LEGACY OF SHADOWS
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are mine. Redwall belongs to Brian Jacques. Work it out for yourself.
CHAPTER ONE: HOW IT BEGAN
A sprawling camp had taken shape; completely filling the small clearing that had been located by a vermin scout. Rough canvas tents had been erected using any branch that came to paw as the horde sought shelter from the threatening clouds that roiled in the stormy sky above. The storm would break at any moment, and nobody wanted to be caught out in the open at this time of year; the winter storms could be brutal.
They were a mixed bunch, mostly stoats and ferrets with a smattering of foxes and weasels, and one or two rats. The largest tent, which had been set up in the centre of the camp, was owned by the leader of this particular group of vermin. He was a wildcat by the name of Lisk Greeneyes, who had attracted a ragged group of followers on the strength of the now infamous Greeneyes name and was now attempting to turn them into a fighting unit.
Young, not long full grown, he was slender and wiry and swift. Not yet come into his full growth, he would be almost as large and heavy as a Badger Lord some day. Even now he was a fearsome figure as he lounged in the centre of his tent, biting absently at a chunk of bread and examining a map of the area that was spread out before him. Those legendary green eyes were narrowed in concentration, but even at rest his expression was cruel; like almost all vermin leaders, he ruled by strength and by terror, and he had much in common with one of the more infamous of his family: Tsarmina.
Lisk was as ambitious as his forebears, and much like his ancestor Verdauga he wished a base for himself, a fort or castle where he could operate from until he controlled a sizeable area surrounding that one point. It would also help him to keep control over the beginnings of his horde, who were growing troublesome with the constant marching in poor conditions with little food. If nothing else, they would need some sort of permanent hideout to shelter over the winter, or they would be trapped by snowstorms and perish.
Musing, the young wildcat turned his attention to the problem of his horde. He had gathered the vermin by the simple method of forcing any he came across to join him and threatening to kill them if they deserted. It had worked, but they were far from the elite fighters he needed; instead he had the flotsam and jetsam of other bands, the leftover scraps of worthless rabble. His lip curled in contempt, but they served as a beginning. The brightest could learn and the slowest could take the impact of any fighting and aid him to enlist other vermin, until eventually he would have a decent following.
They moved too slowly. The unit contained many family groups with young ones; they were untidily organised and slow. He dared not eliminate them for fear of mutiny; not even he could stand if every vermin decided to rebel at once. But for now those with young were slowing his band and he had to do something soon. Brooding, the wildcat's eyes began to come alight; burning with a fey cruelty that was the reason so many vermin feared him despite his youth. His tail began to twitch dangerously as his temper built, and finally he rose and began to pace, thinking.
Out in the camp, the vermin all had rough shelter of one sort or another and were wearily settling down to eat what little food they had remaining; nobeast was willing to forage with the weather so bad. Those few with families had claimed places further from the edge of camp, the safer spots.
A few minutes after all was quieting down for the night, a vermin guard came speeding through the darkness; no fires had been lit, for everything was too damp to burn, and it was beginning to rain. The guard, a ferret named Crookfang, scratched at the canvas of the first tent he reached and a stoat thrust his head out. "What?"
"Pass the word, mate. Lisk's comin' out, an' he's in a right temper. Says we're movin' too slow 'cos of our families an' he's 'ad enough."
"What's 'e gonna do, Crook?"
"I dunno, mate, but I reckon it's gonna be bad. Tell the others, willya?"
Word spread quickly that the wildcat was about to leave his tent and come into camp, and that he was angry. It grew very quiet and very tense, each vermin practically holding their breath in an attempt to avoid being noticed and singled out by an angry wildcat. Lisk knew the effect he had on them, which was precisely why he had allowed the guard to overhear his muttering; he wanted them nervous and wondering what was going to happen. He was relying on their fear to succeed in what he was about to do unchallenged.
Emerging from his tent, the wildcat arched his back and hissed softly to himself. Dressed in a blood-red tunic and black cloak, he made a barbarously splendid sight. Prowling between the tents, he finally ordered the horde to gather in the open space at the centre of the camp and stood waiting impatiently as they slunk out into the rain to take their places.
He told them bluntly that the young ones were holding them up and if they continued moving so slowly they would be caught by the winter storms and likely all perish. Lisk announced further that he intended to ratify this situation immediately. His green eyes roved the gathered vermin and he singled out a family of foxes in the second rank - a dog, vixen and four very young cubs. He remembered that they had been born just a few weeks before. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the dog fox. "Slate, isn't it?" he said, his voice deceptively friendly.
