Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Ages!" the young, thickly-muscled mouse thundered, pounding on the small wooden door, rattling the sign on it. The sign said "Doctors Out", but then again, Dr. Ages and his wife Rosie never bothered to change it. "I need a medic here!" Cynthia Brisby whipped a bloody paw around in warning as one of her shamed, uncomfortable Guard-rats tried to relieve her of her limp burden. There was a rat slung over her shoulder, wounds bound with rough strips of cloth and a sword-belt cinched around one leg for a tourniquet. There was little left of him but a collection of cuts, but he still looked as if his weight might crush her. "Don’t you touch him, soldier. I stabbed him—I’ll carry him."

The door opened a crack and another mouse popped out. He was pure white with age but a bundle of overactive nerves. "What have you dragged onto my doorstep? Oh, my, what a mess. You should have taken him straight to Rosie over at the hospital!"

"No time, Doc. As you can see, he’s pumping blood pretty good." Cynthia forced her way past him into the cluttered mess beyond, shoving books and bowls and glassware off the wide, low table in one corner of the rough-hewn little study. She heaved the bloody rat onto the table unceremoniously, a quick diving catch from Ages the only thing keeping his head from slamming against it. I’ve hurt, I’ve maimed, but I’ve never killed, Cynthia thought grimly. I don’t think this scum deserves another chance at life, but that’s not up to me.

"That leg looks bad. I’ll do what he can, but he might lose it." Ages unbolted a glass cabinet, retrieving a scalpel and some sizeable stainless-steel clamps. He snapped a pair of latex gloves over his arthritic but steady old paws, and began probing at the rat’s injuries.

"Malachi!" Cynthia called to the only Guard-rat who dared linger at the door, with Cynthia’s current mood. He came to attention instantly.

"Yes, Ma’am?" He winced, expecting her to turn her temper on him full-force.

"Go tell Justin and my mother about the trouble at Timothy and Tina’s."

Malachi scratched his head, relieved. "They already know about the fire, ma’am."

"No, no. Tell them Gadget and the others have themselves barricaded down there behind that rock door. It might take a jackhammer to get them out, if we can’t convince them we aren’t being invaded."

Malachi threw her a quick salute and turned to leave.

"Malachi?" her voice stopped him.

"Yes, Miss Brisby?"

"Good work back there. We forced a lot of them off the cliff. Quick thinking."

A grin flickered across Malachi’s face but didn’t take. "Not quick enough," he reminded her. "They caught us off-guard, and we did lose Steven. It’s a miracle half our patrol isn’t dead."

"Your miracle, Malachi," she called after him, but he was already gone. He takes things too personally for a second-in-command, she sighed to herself.

Dr. Ages tied off a neat stitch, blood soaking the fur of his paws even around the gloves. "Well, that’s another leak plugged." He began to cut fur away from a nasty wound on his patient’s side. The rat jerked and twitched under his paws, breathing shallowly but steadily. "Hold him down for me. He’ll tear something open again, the way he’s thrashing around." He followed Cynthia’s distant gaze and nodded at the empty doorway. "More man trouble, Cynthia?"

Cynthia planted her short but powerful legs like tree roots and flung her arms across the rat’s middle. Cords of muscle bunched as she pressed down. "Show me a man who isn’t trouble. Including this wonderful specimen. Oh, great, is that mange?" She bent to inspect her paws, specked with flaky skin and twined with loose fur.

Dr. Ages flicked grime off the scissors and held them over a Bunsen burner for a moment. "Only the worst case I’ve ever seen. You carried him here all the way from the Plateau, did you?"

Cynthia shuddered, wiping one paw on her blood-streaked uniform and scratching at her fur before gripping the rat again. "I’m beginning to regret it. Will he live?"

"He’s a mess—a dozen minor wounds. He couldn’t crawl away if he tried. But I’ve dealt with all the bleeders here—the main concern is this lump on his head."

Cynthia grinned. "Hammered him pretty good. Malachi did that with his bare paws." Strong paws…

"Yes, quite," Ages murmured, distracted. He pushed the mangled rat’s lip up, revealing a cruel jagged pair of incisors. Damn. I thought as much. "Cynthia—see the penlight there against the wall? Get it for me." Cynthia dashed over and pushed aside a few piles and packets of dried herbs to get at the miniature flashlight. "Don’t do that! I have a system in here—" Ages started, leaving the table and yanking the rough curtains of his windows closed.

"You’re lucky I’m Captain of the Guard and not the Fire Marshal, or I’d haul you in. For a mouse, you’re the worst packrat I’ve ever seen."

Ages snatched the penlight away from her. "If you want me to make up a batch of medicine for the mange you’re going to catch from this fellow, then don’t nag me." He flicked the penlight on. "Get the door."

An artificial twilight settled over the room, dark enough to show the penlight had an odd bulb in it. It did not seem to put out much of a glow at all, but it threw Ages’ white fur into sharp relief. Cynthia perked up. "Hey, cool—a black-light! You know, some psychedelic posters, lava lamps, some Pink Floyd on the turntable, and this place would be really trippy—"

"I don’t grow those kind of herbs," Ages grunted. "Besides, I’m not looking for an interior decorator right now. Stick to soldiering."

"Hey, I’ve got an artistic side, too, you know—"

"—shh! Come here and look at this." Ages pushed up his glasses and pointed as Cynthia followed his paw. As Ages pulled the rat’s scabby, scarred ear straight and shone the black-light inside, ghostly faded letters appeared in the skin. Most of the tattoo was illegible, but it definitely started with a capital B.

"Don’t these guys ever bathe? What’s it say, Doctor?"

Ages sighed and looked around the room. He had the sinking feeling that his semi-retirement was about to come crashing to a halt, and that he’d see a lot more of the hospital than his home. "It says we’ve got a war on our paws, Cynthia, and we’re both going to be greatly needed."

Button images by Keith Elder