. The Queen wore a wispy dress of a violent red color. Her small frame was weighted down by an assortment of necklaces, pawrings, tailrings, earrings, and jewelry of all sorts. Her crown was slimmer and lighter than the king's, but every square inch was encrusted with jewels so it appeared that an exotic butterfly had landed on her head.

Behind her, walking side-by-side, came the princes. Prince Alspur was the eldest of the two, and at eighteen seasons of age he was an exact copy of his father, with the exception of any scars. Tall and thick-boned, he moved in deliberate motions, each pawstep falling heavily on the stone slabs of the courtyard. He wore a gold and silver-threaded tunic and a crimson cape fastened over one shoulder. An ornamental dagger hung at his belt in a sheath of solid gold. Alspur looked over the crowd, contempt evident of his face.

Prince Torrin was the youngest, at sixteen seasons. He wasn't as heavily-built as his father, but he wasn't slender like his mother either. His frame was somewhere in-between the two. He wore a tunic with the simplest of gold embroidery on one shoulder. As he moved, there was a spring in his step, as if there was stored energy hidden in his body and some escaped as he walked. He looked around the silent crowd, his face a blank mask. Colan, try as he might, couldn't figure out what the prince was feeling.

Four ornately carved oak thrones were carried onto the raised platform by a number of slaves. "Those can't be comfortable." Colan thought as the royal family sat down. Queen Laburnum was at the King's right paw, and the two princes were at his left. Alcon rose again and stepped forward to the edge of the platform. He raised his voice until its deep tones rolled to the furthest corners of the palace square, making sure everybeast could hear.

"I asked you to come here today to witness the demise of those who attempted to kill me."

"Maybe for the corsairs at the docks or the soldiers it was a choice." Thought Colan, then he noticed Alcon looking at the bound mice, and he felt his blood run cold. He had seen that expression on Ripfur's face a few times, but never with the intensity that he saw it now. "Flames...he's anticipating it. He can't wait to kill those mice.''

_ _

Alcon signaled and Markul hurried forward with a large double-edged sword. Markul kneeled and held it out, then hastily backed away as the king took it. At first Colan couldn't figure out what made the blade look so strange, then he realized it had no tip, its point was a flat edge. ''A blade made for executions.'' Realized Colan as Alcon turned back to the crowd.

"As they die," he said, leaning on the sword, "they will realize what fools they were to think that they could kill me." Then he addressed the slaves directly. "Slave, as their pleas for mercy go unanswered, let them remind you that the same will go for you if you attempt some foolish act."

One of the mice spoke up, his voice cracked from pain. "You are a fool yourself if you think we would plead to you."

Alcon merely smiled, a smile that sent chills down Colan's spine. "We will see." Turning his back on the crowd, he studied his two sons. Alspur looked at his father with eager expectation, glancing longingly at the sword. Torrin kept up his blank expression, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. "Torrin." He said finally, "I grant you the duty of slaying these would-be assassins."

For a second the blank mask faltered and began to fall, but Prince Torrin regained it so fast that Colan wasn't sure if he had actually seen it. Alspur didn't even try to mask the disappointment that he felt. Torrin stepped forward and grasped the outstretched pommel. Alcon released the blade and it dipped, nearly touching the ground before Torrin adjusted. He hefted it and swung experimentally a few times, then turned to his brother. Reversing his grip, he held out the pommel.

"It would be a pleasure to rid the world of these fools, Father, but I feel that because of my brother's position as firstborn prince, and his expertise with heavier weapons, he should have the privilege."

King Alcon looked slightly angry but said nothing as Alspur snatched the sword from his brother's paws. Alspur stepped toward the first slave, and Alcon settled back on his throne, the same malicious anticipation on both their faces.

"Plead for mercy and maybe I'll spare you." Alspur said to the first mouse.

"If I though pleading would save me, I'd have already started." Shouted the mouse, obviously the spokesbeast. "You'll hear no pleading from us!"

Alspur smiled maliciously, "All the better." He said, then gripped the sword with both paws a swung, cleaving through the mouse's midsection. Crimson liquid darkened the stones, running off the swordblade, soaking the fur of the dead mouse and running under the paws of the remaining trio. Alspur took a deep sniff and moved down the line. Next was an aged female mouse. She was shaking as Alspur swung the dripping sword near her muzzle. "Ready to grovel at my footpaws yet, scum?" He asked disdainfully.

The mouse looked at the corpse swinging beside her, either her mate or her son, Colan hadn't thought to look and now he couldn't tell. She took a deep breath. "No." She calmed her shivering, "Never."

"Come now." Alspur taunted. "If you cry for mercy I may only lop off your paws." The mousewife shook her head defiantly. "Good." Alspur grinned and suddenly the heavy sword was a blur. The mouse fell screaming to the ground, her footpaws cut out from under her and her forepaws dangling all by themselves from the rope they were died to. The screaming stopped abruptly, and there was a splash as the mouse's head fell into the crimson stream. The crowd, soldiers and slaves alike, were pressing together to make way for the river of blood that was winding its way out the palace gates and running into the river that split around the palace. The last two mice took a look at the two corpses and the bloody sword Alspur flourished as he stepped toward them and they began screaming for mercy.

Colan turned away and heaved the contents of his stomach onto the flagstones. He longed to leave, to knock himself out, anything to shut out the screams and pleads that came from the platform. Colan raised his gaze and looked at Runtha. His brother was staring at the stage, his mouth open in fascination. Colan was unable to bring himself to look at the raised platform as one of the voices ceased. The stench of blood filled his nostrils and his vision began to darken. He barely realized what he was doing as he staggered towards the spot from which he had entered this entrance to Hellgates. He slumped down against the wall, wishing it would all be over, that he hadn't received the summons, that he was still living a relatively carefree day out in the sea...