The fox, a big male from the Northlands, nodded warily. "Aye, sire…" Lisk beckoned with a claw.
"Bring your family up here, please," he requested softly. Slate exchanged a glance with his mate, and the wildcat's eyes hardened. "Now."
Slowly the foxes moved out to face the warlord, and the other vermin breathed a callous sigh of relief that it hadn't been them chosen to face Greeneyes' wrath. Lisk surveyed the small group and smiled slightly, coldly. "Now, these youngsters are obviously unable to travel at the faster pace we need to move at with winter so close. So, this leaves us with a problem, doesn't it now?"
The vixen stepped forward a pace protectively; like all vixens she was defensive of her young, although later all maternal feelings would vanish like smoke. Black Tip she was known as, for her brush was tipped with black rather than white, but her real name was Tristis Damsontongue of the line of Shang. But she kept silent, not daring to antagonise the wildcat, and she didn't meet his eyes.
Lisk laughed harshly as he eyed the pair. "What do you suggest I do?"
"We'll leave," Slate said heavily after a short pause. "We'll nae bother ye again, sire. Just let us go in peace?"
The wildcat shook his head thoughtfully, whiskers twitching. "Oh, I don't think I could do that, Slate. I would lose two valuable horde members that way. No, I have a better solution." He lashed out with a heavy paw and hooked one of the cubs, dragging the squealing youngster forward by the vicious and effective method of sinking a claw into the young fox's paw and pulling. An unearthly silence fell over the horde as Lisk calmly slew the fox cub and turned to face the family, his eyes gloating as he saw the shock and fear in their eyes.
A moment later the vixen lunged at him, a dagger appearing in her paw. Casually he struck her in the face, sending her flying into the massed ranks of the horde surrounding them. Turning, he smiled and thrust a paw out in front of him, saying, "On second thoughts, maybe they aren't so valuable after all." Slate's desperate charge ended with a jarring impact as he ran full onto Lisk's outstretched claws. The dog fox fell bleeding, obviously dying, and the wildcat turned to the remaining three cubs. The young foxes cowered as he surveyed them before seizing the nearest and killing her instantly. Recovering her paws, Black Tip stood shakily, her hind leg almost buckling beneath her where she'd damaged the paw on landing. Balancing, wincing as Lisk killed another cub and turned to the last youngster, she threw the dagger.
He hissed in pain and clapped a paw to his cheek, where a line of red slashed through his fur and began to bleed. Angrily he lashed out at the last cub, killing him with a single blow, and whirled on the vixen who stood waveringly and glared hate at him. The assembled vermin held their breath.
Then, surprisingly, Lisk began to laugh. Wiping blood from his face with an already bloodied paw, leaving crimson streaks in his fur, he laughed as though it were some amusing joke. He was still laughing cruelly as he stepped on Slate's body, walking slowly towards the defiant Black Tip. Backhanding her with a savage blow, he laid her out unconscious and snapped at a nearby stoat who had been on guard, "Let a little blood from her face and body and bind her to a tree. Leave her for the crows."
Turning, he faced the horde who were staring at him in abject terror. Pointing to the bodies, he snarled, "Make your choices. I will not allow deserters, but from tomorrow any who cannot keep up will be slain. Any who protest this will die slowly as this vixen will do."
Whirling on his heel, the wildcat stalked away to his tent as whispers rose behind him. At dawn they moved out, leaving behind a few hastily buried bodies and the unconscious vixen tied to a tree.
Slowly Black Tip stirred, coming back to consciousness and licking dried blood from her muzzle. Blinking, she looked around at the deserted clearing, noting with bitterness the shallow graves of her mate and cubs. A crow stood not three pawlengths from her, its head on one side as it eyed her thoughtfully. Kicking out, she startled it into flying off and settled to begin the gruelling task of biting and pulling at the ropes to free herself, a dreadful rage burning in her eyes as she worked, constantly muttering curses against Lisk Greeneyes for what he had done.
Finally free, she stood up and searched until she found her discarded dagger, left behind when the horde left. Holding up the blade, she spoke aloud. "This knife has tasted your blood, Lisk, and I vow that it will do so again." Drawing the dagger across her paw, her blood dripped to earth as she made the blood vow. Sheathing the blade, she licked the cut and then turned and struck out west, away from the horde's trail. One day she would be revenged against that wildcat.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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