The sun shone through a barred window, shining into the russet facial fur of a young squirrel that lay in its path. The squirrel shifted and squinted, yawning and groaning. Blinking, he turned to the otter that slept on the other side of the cell. "You awake?"

The otter rolled over, squinting at the squirrel. "Yes. Unfortunately."

The squirrel smiled and gave a snort. He then sat up as there was a loud banging on the cell's door. "Get up, you useless swine! We ain't got all day! Get to the trainin' area, now!"

The squirrel rolled his eyes. He and the otter rose as one and walked out of the cell, down the stone hallway towards a small room filled with weapons. They each walked to opposite sides of the room and taking weapons from the walls. The otter picked a spiked gauntlet that fit over one paw, a javelin, a rolled-up, weighted net, and a dirk. The squirrel picked up a sword and shield, and also a sling. They both walked out together, still menaced by the ferret guard's spear.

The training yard of the vermin motte and bailey structure that encompassed their quarters, along with all of the other woodlander prisoners, was composed of a high, wooden palisade with a wide platform that allowed guards to patrol it. In the center, below the wall, was a small, sandy area that could hold about forty. As the two walked into the yard, leaving the ferret guard behind to stand at the door, they muttered soft greetings to each of the other prisoners.

It was like this every morning. The forty or so creatures that had been captured and brought here went out to a training yard every morning to practice fighting. The vermin that ruled this fortress enjoyed watching them fight to the death, and then spend their nights cavorting around a "bonfire" made from those that had died that day. It was gruesome, and the smell of burned fur made a stink in the air that lingered constantly, assailing the nostrils of the survivors. Raids were periodically launched into the woods surrounding the fortress, getting new meat for the arena.

As the two took their places across from one another for a practice fight, the otter looked around and then whispered to his friend. "You think we can get all of our weapons out of here too, Thyre?"

Thyre the squirrel shrugged as he fixed the shield to his arm with a strap that left his paw free to grasp. "Maybe, Jarren, but I'm not sure. Your net would probably be too heavy to carry for long distances, though. We'd need to travel light."

"Oy!" one guard on the wall shouted down. "Wot're yew two talkin' about?"

Thyre looked up. "Nothin', sir."

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Well, make sure it stays that way. You lot ain't got a prayer o' gettin' out o' 'ere!"

Jarren narrowed his eyes, then turned back to Thyre. The squirrel began the bout with a horizontal swing at neck height. Jarren ducked forward and stabbed with his javelin, causing Thyre to jump backwards before swinging his shield to turn away another stab. He swung his sword again and Jarren again ducked, swinging the net out to entangle the squirrel's footpaws. Thyre twisted away from the seeking weights and unhooked his sling with his shield paw, spinning it briefly before launching it at his opponent's shoulder. Jarren ducked and then hurled his javelin in kind. Thyre caught it on his shield, then drew his paw out of the strap to wield his sword double-handed. Jarren drew his dirk with a free paw, then hurled the net. It spun through the air and nearly caught Thyre, catching him with a stinging blow across the back of his ear. Thyre felt blood begin to flow, but didn't pause. He ran forward and then spun left at the last second, swinging his weapon at Jarren's back, but the otter had already turned and his dirk's guard was now crossed with Thyre's sword's own as the otter grabbed his arm.

Thyre smiled. "Tied again."

Jarren smiled back and nodded, and they both released each other. They had known each other for so long that they knew each other's moves instinctively. Sitting with their backs against the compound wall, Thyre motioned to the spiked gauntlet that Jarren wore on his off paw. "You still haven't corrected that mistake."

Jarren shrugged. "I don't like to use it. Just a way to draw it out, in my opinion."

Thyre chuckled and smiled. "Maybe. But those spikes could be the difference between life and death in a real match one day."

Jarren nodded grimly. Thyre looked up at a disturbance across the yard. A newly arrived mouse, wielding a small dagger, had overextended himself while stabbing at a sackcloth dummy. Stumbling forward, he had accidentally cut a weasel across the shoulder.

"Ye stupid little whelp!" the weasel growled as he struck the young mouse across the face. The mouse hit the ground, clutching the rapidly swelling area as the other captives moved away. There were serious repercussions if you interrupted one of the guards in the middle of a beating.

Thyre clenched a paw. Jarren noticed it and put a paw on his friend's shoulder. "Don't do it, mate." he whispered. "This isn't your fight."

Thyre gently pushed Jarren's paw off of him. Taking the otter's dirk and then picking up his sword from where he had laid it against a pillar, he stood, looking at his friend. "It is now. I'm sick of them doing this, Jarren. They pick on the new ones just because they don't know the first thing about fighting." While they were speaking, the weasel had been kicking the mouse in the stomach. One particularly hard strike caused the mouse to retch, spraying vomit across the ground. When he tried to stand, the weasel struck him again, sending him sprawling once more. The weasel got closer and raised his spear to finish the unfortunate creature off when the strike was turned aside, thudding into the ground.

Startled, the weasel looked up. Thyre stood there, a dirk in his off paw and his sword in the other. The weasel glared. "Stay outta this, bushtail!"

Thyre pointed his blades at him. "I'll stay out of it if you let the young 'un be. He's not used to fighting. None of us were when you brought us here."

"And he'll learn it the 'ard way, just like you!" the weasel roared, stabbing at Thyre with his spear. The squirrel crossed his blades in front of him, stopping the blade before turning it aside with the dirk and slicing the weasel across the chest with the sword. Shrieking, the weasel fell to the ground. Thyre blocked another strike from the ferret in the doorway and shoved his elbow into the ferret's stomach. With a loud oof the ferret stumbled backwards into the wall. Now other guards were closing in on the defiant squirrel. One guard was jumped by a hedgehog that bore him to the ground and held him there, his paws around the rat's throat. A fox was hit in the chest by a stone from a sling that had been fired by a shrew. The fox fell to the ground, clutching his chest.

Alarm bells began to ring as the fight escalated into a full-blown riot. More guards waded into the fray, beating the others with the shafts of their spears. They were forbidden to kill any of the prisoners under pain of death, though beating them to within an inch of their lives was permitted. Thyre stood in the center of the maelstrom, defending himself with skill born of countless battles and a repressed anger that had been hidden for far too long. Turning aside attacks with slashes of his own, he was not under the same restrictions the guards were. Knocking a spear aside with a well-timed slash, he stabbed its fox wielder in the stomach before withdrawing the blade and causing the blade to collide with another spear. The spear was deflected, bring Thyre's elbow in line with his attacker's face. He forced it into the ferret's nose, the crack of bone audible even over the fight. Thyre then struck the ferret across the head with the flat of the sword as he spun. He turned and saw a spearbutt approaching his head before it connected, causing his vision to explode in a white flash of light which then faded to a darkness that enveloped everything.

The pine marten walked into the yard, escorted by other guards. The riot had calmed down after the other fighters had seen the instigator fall. He walked over to Thyre's unconscious body, lying face down on the sandy ground. A large wound on his head was staining the ground on the right side of his head a dark red, the blood rippling as it moved passed the squirrel's mouth. The pine marten nodded appreciatively. If the squirrel hadn't been breathing, he would have had to kill the guard that had done it. That squirrel was one of the more popular ones in the arena. It would have been a shame to lose him. The pine marten looked around at the handful of dead guards around the squirrel. One was still writhing in pain after a stab wound in the stomach had sent him onto his back, shrieking. Though the screaming had quieted, the weasel still writhed in pain. The pine marten held out his paw, and one of his escorts handed him a spear. He raised it, then stabbed the spear into the weasel's chest. The guard screamed as the pine marten twisted it back and forth, then went limp. The pine marten then pulled the spear out, handed it back to the guard, and looked around the rest of the training grounds. Other fighters had also been rendered unconscious, but none were dead. He looked at one of the surviving, uninjured guards. "Get the wounded to the infirmary. Even the fighters. They are not to get food or drink for three days."

The guard saluted with his spear, but did not leave. "What about the squirrel, Chief?"

"Put him in the locks. Get him healed too. I will inform you of a punishment later."

Two guards stepped forward and seized either of Thyre's arms, dragging him out of the yard. Other guards began to step forward and do the same to the other unconscious combatants, guards and fighters alike.

Jarren was helping the young mouse up when the pine marten approached him. "Look at me, otter." the pine marten whispered.

Jarren obediently raised his head. "Yes, lord?"

"Tell me, otter. Do you know who I am?"

"You are Valcyn, lord of this fortress."

The pine marten nodded. "Good. And do I hear of everything that goes on in my fortress?"

"Yes. I apologize for Thyre's behavior. I tried to warn him, told him that it wasn't his fight, but he didn't listen."

The pine marten glared at him. "I am not interested in your petty excuses. You will share your friend's punishment, and one of you will come out worse for wear. Get that mouse to the infirmary. I don't want fresh meat to be dead before its first fight."

Jarren watched him leave. "Yes, lord." He turned to the mouse, who was leaning heavily on him. "Everything's fine now. My name's Jaren. What's yours?"

The mouse, who was breathing heavily after the beating he had endured, could barely raise his head to look at Jarren. "A-A-Aaron." he said, stuttering.

Jarren smiled. "Well, Aaron. Come with me. You'll get used to it soon. I promise."

He supported Aaron as the two walked out of the gate, towards the infirmary.

You'll see what the punishment is. In case anyone's wondering, this will be the longest fanfic I've ever posted. (I have one that's over a hundred pages, but that one has so much borrowed from Pirates of the Caribbean I'd have to put a disclaimer on it. R and R!